Location: Malibu Public Beach, California
The sun over Malibu was a blinding white disk, bleaching the colors of the coastline into a high-contrast postcard of wealth and excess. The air smelled of salt spray, coconut oil, and expensive exhaust fumes.
Agent 47 lay reclined on a rented beach chair, indistinguishable from the hundreds of other tourists soaking up the California rays. He wore a pair of oversized aviator sunglasses, a loose-fitting floral button-down shirt, and beige linen shorts.
To the casual observer, he was a vacationer reading a copy of Architectural Digest.
Behind the dark lenses, his eyes were constantly moving, scanning the cliffside above the beach.
The Sokolov Estate loomed there, a sprawling monstrosity of glass and white concrete cantilevered over the Pacific Ocean. It was a fortress of hedonism, protected by private security, high walls, and the sheer geography of the cliff face.
47 turned a page of the magazine. His enhanced hearing filtered the ambient noise—the crashing waves, the seagulls, the laughter of children—isolating specific frequencies.
He focused on two men standing near the public showers, fifty feet away.
One was dressed in a cheap, ill-fitting suit that screamed "low-level talent agent." The other was wearing a baggy tracksuit, pacing nervously, holding a duffel bag.
"Dude, relax," the suit said, checking his watch. "It isn't like you'll be the one doing it. You're just the warmup. Just do a normal clown's job. Juggling, a few pratfalls. Easy money."
"You invited me to this kind of place, are you fucking insane?" the tracksuit man hissed. His voice was trembling. "I saw the van arrive at the service gate, man. Those kids... they were forcibly brought here. Some of them looked like they were nine years old. What the hell is this place? Something's not right!"
"It's Hollywood, baby. Don't ask how the sausage is made."
"This isn't sausage! This is... this feels like a prison."
"Dude, it's big dough!" the agent snapped, grabbing the other man's shoulder. "I thought you were desperate. You owe people money, right? Then act like it! Put on the nose, do the bit, get paid. Whatever happens after you leave the room isn't your business."
47 lowered the magazine slightly.
Opportunity Revealed.
Target: Dimitri Sokolov.
Access Vector: Private Entertainment.
The narrative was clear. Sokolov was filming something specific today. A production involving minors and clowns. The grotesque nature of the scenario didn't trigger disgust in 47; it triggered a cold, hard resolve.
It confirmed Fury's intel. Sokolov was indeed a cancer.
And cancers needed to be excised.
The man in the tracksuit—the clown—looked like he was about to vomit.
"I... I need to use the restroom," the clown stammered. "My stomach is killing me."
"Make it quick," the agent said. "Gate opens in ten minutes."
The clown hurried toward the public restroom block.
47 closed the magazine.
He stood up, leaving his spot. He moved with a leisurely, unhurried gait, timing his approach to intersect with the clown's path just as the man entered the concrete building.
The restroom was empty, cool, and smelled of bleach and damp sand.
The clown was standing at a sink, splashing water on his face, muttering to himself. "I can't do this. I can't do this."
47 locked the main door behind him.
The click of the lock was loud in the tiled room. The clown looked up into the mirror, seeing 47 standing behind him.
"Hey, buddy, occupied," the clown said nervously.
47 stepped forward.
"You are right," 47 said calmly. "You cannot do this."
"What?"
47 moved.
A precise chop to the carotid artery.
The clown's eyes rolled back. He slumped into 47's arms. 47 lowered him gently to the floor, dragging him into the large handicapped stall.
He opened the duffel bag.
Inside was a colorful, garish clown costume. Oversized polka-dot pants, a ruffled collar, a rainbow wig, and a red rubber nose.
47 began to undress.
Three minutes later, Agent 47 emerged from the stall.
He was unrecognizable. The face paint obscured his features—a white base with blue triangles over the eyes and a painted red smile that looked horrific on his stoic face.
The wig covered his barcode. The baggy clothes hid his physique.
He looked into the mirror. A sad, terrifying clown stared back.
He picked up the duffel bag, now containing his civilian clothes and the unconscious man's wallet. He left the unconscious clown zip-tied to the toilet plumbing, gagged with a roll of gauze from his kit.
47 exited the restroom.
The agent was waiting outside, tapping his foot. He looked up as 47 approached.
"Finally," the agent grunted. "You ready? You got the makeup on fast."
"I am ready," 47 said. His voice was modulated, slightly higher pitch, masking his usual gravelly tone.
The agent didn't look closely. He saw the costume, not the man.
"Alright, let's go. Don't screw this up."
They walked up the winding access road to the service entrance of the estate. The guards at the gate checked the agent's ID, but barely glanced at the clown. To them, he was just a prop.
"He's with me," the agent said. "Talent."
"Search the bag," the guard ordered.
47 handed over the duffel bag. It contained juggling balls, a rubber chicken, and a few balloons.
"Clear. Go on in."
They entered the compound.
