𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑳𝑶𝑵𝑬𝑳𝑰𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑴𝑶𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻 𝒊𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒖𝒏𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒍, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒅𝒐 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒍𝒚, 𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒌𝒂𝒈𝒆. That was the truth of the matter, especially as an assassin.
In the silence of those moments, when everything you've built—every connection, every illusion of control—begins to slip away, you realize the weight of the choices you've made. You've always been taught to keep moving forward, to never look back, but there's always that moment, that breaking point when everything shatters.
And in those moments, all you can do is watch.
As an assassin, you are trained to carry out your tasks with precision, to not let emotion cloud your judgment. But the irony of it all? The very job that keeps you in the shadows, the very task that keeps you from truly connecting with anyone, is the one that also isolates you the most. You can end a life with no more thought than flicking a switch, but when it's your own life, your own carefully constructed façade, that begins to crumble... it's an entirely different story.
There are times when the mission is clear, when the target is set, and you can do what's necessary without hesitation. But there are also times when the lines blur, when the target becomes something—or someone—more personal. When you realize that the game you're playing has started to seep into your own soul, and the devastation it brings is more than just collateral damage; it becomes a part of you.
And that's when the loneliness truly hits. When you're so deep in it, when you've crossed so many lines, that you can't tell who you are anymore. You're just a shadow of the person you used to be, desperately trying to hold on to something—anything—that makes sense. But there's no one to turn to, no one who can understand the things you've seen, the things you've done.
The world keeps spinning, but you stand still, paralyzed by the wreckage of your own making.
I stood in silence, the faint drizzle of rain chilling my skin as droplets landed softly on the bridge of my nose. The sky stretched above, a dismal canvas of grays, its Mediterranean gloom perfectly mirroring the somber tension saturating the air.
Around me, men and women dressed in sharp black suits moved with deliberate precision, their motions practiced and synchronized, as though part of an unspoken choreography. Security teams, myself among them, raised umbrellas in unison, shielding the mourners gathered at the entrance of the chapel—a small yet formidable structure nestled deep within the Rossi-Leone estate.
