A/N: Oh nyo I had so much fun writing this that I thought I'd just upload the first half first because it might get a little long eep. My apologies for not being quite up to speed recently. I usually spend my entire Sunday writing now and stopping occasionally for a break. I take my time now with writing as I start to realize that it is near impossible to produce something good after a long day of work, unlike how it was when I was still in school.

Nevertheless, it's been a good ten years and of course, I daresay... to many more! ^0^/ 

Enjoy omg but all this tension... next week is going to be good. Uh oh. Also I'd unintentionally gotten far too invested in this Hitman!AU haha goodness me.

_____________________

To think the case of a violin would contain the rifle of a professional sniper—a grand trick of the mind.

Ponder this, a claim: suspicion is derived from the unknown. The premise; should you notice a man dressed plainly in dark clothes and a cap worn low, complete with a face mask and a large, rectangular case of hard black plastic in one hand and a duffel bag in the other, you would think. What goes inside the case? Where is he going? Who is this man?

Nothing is telling from a single glance of such a character and therefore the mind is forced into a state of question and questions are derived from the lack of information presented beforehand and the lack of information, in the minds of professionals conditioned to be cautious and wary, often do not end well.

Premise two. Should you notice a man dressed smartly in pressed clothes and polished shoes, his hair carefully styled and glasses accentuating the sharp features of his face, carrying a case made of Tuscan leather the shade of cognac brown—lined in dark suede velvet and with every metallic element accented in gold worth more than a thousand pounds including his initials engraved on the right side of the leather strap over his shoulder—and nothing else, you know he plays the violin.

The mind does not think. It knows the man is on his way to a grand music hall somewhere expensive; it knows he is carrying an instrument, violin or not, equally expensive as its case which therefore warranted the high security dual-mechanism lock and welded buckles to protect such an instrument from unwanted, grabby hands.

To avoid suspicion, one has to play a character. That character has to give answers as to who they are, what they are doing, and where they are headed in a single glance. There cannot be factors unknown, prone to thinking; to an uncertainty that would invite others to fill in the blanks with thoughts of their own.

A character played well must tell others what to think and Julian White was one such character.

His proper name was a number; a barcode etched onto his lower back since birth but out of sight, he was everything else untouched and beautiful. A character known only among the crème de la crème of musicians, and seen only at the most private, most exclusive of stages.

No virtuoso would be in their right mind to be famous. Fame was almost a sin; an attribute befitting of mere proficient musicians seeking the approval of numbers and riches in the form of videos and recordings, uploaded onto the internet for the eyes, the attention. Adoration.

True masters, or so the appreciators of high art would like to think, hoarded their gifts like a well-kept secret—revealed only to ears worthy of their class. The rule was to attend a maximum of once performance a year and spend the rest of it in hiding, perfecting their craft in a cage that housed the most prized creature.

He'd chosen the name himself. One that rolled off the tongue in a curious fashion—almost arcane. Traditional, and yet, so easily remembered among the affluent, living lavish lifestyles with an afternoon schedule of high tea and nothing else. Such a name would come up in conversations over clotted cream and tea and almost always, pique the interest of an audience.

It is necessary that those of the upper-class remain, falsely or not, informed of trends among their fellow aristocrats. That is merely part of the experience. Further, it is considered common courtesy to appear greatly invested in the art of music regardless of one's professional knowledge about the subject. The more enthused one was about a virtuoso in town, the more tasteful and refined they appeared to be.

A simple, silly distinction. Precisely what a killer would need to set the stage.

"Julian."

He turned at the sound of his name, gaze resting on the smiling conductor at the doorway to his dressing room. "Good evening, Monsieur Altès."

"Finally, we perform tonight," said the man as he crossed the room for a handshake. "Guest or not, you are the best soloist we've ever had."

Julian did not look at the hand that was offered; he smiled, like a flower in the snow. "The honor is mine, Monsieur Altès. And my apologies..." he presented his palms, faced up. Black, leather cropped gloves. "I take special care of my hands before a performance. My fingers—they misbehave under the slightest influence of any... external elements. I hope you understand."

"Of course!" The conductor pulled back at once, rattled by the look in his eyes, grey and unnerving. He felt for some reason, that they should've been blue. "Of course. Yes, yes. As expected of the best violinist to date, of course. Then, I shall see you tonight after the rehearsal." He raised the glass of champagne he'd intended to offer his guest. "To a spectacular performance."

"The performance of a lifetime," said the killer in return, watching him go; like an insect retreating into the dark. If only they knew.

