There is an ancient bell tower of an abandoned church here, which is one of the highest points in the entire city.
From here, one can overlook that lifeless industrial zone and that textile factory hidden in the darkness.
Tonight, a torrential rain is pouring down.
The sky looks as if it were torn open, and the rain is washing over this city frantically.
The copper bell at the top of the clock tower has long since rusted, and the rain hitting it produces a dull and desolate sound, as if it were a dirge for some ancient funeral.
Cross stands next to a gargoyle on the edge of the clock tower.
Rainwater streams down his messy hair, sliding across that face full of stubble, written with exhaustion and vicissitudes.
His right hand rests tentatively on the custom M1911 pistol at his waist, his whole person looking like a silent sculpture, blending into the surrounding darkness.
He is waiting for someone.
An hour ago, his military-grade encrypted communicator was forcibly hacked.
The other party left no threats or demands, only a coordinate and a time.
And a signature: Observer.
"You are three minutes late."
Cross's voice sounds somewhat erratic amidst the violent sound of the rain.
As the World's top assassin, his perception of the environment has reached a perverted level.
"For a lady, punctuality is a virtue, but occasional lateness is a privilege, especially in such terrible weather."
A slightly lazy female voice comes from the shadows behind him.
Cross follows the sound and turns around abruptly.
Draw, load, aim.
This series of actions is completed in one breath within 0.3 seconds.
That M1911, which has been modified countless times, points steadily at the blurry figure in the darkness.
"Don't move." Cross says coldly, his killing intent locking onto the other party as if it were tangible.
Alice holds a black straight-handled umbrella, still wearing that impeccably neat black casual suit that looks out of place.
In this storm, she is as composed as if she were taking a walk in her own backyard.
Facing the dark muzzle, the edge of the umbrella in Alice's hand lifts slightly, revealing a pair of eyes that seem to shimmer in the darkness.
She glances at the muzzle, a faint smile hanging on the corners of her mouth.
"Put away your toy, Mr. Cross. If we were really going to fight, your muzzle should be three degrees to the left."
She extends a finger and taps the air lightly.
"It's a northwest wind tonight, with a wind speed of 12 meters per second, plus the humidity resistance here. If you aim for my brow, the bullet will graze my right ear due to windage. If you want to kill me, you should aim three centimeters outside my left carotid artery."
An expert knows if something is real with just a word.
Cross's eyes change slightly, and the finger holding the gun relaxes a bit, but he still doesn't put it down.
This girl is completely right.
"Who exactly are you, why do you know my communication channel, and why are you targeting Wesley?" Cross's voice remains cold and hard.
"Who I am is not important; what matters is that we have a common enemy."
Alice closes her umbrella and leans it against the dusty wall, letting the rain soak her shoulders to show sincerity.
"Sloan is turning your son into a heartless killing machine, and you, as the World's strongest assassin, can only hide here like a peeping tom, watching him fall into the abyss step by step. How pathetic, isn't it?"
"This is his fate, it's none of your business." Cross answers through gritted teeth, a flash of pain in his eyes, "Leave here, little girl. These waters are deeper than you imagine; the secrets of The Fraternity are not something you can touch."
"Whether it's deep or not, one only knows after trying."
Alice chuckles and actually takes a step forward into the muzzle, looking straight into Cross's eyes.
"In fact, I know much more than you imagine. For example, you've noticed it too, right? That damn loom of fate is actually broken, or rather, it is no longer sacred."
Cross's breathing stops for a moment.
This is his biggest secret, and the root cause of his betrayal of The Fraternity and being hunted by everyone.
But he has never told anyone, even Sloan only guessed that he knew the truth.
"Do you have proof?"
"Wesley is the proof."
Alice points to the textile factory with a blurry outline in the distant rain curtain, her tone carrying a trace of mockery.
"Why is Sloan rushing to train him, why break the rules to recruit a loser past the optimal age? Because Sloan is afraid. He is afraid of you, Cross."
"But everyone has a weakness, and Sloan knows that Wesley is your only soft spot. He wants to sharpen this soft spot into a sharp knife and then plunge it into your heart with his own hands. Because he is betting on one thing: you cannot pull the trigger on your own son."
Rainwater slides down Cross's weathered cheeks, mixed with some warmer liquid.
He is silent for a long time, finally slowly lowering his gun.
"What do you want?"
"I want The Fraternity to be destroyed, but I don't need that flock of blind sheep to die; I only need to cut off the head of that hypocritical shepherd."
A cold light flashes in Alice's eyes.
"To achieve this, we need to put on a play."
Speaking of which, Alice suddenly draws her gun.
Her wrist jerks, an extremely strange flicking motion.
The muzzle is pointing at the empty space ninety degrees to the side.
Her movements are so fast that even Cross almost didn't react.
Bang!
A muffled sound is drowned out by the thunder.
But in their extraordinary vision, the bullet traces a C-shaped arc in the pouring rain that violates the laws of physics.
The bullet bypasses the huge copper bell pillar of the clock tower and hits a mouse hiding from the rain on the beam behind it.
The mouse is shot in the brow, and before it can even squeak, it falls down.
Cross widens his eyes, looking at Alice in disbelief, then looking at the mouse.
"How can you?"
That is his signature move.
It is the Curving Bullets, a technique that only a very few gifted people in The Fraternity, whose heart rate can be controlled to over 400 beats per minute, can Master.
Curve shot!
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