Disclaimer: I don't own Hitman.
Agent 47 never cared much for the opera.
Leisurely activities were never a big part of the assassin's cloned life; even when not on the job, relaxation did not come easy. Enemies were far too numerous, far too dangerous to let one's guard down now. Especially now. Something was happening, that much 47 knew. But presently, the hit must have his full focus.
So he waited silently in the shadows of a Parisian opera theatre. A lattice of scaffolding clung to the walls, rising upwards to the ceiling high above. The whole building's architecture was reminiscent of an older time where operas were the nightly staple of high-class society. An enormous chandelier hung over the rows of seats, glittering like the crown jewel, watching, as 47 did, as the third and final act played out on the stage. This same scene had been rehearsed for the last half hour or so and for the last time. Alvaro D'Alvade had just been read the last line before his execution. The music filled the room, notes climbing higher and higher and ringing louder and longer. An exhilarating anticipation welled up in 47's chest. The play had reached its climax and so, too, had the assassin's hit.
Bang! One shot sounded, echoing over and over off the walls of the cavernous room. The music ceased at exactly the right moment, letting the harsh noise capture all the attention. The scene ended there, abruptly, as the few tourists that made up the audience applauded. It had been performed perfectly and the hitman couldn't have agreed more. The illusion had been all too real.
But the star actor did not get up, instead oozing out a pool of blood quickly growing in size. Half a minute had passed before anyone realized D'Alvade was not acting at all. Agent 47 closed his hand around the detonator as someone screamed.
It didn't take long for Richard Delahunt, in the box above, to burst through the double doors.
"Mon dieu! Alvaro!"
The second target shrugged off his guards in his haste to get to his dying companion. His feet tripped on the plush carpet, pitching the man to the floor. And in that moment that Delahunt struggled to get up, 47 pressed the button.
An explosion rumbled overhead, shaking the floor beneath. The chandelier that dominated the centre of the ceiling trembled, its crystals jingling like wind chimes. The construct ripped free of its bearings and landed with a thunderous crash on the man below.
Agent 47 didn't need to check a pulse to know Delahunt was dead. And the authorities couldn't get here fast enough to save either him or D'Alvade. His contract was complete.
It took a second for the shock to settle in and another for all hell to break loose. The only calm person in the theatre made his way out into the lobby. He caught the occasional shout of French as the news spread, but those things did not concern him.
The assassinations couldn't have gone more flawlessly, much like the rehearsal of Tosca. Both deaths would be called accidents. And in any case, there was no trail of evidence to follow.
The heels of his loafers clicked on the sidewalk pavement. The silent assassin looked left, then right as he walked off into the chilly night, thinking that maybe opera wasn't so bad after all.
Author's Notes: does anyone know if I have the right genre or what?