He took out his silencer and attached it to his custom made hand rifle that was a gift from the guys back at the school after his fifteenth kill. Gently he slid it around the barrel of the weapon until he heard a slight 'click' which told him that it was in place. He focused his eyes on the cabin of his target and advanced toward the small precipice over the cabin in a direct manner that was quietly discreet and concealed enough so that he would not be detected by any pain in the ass security devices. Gingerly, he lay at flat as possible in a prone position so as to maintain better control of his weapon and so as not to introduce error into his aiming mechanism. He tightened the strap around his right shoulder to the point where he could barely feel the circulation within his arm, and advanced his left hand along the bore of the rifle while his right index finger straddled the trigger. His steely blue eyes stared into the crosshairs of the target as he aimed at the front door of the cabin. It's just about time, he thought. The mark was said to change the oil in his lamp every night at precisely 1117pm, and now it was 1116. Thirty more seconds until his mark was dead.

He waited a few seconds more with his eyes unblinking, his purpose unyielding and his body standing completely still as his watch began to vibrate, telling him it was 1117. The door did not open. A bead of sweat formed on his brow, mixing with the camoflague paint that covered his face and sliding down to the side of his cheek before falling right beneath his chin. Why did the door not open? Where was the mark? A pang of fear crept into his psyche as he blinked his eyes once, then again to make sure he was seeing the door correctly. Where was his mark? Pull out, a small voice inside him began to whisper as he began to consider that perhaps the mission was comprimised. He squinted his eyes and opened his mouth to take in some air.

The door to the cabin began to open. 

He began to regain his resolve as his muscles clenched in anticipation for the kill. His eye bounced all over the target as he searched for the first sign of a face or a body as his right finger tightened around the trigger and he gnashed his teeth, preparing to fire. . .

A gunshot was fired.

He rolled over and opened his mouth, gasping for air as he lay there in astonished unbelief. He reached down to his chest and found a warm and damp bloody wound that got larger and larger as he touched it. He dropped his rifle to the side of him and looked around for his assassin. Someone was hunting him, no, someone had hunted him. He scanned the area for any signs of life as he leaned back and gasped his final breath, then died.