The Widowmaker doesn't make mistakes.
Talon had spared no expense in molding her into the perfect assassin, a true living weapon; she is patient, ruthless, efficient, she shows no emotions and feels no attachment to her target. To her, there is only one thing to look forward to: the satisfaction of the kill, a job well done, her bullet hitting its mark square in the forehead.
The Widowmaker doesn't make mistakes.
There is no escaping the Widowmaker; those who wronged Talon in the slightest would find out soon enough. They tried to hide, they tried to bargain, they hired entire bands of well-armed and well-trained bodyguards, but it served little to delay their fate. Eventually they will meet their end at the hands of the Widowmaker; nobody can escape, not even her own husband. She didn't always understand the reason why, she didn't care, she only chased the rush, the 'high' of successfully killing her mark. It was like the most potent of drugs to her.
The Widowmaker doesn't make mistakes, and today was no different. She had been waiting for this moment forever, the perfect chance, with an effortless pull of the trigger and the thundering boom of her rifle, her target lay dead. But why didin't she feel it? The instant rush of getting her mark wasn't there, instead she felt hollow, empty. She looked through her scope, at the mess of chestnut hair, usually stuck up uncontrollably, but now lying still on the brick road. Her brown eyes, usually beaming with enthusiasm, held an empty stare while thick crimson pooled below them. The tinted visor covering it was broken, with cracks extending from a hole no bigger than a penny square in the middle of it. Her face was devoid of that stupid grin she always held, instead her mouth was agape with a clear expression of shock. There was none of her insufferable giggles or incessant taunting, just the deafening silence hanging in the air.
The Widowmaker doesn't make mistakes, but she felt like she made a terrible one.