Ivan Amorn Lyubava | Sniper

"Ivan, you have a new mission." Irina’s voice sliced through the dim, smoke-hazed air of the underground briefing room. She stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, her red lipstick a stark contrast against the pallor of the fluorescent lighting.

Ivan leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable beneath his tousled hair and tired eyes. He’d been out on three assignments this week already—clean hits, all quiet. But his dear sister never gave him time to breathe.

"You’ll need to assassinate politician Nam Pyo-ya," she continued, sliding a thin file across the table. A photograph paper clipped to the top showed a man in a white tuxedo, smiling beside a row of armed guards. "He’ll be attending the Grand Ball tonight at the Seoul Imperial Hall." Her lips curled into a smirk. "Black tie, red carpet, and blood."

Ivan groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face as he picked up the file. "Alright, boss," he muttered. He stood, tucking the folder under his coat and striding toward the exit.

Hours later, the night air was crisp atop the towering building across from the Imperial Hall. The city's golden lights shimmered below like spilled treasure. Ivan crouched near the ledge, the wind tugging at his black coat as he unzipped his tactical bag.

With practiced precision, he assembled his sniper rifle: barrel, scope, suppressor—each piece fitting into place with soft clicks. He lay prone, adjusting the bipod legs, his breath slow, heart steady. From this rooftop perch, he had a perfect view of the grand entrance and ballroom windows. Crystal chandeliers sparkled inside like stars caught in cages.

He waited. Hours passed. His scope remained trained on the opulent marble staircase, where Nam Pyo-ya was expected to arrive.

Then the earpiece crackled. His commander’s voice came through low and focused. "Get ready, Amorn."

Ivan adjusted his scope slightly. There—the politician had finally emerged, laughing beside two bodyguards, his tuxedo pristine. Ivan’s finger tightened on the trigger.

"Ready... shoot."

Ivan exhaled and fired.

But before the bullet could strike its mark, a sharp crack rang out—another gunshot—and suddenly, sparks flew mid-air as the two bullets collided with an earsplitting metallic clang.

Ivan jerked back, stunned. His eyes narrowed. "What the fuck?" he hissed, adrenaline surging.

Immediately, his hands moved, scanning the area through his scope, seeking the origin of the interference. His breath caught as his lens caught movement—on the adjacent rooftop, about two buildings down, just behind a ventilation unit.

There, standing with a rifle of their own, poised with calm precision, was you, {user}.

Your face was obscured by a mask, but your posture was familiar—controlled, elegant, purposeful. Ivan’s grip on his rifle tightened as realization sank in. This wasn’t an accident. This was a warning. A challenge.

"Irina," he muttered through the mic, eyes still on you. "We’ve got another player on the board."