"It was more noticeable
"That was all Agent 47 could think about his tattoo, now. A bar code with numbers was noticeable enough: a bar code with numbers and a deep, white scar running through it would make him stand out like a sore thumb.
"47 gently rubbed it again for the millionth time, then went back to cleaning one of his Silverballers, the one he used to shoot Benjamin Travis. His prize AMT hardballers had gone without proper cleaning throughout the "Victoria Chase", and he had forgotten about how relaxing with was to just sit down with his special weapons and give them a good clean.
It had been tough to get back into routine with the ICA since the assassination of Benjamin Travis, and he hadn't been quite sure why, so he took a three month break to recuperate from the chase. After sleeping in much later than usual and finding it harder and harder to do his regular exercises, he finally figured out what the problem was.
He was getting old.
There was no doubt that he still possessed near-superhuman abilities, no age could ever take away that. However, 47 was almost fifty-years-old, and despite everything he was doing to keep in shape, he was getting slower, both mentally and physically. He required at least a full extra hour every night to be at his best everyday, and his push ups and sit ups he did every morning were increasing in difficulty. Most men half his age wouldn't stand a chance against him, but the aging was disturbing 47 nevertheless. 47 also doubted that the Victoria Chase did much to help the situation. His left knee still ached ever since he fell off the library building, while being chased by the Chicago police, and 47 was concerned that he would be drawn back to painkillers if he didn't do something about it soon.
With the Silverballers fully clean and assembled, 47 stood from the hard seat and stretched. His current hideout was in a small, underground, concrete room hidden deep within the sewers of Tokyo. The reinforced walls blocked out the smell, and a small wooden table and chair sat with his ICA laptop, where he read most of his contracts from. Though small, the concrete room was big enough to contain all of 47's weapons. The canals served as a good place for shooting practice, and he had made sure no gunshots could be heard from where he practiced. There were plenty of rats, which 47 actually preferred. They reminded him of his friend he had made as a little kid at the asylum.
47's cellphone vibrated, and he dug it out of his right pant pocket to check. An unknown number had just informed him that he had a new assignment waiting, so 47 sat back at his table and opened his laptop, happy to be back at work.