"Three hundred seventeen."

The first thing San noticed was Wooyoung's hair.

It was almost absurd that this was what caught his attention.

Not the target's face.

Not the expensive black car parked beneath the hotel.

Not the two bodyguards standing near the entrance.

Not even the rifle resting against San's shoulder, its weight familiar enough that he could have assembled it blind.

The hair.

Blonde.

Soft-looking beneath the white city lights, almost silver where the moon touched it.

San lowered his breathing by half a count.

In.

Hold.

Out.

The crosshair settled.

Wooyoung was standing on the hotel terrace three hundred and seventeen meters away.

He was supposed to be nothing more than a name.

Jung Wooyoung.

Twenty six -something.

Male.

Height: approximately 1.73 meters.

Known associates: several.

Threat level: high.

Instruction: eliminate.

San had received photographs.

A passport copy.

A schedule.

A floor plan.

A route.

A payment confirmation.

Everything necessary to make a person stop being a person.

He had done this before.

Hundreds of times, perhaps.

He didn't count.

Counting made things unnecessarily personal.

Names were temporary.

Faces were temporary.

Breathing was temporary.

A trigger was simple.

A bullet was simpler.

And yet

Wooyoung turned his head.

The crosshair followed.

For one second, San saw his face clearly.

He was laughing.

Not the careful smile of someone posing for a photograph.

Not the polite smile of someone greeting a stranger.

A real laugh.

His head tipped backward slightly.

His eyes closed.

One hand came up to cover his mouth.

The blonde hair fell across his forehead.

San's finger rested against the trigger.

His breathing stopped.

The voice in his earpiece came quietly.

"Target acquired?"

San swallowed.

"Yes."

"Distance?"

"Three hundred seventeen."

"Wind?"

"Minimal."

"Visibility?"

"Clear."

There was a pause.

Then…

"Shoot."