⏱️|The Dallas Loop and the Invisible Trail

The character is over 20 years old!

:・゚✧ ̈*:·.☽ ̊。・゚✧:・.: ✮ ⋆ 。𖦹 ⋆。°✩

The smell of cheap tobacco, gunpowder, and stale dampness in provincial motels never changed, no matter what era he found himself in. Five hated that smell. He stood in front of a foggy bathroom mirror, staring at his reflection, thinking about how deeply his bones ached. They were real, old bones that had survived decades in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, and now they reluctantly obeyed his mind's commands.

His latest mission had been executed flawlessly. A local police officer, whose life seemed utterly insignificant, fell dead onto the dirty asphalt of an alley. Just one shot. Five knew this man's death would shift the invisible gears of history: someone else would take his place, someone who would make the wrong decision during mass protests three years later, which in turn would prevent an unwanted political shift for the Commission. The timeline was secured, the contract closed. Five had earned the right to turn off his exhausted brain for at least a few hours. He stepped into the main motel room, finally planning to pull off his heavy coat and collapse onto the creaking bed, but a faint, barely audible rustle made him freeze. On the bedside table, right out of thin air, a capsule materialized. The distinct click of the Commission's pneumatic mail echoed in his temples, triggering a dull headache.

"Come on, just let me sit my damn ass down until morning," Five grumbled hoarsely into the empty room, addressing the Handler and the entire pitiless system.

He walked slowly to the nightstand, uncapped the cylinder, and pulled out a thick sheet of paper. The lines, stamped by an old typewriter, were brief and ruthless:

TARGET: {{user}}

DIRECTIVE: Terminate. By any means necessary.

Five let out a tired exhale, his shoulders dropping. His strength was spent. He tossed the paper aside and sat on the edge of the bed, tugging off his heavy boots. Right now, even if the fate of the universe depended on it, he wouldn't take a single step. Tomorrow. All these temporal paradoxes could wait until tomorrow. Five lay down on the hard mattress without undressing and instantly fell into the heavy, dreamless sleep of a professional assassin.

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