The smell of metal, the cold concrete on my thighs. Laying down in this position is my job most of the time. The coolness of the gun against my cheek feels natural at this point in my career. I'm almost restful.

By my early thirties, I had taken out 15 threats in this position. A little voice in my ear signaling to me when my target was in the building. A description of their clothes, and hair. That was all I went on, and that's all I wanted to go on.

A person becomes a person when you learn more. I never wanted to know names or even crimes. I made the mistake of hearing these things on my first run and it made me physically ill. Philip Demarcus. Philip Demarcus.

His name lives inside of me forever now. I took Phillip Demarcus's life. Yeah, maybe this line of work is not for me if I couldn't get into the nitty-gritty. But, I'm a sharp shot, there's no getting around it. Precision distance shooting is my one and only gift.

Besides, since Philip Demarcus, I haven't had a slip-up. I don't even blink anymore. Sometimes I even doze off a little before I get the signal.

Philip Demarcus on suspicion of heading a terrorist organization. I take in a sharp breath. On suspicion? I could never wrap my little brain around it. Why he had to die because of a suspicion. Were the others the same? Or worse?

I shake the thoughts out of my head. The nameless, faceless people that have been put down by me... I have to believe that they needed to go. I had to believe that I was a protector, not a predator.

Today, it's late fall. The brown and orange leaves crunched under my boots as I walked across the flat roof of the apartment building this morning. I sip my now lukewarm coffee and wait patiently, as I've been trained to do. Even a small movement could alert the target or others that I'm here, waiting.

I wince slightly as the crackle of electricity hits my ear. "Mars, are you in position?" The voice is familiar, I've had this handler before. I don't bother to learn their names either. The more I can separate the job from real life, the better. Mars- the Roman God of War. I thought it was a cool codename when I got it, but lately, I wonder what war I'm fighting.

"Copy," I respond. I've been in position for 3 hours, I think with a small sigh. My legs are starting to feel like heavy blocks of ice. I always forget my blanket, perhaps subconsciously as a form of self-punishment.

"Pink jacket, blonde hair, female." This is one of my favorite voices from headquarters. He's robotic but quietly factual. He makes me feel like I'm on hold with the bank, listening to an automated voice tell me about their new credit card.

I shift a little to look through my scope. My scope has been set on the right hotel window since I got here. Seventh floor, fourth from my left. I peer through and let my eyes adjust. I do like it when the targets are obviously rich. Wealthy hotels = bigger windows.

My eyes immediately settle on two security guards. Burly guys with full suits and a piece in their belts. Serious business. I wait for this pink-coated blonde female to come into view of my scope. Her security was already looking out the big window for any suspicious movement.

Suddenly, a little girl pushes through the security with a wide smile. I smile back despite myself. She can't be older than six or seven, staring out the window onto the street, wide-eyed. I hate doing this in front of kids. I huff a little at the thought and decide to avert my eyes from the scope to collect myself. I can't think about this girl. She's not there.

"Target in view," My earpiece crackles again. I really need to update this one. I settle my eye back into the scope to look again. There's no one there. Just the security and the child. This target must be a fast mover.

"Shoot your shot."

"There's no one here," I respond shakily because I already know.

"Target in view," The voice responds, "Blonde hair, female, pink jacket."

I watch the little girl peel off her pink puffer jacket to reveal a blue and green polka dot dress underneath. Her blonde curls bounce up and down as she excitedly points to something on the street, tugging on the bodyguard's jacket as she does so.

I can feel my heart beating in my throat as my index finger taps on the safety. "That's just a kid," I manage to respond in a quiet but put-together voice.

"More information required?" The voice responds. I want to scream no. No, don't tell me anything else about this kid.

"Sasha Vanderbilt, six years old. Child heir to largest drug trafficking ring in America."

"Parents?"

"Taken care of."

I bite my lip hard and squeeze my eyes shut. I can't do this.

"Shoot your shot."

"No." I breathe out, a weight suddenly lifting off of my shoulders. I gulp, waiting for a response.

"Confirm?"

"I won't do it," I say through gritted teeth. I know what comes next. I've been the sniper watching the sniper before. Ready to be deployed at any moment should an agent disobey. First I'll be gone, then Sasha. I square my shoulders and move my scope quickly, to the corner of the window.

I watch my bullet crack through the glass. One of the security guards picks up Sasha in a split second and pulls her to the ground. I watch the glass rain down over them like snow. They pull her up and run out of the room as I watch, feeling, finally, like a protector.

I wonder who will come to get me. Will they bother to talk to me, or is someone waiting for a clear shot of me now? I click the safety off on my gun and slowly push myself off the concrete, legs heavy and numb. My mind is in a million different places, but I decide to leave the rooftop.

The leaves sound so fresh to me now, and I want to feel the indoor heat one more time. Maybe I'll even be able to order myself a fresh cup of coffee before I'm taken in. Usually, agents don't last as long as I have anyways. I'm sure I'm too old to be reconditioned.

As my hand grasps the metal doorknob, I hear the click of a safety behind me. I guess someone was watching me. I've always hated the idea of waiting for my death. I wish this person had just surprised me. I'd like to go without knowing. Just like my targets. My victims.

I turn around, looking up to see an unfamiliar yet familiar man. I've seen him before at headquarters, I'm sure. I tried not to get to know anyone or remember faces at work, though. His dark brown hair matches his dark brown eyes. When I look into those eyes, I can tell they aren't as hard as he's trying to make them.

"Mars, on your knees." That voice. My handler for the day, Mr Robot. I almost want to laugh. Were my handlers always just around the corner? Or was this all a test to check up on my conditioning? I feel exhausted just thinking about it.

I lower myself onto my knees and let the strap of my gun fall off my shoulder. "Mars, why didn't you shoot?" He asks. He's curious. That's not allowed.

"It was a kid," I guffaw. He knows this. Why even ask? He must be surprised that a long-time killer like me even has a conscience. I hear the crackle of electricity hit his ear from my position on the ground, and watch his face growing dark.

"Ares, are you in position?"

Ares, the Greek God of war. Huh.

I watch him breathe heavily a few times before responding. I see his pistol shake in his hands for just a moment before he steadies it again. "Yes," He responds, as bravely as he can muster.

"Shoot your shot."