The chandelier crashed at 9:23 PM.
William had been watching the runway when the screaming started—not the chandelier itself, which he only heard, but the ripple of panic that followed. Models scattered. Guests stumbled backward. Security personnel surged toward the impact zone, where crystal shards and twisted metal had transformed the catwalk into a kill zone.
Viktor Novikov lay in the wreckage.
"Chandelier drop. Classic."
In the game, it had been one of the signature kills—dramatic, public, impossible to trace. Watching it happen in reality was different. The body wasn't a ragdoll physics simulation. It was a man, broken and still, surrounded by people screaming his name.
[CANON EVENT CONFIRMED: VIKTOR NOVIKOV — DECEASED]
[METHOD: Staged accident (chandelier collapse)]
[PERPETRATOR: Agent 47 (confirmed via meta-knowledge)]
[NOTE: Secondary target (Dalia Margolis) status unknown]
William didn't join the crowd converging on Novikov's body. Instead, he moved with the flow of panicked guests toward the exits—then broke away, angling toward the service stairwell he'd mapped during his reconnaissance.
The door was unlocked. Beyond it, the elegant public spaces gave way to industrial utility—concrete stairs, emergency lighting, the smell of old carpet and mechanical systems.
[OBJECTIVE: THIRD FLOOR — IAGO DIGITAL OPERATIONS]
[ESTIMATED TIME: 4 minutes]
[THREAT: Elevated (security response in progress)]
William climbed. One flight. Two. At the third-floor landing, he paused to listen—voices ahead, urgent but not panicked. Security personnel coordinating response, focusing on the ground floor emergency. The IAGO auction space was locked down, but the digital operations room was adjacent, not part of the main security perimeter.
"Forty seconds from Marta's dead drop codes to here. Everything connects."
The thought surfaced unbidden—a callback to the Rotterdam morning when he'd deceived a grieving woman for information. The codes she'd given him had included access protocols for Engström's network, which had led to Jansen, which had led to the ICA operational data, which had led to Paris.
The digital operations room had a single occupant.
Young man, late twenties, the pale complexion and nervous energy of someone who spent too much time in front of screens. He was hunched over a console, watching security feeds cycle through views of the ground floor chaos. Novikov's body. Security teams. Guests evacuating.
[SYSTEM SCAN: ACTIVE]
[JEAN-PHILIPPE MERCIER | IAGO TECHNICIAN | THREAT: NEGLIGIBLE]
[COMBAT RATING: 6]
[PERCEPTION RATING: 12]
[CURRENT STATE: Distressed, distracted, non-hostile]
William adjusted his posture—confident, authoritative, the body language of someone with legitimate reasons to be here.
"Security sweep." He kept his voice clipped, professional. "Need to verify your systems aren't compromised."
Mercier barely glanced up.
"What? I— the situation is downstairs, there's nothing—"
"Standard protocol during a major incident. Won't take a minute."
The technician's attention returned to his screens. Fear and confusion made people compliant—a lesson William had learned in the weeks since Copenhagen. Mercier wasn't thinking about whether this stranger had authority. He was thinking about the chaos unfolding on his monitors.
William moved to the main server rack. The USB cloning device Jansen had provided was smaller than a thumb—designed for exactly this kind of opportunity. Insert, wait ninety seconds, extract. The device would copy active session data, cached files, and any communication logs stored locally.
[DATA TRANSFER: INITIATED]
[ESTIMATED COMPLETION: 87 seconds]
[WARNING: Extended exposure increases detection risk]
William positioned himself to block Mercier's view of the server rack. His hands were steady—steadier than they should have been, given the circumstances.
"You're in a building with Agent 47 during an active assassination. You should be terrified."
The terror was there, somewhere beneath the surface. But the immediate task created its own focus. Insert device. Monitor progress. Watch the technician. Count the seconds.
Sixty seconds.
Mercier switched camera feeds, zooming in on the ground floor entrance. Emergency services were arriving—paramedics, police, the bureaucratic machinery of crisis response.
Seventy seconds.
"They're saying it was an accident," Mercier muttered, mostly to himself. "The chandelier just... fell."
"Tragic," William said.
Eighty seconds.
[DATA TRANSFER: 94% COMPLETE]
[CONTENTS: Auction records, client communications, financial transactions, operational protocols]
Eighty-seven seconds.
[DATA TRANSFER: COMPLETE]
[EXTRACTION RECOMMENDED]
William palmed the cloning device and stepped away from the server rack.
"Systems look clean. Stay at your station until security gives the all-clear."
"Wait—I didn't get your name. For the report."
"Martin. Event security."
He was out the door before Mercier could respond.
The stairwell descent was faster than the climb—adrenaline pushing him toward the exit, the USB cloner burning against his chest like stolen gold.
On the second-floor landing, he passed a model climbing upward—young, maybe twenty, mascara streaked down her cheeks, shoes clutched in one hand. She was shaking, the kind of full-body tremor that came from shock rather than cold.
"Exit's to the left," William said without stopping.
He didn't look back to see if she followed the direction. Couldn't afford the delay, couldn't afford the connection. She was a detail in someone else's story.
[HUMAN ELEMENT NOTED: Civilian distress observed]
[SYSTEM RESPONSE: No SP penalty for non-assistance (passive harm exemption)]
The loading dock was one floor down. William had mapped this route during his reconnaissance—service corridor, past the catering staging area, through the delivery entrance. Clean extraction, minimal exposure.
[OBJECTIVE: LOADING DOCK EXIT]
[ESTIMATED TIME: 90 seconds]
[THREAT: Moderate (security presence increasing)]
He hit the ground floor and turned toward the service corridor—
And stopped.
There was a guard at the fire exit.
[SYSTEM SCAN: ACTIVE]
[ERIC FOURNIER | PRIVATE SECURITY | THREAT: MODERATE]
[COMBAT RATING: 28]
[SKILLS: Firearms proficiency (experienced), close protection training]
[CURRENT STATE: Alert, hand on weapon]
Fournier stood between William and the loading dock. Ex-military by his posture, private security by his uniform, union badge clipped to his belt. He was watching the corridor, clearly positioned to prevent unauthorized exits during the lockdown.
[TACTICAL OPTIONS:]
[1. Social engineering (claim event security credentials) — Risk: 35%]
[2. Alternative route (return to ground floor, main exit) — Risk: 60%]
[3. Elimination (suppress threat, proceed to exit) — Risk: 15%]
[SYSTEM RECOMMENDATION: Option 3 offers lowest detection risk and highest SP reward]
[POTENTIAL SP: ~85 (Tier 3 + Hitman World Bonus x1.5)]
[SKILL HARVEST: Firearms Proficiency (Handguns) — Silver tier probable]
The system was suggesting murder.
Not survival this time—not the desperate sixty-second countdown of Copenhagen. This was tactical. Calculated. A guard between William and his exit, and the system was calmly explaining why killing him was the optimal solution.
"You have options. You could talk your way past. You could find another route."
[COUNTER-ANALYSIS: Social engineering carries higher detection risk. Alternative routes extend exposure time during active security response. Elimination is most efficient.]
Efficient. The system always came back to efficiency.
William's hand moved toward the Beretta in his waistband. He'd kept the gun despite planning to discard it—old habits, or maybe the system's influence, or maybe the simple truth that he'd stopped being the kind of person who left weapons behind.
"He's just a guard. He's just doing his job."
[OBSERVATION: Target moral status does not affect SP calculations.]
The guard's union badge caught the light. The kind you earned after decades of membership. Steady work, steady pay, the accumulated dignity of a life spent protecting things that mattered.
William drew the Beretta.
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