The room was dimly lit. Concrete walls, one bed, one desk, and a cracked window that let in flickering city light. Agent 47 stood by the foot of the bed, jacket off, shirt bloodied and creased. Tokyo pulsed faintly outside.
He exhaled, silent and still, and brought up the Nexus System Window with a blink.
[LEVEL: 25]STATS: 40 Unused Points
• Strength: 127• Dexterity: 119• Endurance: 115• Reflexes: 131• Intelligence: 108• Perception: 122• Stealth: 130
➤ Unspent Stat Points: 40
[Distribute?]
He moved quickly.10 to Dexterity.10 to Stealth.10 to Reflexes.10 to Perception.
➤ New totals: Stats updated.
Then, the system shimmered again. A new section unfolded below his passive skills.
[LEGENDARY PERKS UNLOCKED]
Matter Creation – (Active)Allows the user to conjure physical tools and weapons from mental blueprints, limited only by concentration and complexity.
Adaptive Instinct – (Passive)Body auto-adjusts to supernatural threats. Reaction speed and awareness scale in real time with the danger level.
He stared at the screen. Efficient. Minimal. Deadly.
The system window vanished.
A ping.
His burner phone buzzed on the table. He picked it up and answered.
"Tommy Clemenza," came the low New York drawl. "It's been dropped at the Shibuya locker. Standard pickup protocol."
47 said nothing. Just hung up.
Fifteen minutes later, 47 stood before a storage unit tucked behind a 24-hour laundromat. Neon light spilled down onto the black steel locker. With a quiet click, it opened, revealing a long case.
Inside: the suit.
Deep black wool with a razor-tailored cut, its high collar raised, reinforced stitching along the spine, matte buttons. White shirt beneath. Red tie. Elegant. Precise.
His new longcoat was folded underneath. Sleek. Understated. Functional.
Back in his temporary residence, he changed silently. The worn suit, though iconic, bore the marks of battle. He folded it carefully and left it at the door for dry-cleaning with a note: Rush order.
He buttoned up the fresh white shirt. Knotted the red tie. Slipped into the new jacket with the raised collar and adjusted it in the mirror.
The man who looked back was flawless once again.
No shoulder holsters. Just the Silverballers clipped silently at his belt — low, clean draw. Fiber wire tucked behind, hidden beneath the jacket's fold.
He checked his magazines. Only three left.
He extended his palm. Liquid shimmer from matter creation swirled silently, birthing two extra mags, polished and full. He slipped them inside the inner pocket of his coat.
47 stepped back, straightened the jacket's collar.
Ready.
The city still breathed chaos, but inside this room stood an apex predator wrapped in poise and silence. A killer who wore suits like armor and silence like steel.
He picked up his phone and exited the room without a sound.