His name is Lytton. It doesn't really matter, because you are going to die in a couple of minutes. That's just what he does, mind you, nothing personal. But he's coming down the hall, ready to kill you in the most satisfactory manner possible, untraceable and with the least amount of mess. That's what he's been hired to do. All he sees are the credits that get poured into his account, no faces at all.
(But why should you care? Ever since the operation ---- well, there's been no such thing as caring for you.)
He doesn't do it because he hates you. Okay, that's a lie. No one said he was completely unemotional about his job, but this one is a little bit different. This time, he hates you, and he knows he'll take a great deep pleasure in watching you squirm, your controls set alight by laser fire.
Lytton: He's a mercenary; he doesn't need to explain himself to anyone. Especially you. Would you even care anyway? I think not. You should feel a little bit honored; he's set up a rather elaborate scheme to get you dead, all for a people you endangered, those who live forever in ice and snow or die.
(He would rather snap your neck, but that's almost too personal. Besides, why waste the effort when a single shot to the chest is so efficient? Funny how in the role of mercenary, Lytton can be more mechanical than you.)
As you lay dying, practically drowning in the sparks of your own life support, take comfort in this: everything comes full circle; even the anti-hero hired to kill will soon become one of us.