Knew what the steady hand maneuvering a bow across strings could do; knew the calloused fingers that no longer produced fingerprints and the keen eye always at the ready, fixed on the tip of the conductor's baton—a target. Should a murder occur at a concert hall with an exclusive audience, no one in the right mind would direct an eye to the musicians.

After all, they never do.

_________________

Candle had not jerked off in a week.

He'd spent the whole of day at the training ground coaching new arrivals and slept on a couch in the infirmary before setting off on a boat in the middle of the night, responding to an urgent call from the agent headquarters. Standard protocol was to be armed with a gun but it was known among the team and his higherups that Candle preferred not to shoot. Two days later he found himself back at the headquarters for a break but the open showers and dormitory-style rooms did him no favors. Hours before the end of the week, he received a level three notice of hire that involved his part-time job as a bodyguard. That was it. That was the week.

"Target's a fifty-six-year-old Irish property tycoon invited to the concert. Picture's at the back. The concert's in a month's time and organizers hired top-tier security, which happens to be that place you've been working at part-time. Some aristocratic couple throwing a party for their wedding anniversary. A big fan of music and shit but they kept invitations exclusive for the sake of it. You can shut up now."

"...didn't say a word."

Agent dispatcher Raul Dalto showed him one smart finger. "Yeah but you were making a face. That face."

Candle checked his reflection. "That's my face."

"Yeah I hate it. Anyway—" "I don't do long-range." "I know that man. Will you let me get to the point?" "Okay hurry up." "My point is: you're not doing the shooting. There's another agent on this and boss wants you to watch over him."

Candle played with the knife in his hand. "What, I'm a babysitter now?"

"He's freelance." "Didn't know we outsourced for babies." "There's been a high demand for snipers with the shitty politics going around so we had no choice but no man. This guy's a monster."

Candle eyes flickered. "Really."

Dalto shrugged, turning a page. "I've seen his work. Pretty impressive. Better than Purple, and she's the best sniper we have on the team."

The agent hummed, flipping through the rest of the pages for info on his partner. There was none. "Why send me on a duo? You know I work better alone."

"Winter said the same thing," sighed Dalto, letting slip an exasperated laugh. "Mostly because it's a nice coincidence that your part-time gig has access to the event and he's... one of the performers."

Candle raised a brow. "On stage?"

"Where else? Your lap?" "..." "What." "Picture?" "You know we don't do that. It'll distract first encounters if you see him before the mission. If you're into glasses, I'd say he's a solid seven. Or eight, if you like the unconventional look." "...what's that even mean?" "Sorry I forgot you were stupid. Never mind. Your job is to engage the target and make sure he's in range, knock out blockers. Hold the ground for Winter until he takes the shot. Escort him to the musician's hotel as the alibi."

"You're saying I should be taking the backseat in all this," Candle summed up, amusement tugging on the corners of his lips.

For as long as he'd been in the business, clients knew him as the close-combat hitman with a flare for anything melee. There was efficiency in the way he took people out in a brawl—often groups of gangs, hand-to-hand—armed and unarmed. He was known to hate small talk and overtime. Getting the job done as quickly as possible meant longer hours in his own private hotel room.

"Pretty much," Dalto held in a laugh. "Never thought I'd say this, but you're backup. The split's still fifty-fifty though. Winter agreed."

"He did?"

"Yeah. It's your first duo mission and all but boss thinks... you guys would get along. Might even keep him on the team if you bag this."

Candle snorted. "Zone said that?"

"Mhm," Dalto nodded, shuffling the papers as he rose and crossing the room to hold them over the fireplace. "Got everything in your head?"

"No." "...we're sending you the digital self-destructive in two weeks anyway. Oh yeah. Boss wired you some funds for a suit. She said to get yourself something good for the show." "I'll be on duty, dumbass. There's a dress code. All black suits look the same." "To you, yeah. But let me tell you man, your partner's on a whole other level of class." "...doesn't matter to me."

The dispatcher surrendered with a raise of his hands. "Just saying. You might regret thinking this when you see him."

"How do I know it's him anyway? No pictures," he flipped through his copy again, "no description." Tossed it into the flames.

"Boss says you'll know when you see him," Dalto held the door open. "She says that about every duo she's put together. Pretty much said the same thing about Purple when they first met too."

"So now we're an app for hookups," laughed Candle, bidding his friend a good-natured farewell. Fingers all around.

"Give it one month and you'll be wishing that actually was the case."