Silence.

“Diana,” 47 murmured. “He’s clearing his own security.”

“What are you doing?” The Chameleon’s voice wavered for the first time.

“Then he knows to be afraid,” 47 replied, loading his custom Silverballers.

“Then you know how this ends.”

“Not a copy,” The Chameleon said, reading 47’s expression. “Upgrades. The ICA’s old R&D blueprints. You were made in a lab. I was made in the field. Let’s see which one breaks first.”

47 wiped the blade on the dead man’s grey suit. He looked at her with eyes that held no anger, no mercy—only function.