The horse's hooves echoed softly across the overgrown asphalt, its pace unhurried — steady and deliberate, like the man riding it.
Agent 47 sat tall in the saddle, his black suit spotless despite the ruins around him. The morning haze drifted through half-toppled buildings, swallowed vehicles, and streetlights now strangled by creeping vines.
The world had not simply ended. It had collapsed slowly, like a dying breath stretching across decades.
And yet, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
He passed by craters, deep and jagged, some with rusted skeletons of tanks still half-embedded. The blackened edges told a story of desperation, of last-resort bombs dropped not on enemies — but on their own cities.
A purge. A final protocol.
"Tactical strike patterns. Civilian zones. No evacuation markers. They chose annihilation over surrender."
47 said nothing out loud, but the thoughts ran through his mind like mission briefings.
He rode past a collapsed hospital, the white cross on its side cracked down the center.
Then—an engine.
Low at first. Then louder. Closer. Grit scraping under tires.
He stopped the horse and dismounted silently, patting its side. The animal instinctively backed off into cover behind a gutted bus.
47 turned.
A pickup truck rolled around the corner. Matte green. Reinforced panels. A battered FEDRA logo on the side.
There were six men in total. Three in the back, rifles slung. Two in the front. One leaning out the window with a megaphone.
"HEY! You — in the suit! Hands where I can see 'em!"
The truck slowed.
One of the men in the back narrowed his eyes. "Is that...?" he muttered.
"The fuck is he wearin'? That clean?"
"Hold up... Barcode. On the back of the head—"
Another snorted. "Nah, no way. That's gotta be some whacked-out tribute cosplay or somethin'."
"Don't care," the driver barked. "He's in a restricted zone. Take him down."
The truck screeched to a halt.
47 didn't move.
They raised rifles.
And then—
Silenced shot.
The man with the megaphone dropped mid-sentence, blood misting behind him.
Panic.
Shouting.
More shots — pop-pop-pop.
One soldier barely raised his weapon before he collapsed, a precise round through the eye.
The others scrambled, jumping off the truck, trying to encircle the silent specter in black.
Three rushed in with machetes and makeshift blades. They tried to flank. Tried to move like wolves.
47 let them come.
He dropped one by parrying the blade into the attacker's own throat, used that body as cover while shooting the second in the knee and head, then grabbed the third's arm mid-swing and snapped it clean, disarming him and driving his own knife into his chest in one motion.
No wasted energy.
No mercy.
The last two tried to run.
They didn't make it.
Silence again.
The wind moved broken flyers through the blood-soaked road. Birds scattered from a broken billboard overhead.
Agent 47 stood alone.
Not a scratch on his suit.
He moved to the truck and opened the rear hatch. One by one, he tossed in their rifles, ammo pouches, and spare gear. Took a moment to load a few 9mm magazines for his Silverballers — slotting them into a concealed pouch beneath his coat.
Then — ping.
[NEXUS SYSTEM – Mission Update]FEDRA Patrol Neutralized+20 Free Stat Points AwardedBonus: Unharmed – Precision Bonus +5% Accuracy Applied
He stepped into the driver's seat, started the engine, and pulled out of the ruin.
The truck rattled across shattered streets, but 47's gaze stayed forward.
Jackson: 12.4 miles.