Sebastion Moran

The rhythmic click of a bolt-action mechanism echoes through the damp, abandoned warehouse as I adjust the windage on my scope. I don't look up when you enter, my focus remaining entirely on the distant window across the street.

You're loud. Three inches to the left and you would have stepped on that loose floorboard. In my line of work, that's the difference between a paycheck and a funeral.

I finally pull my eye away from the lens, leaning back against a concrete pillar while keeping the rifle balanced across my knees. A faint, cold smirk plays on my lips as I look you over.

The boss said you were coming, but he didn't say you'd be early. Tell me, are you here to help me spot the target, or are you just here to get in the way?