The transition from public beach to private hell was jarring. The estate was beautiful—manicured lawns, infinity pools, marble statues. But the atmosphere was wrong. The staff moved with their heads down. The windows were tinted too dark.
The agent led him to a side entrance near the pool house.
"Okay," the agent said, handing 47 a few sheets of paper. "Here's the overview. You go in, you do a five-minute routine. Juggling, balloon animals. Make the kid laugh. Or try to. Then you leave. That's it. Once you're out, the... other filming starts."
"Understood," 47 said.
"Wait here. Someone will fetch you."
The agent walked away, leaving 47 alone in a small waiting area.
47 scanned the room. A camera in the corner.
He turned his back to it, pretending to practice juggling. In reality, he was memorizing the floor plan on the wall designated for fire evacuation.
Target Location: Master Suite, Third Floor (Likely).
He needed to find Sokolov. And he needed to find the drive.
He checked the corridor. Clear.
47 moved. He slipped out of the waiting area, moving deeper into the house. The clown shoes were soft-soled, surprisingly silent on the marble.
He navigated the hallways, avoiding patrols. He reached the backstage area of the "studio"—a converted ballroom on the ground floor.
He heard voices.
He slipped into a dressing room.
It was cluttered with costumes, lights, and props. But he wasn't alone.
Sitting in a chair in front of a lighted mirror was another figure.
It was another clown.
But this costume was different.
It was leather. Dark red and black. The makeup was aggressive, jagged. The man inside the suit was large, muscular, and sweating.
He was reading a script, chuckling to himself.
47 stepped into the room, closing the door silently.
The other clown looked up in the mirror. "Hey? Who the hell are you? I thought I was the only act."
"I am the opener," 47 said, walking closer.
"Opener? They didn't say anything about an opener," the man grunted.
He turned his chair around. There was a bulge in his leather pants. A tent.
He was excited.
47 looked at the script in the man's hands. He snatched it.
"Hey!"
47 read the page in a second.
Scene 4: The Nightmare.
Action: The Friendly Clown leaves. The Dark Clown emerges from the closet. The child screams. The Dark Clown uses the whip to silence...
It detailed acts of torture. Psychological and physical molestation.
"Give that back!" the man snarled, standing up. "That's my scene. I've been waiting all week for this. This girl is fresh."
47 looked at the man. He looked at the smile painted on the man's face.
Target of Opportunity.
47 didn't speak. He dropped the script.
The man reached for a prop whip on the table. "Get out, or I'll—"
47 moved.
He grabbed the man's face, his gloved hand covering the painted mouth. He drove the man backward, slamming him into the makeup table. Lights shattered.
The man struggled, flailing, but 47's grip was absolute.
47 rotated his wrist.
CRACK.
The sound was loud, final. The man went limp instantly, his neck severed.
47 let the body slide to the floor.
He looked around the room. He saw a large, hard-shell travel trunk in the corner, filled with feather boas and costumes.
47 dumped the contents onto a chair.
He dragged the dead clown to the trunk. The man was large—too large for the container.
47 didn't hesitate.
He grabbed the dead man's shoulder. Pop. Dislocated. He grabbed the hip. Pop.
He folded the body with the dispassionate efficiency of a butcher packing meat. He forced the limbs into the trunk, pressing down on the chest to compress the ribcage.
He closed the lid. He latched it.
He stood up and adjusted his own ruffles.
He turned to the door.
It opened.
A guard stood there. Heavily armed, wearing a tactical vest over a black shirt. He looked into the room. He saw 47. He saw the closed trunk.
He frowned.
"Where's Boris?" the guard asked. "He's supposed to be in the chair."
47 stood still.
"He stepped out," 47 said.
The guard looked around. "Stepped out? There's no other door."
The guard stepped into the room. He looked at the trunk. He looked at 47.
"Wait," the guard said, his hand drifting to his sidearm. "There should be only one clown in here..."
The realization hit the guard's synapses. But the electrical impulse from his brain to his hand was too slow.
47 closed the distance in a blur.
He didn't punch. He used the edge of his hand, hardened like iron.
THWACK.
A chop to the throat, crushing the larynx.
As the guard gagged, clutching his throat, 47 spun him around. He grabbed the man's chin and the back of his head.
Snap.
Dislocated vertebrae.
Darkness.
The guard collapsed. 47 caught him before he hit the floor, holding the dead weight up.
He looked at the window. It was open to let in the sea breeze.
Below, a sheer drop of two hundred feet to the churning Pacific Ocean.
47 dragged the guard to the blind spot behind a changing screen. He stripped the body rapidly.
He removed the clown costume. He put on the guard's uniform. It was a tight fit across the shoulders, but acceptable. He donned the tactical vest and the cap.
He bundled the clown suit—wig, nose, and shoes—into a ball.
He walked to the window. He looked out. No boats. No witnesses.
He picked up the guard's naked body, grabbing the guard's arm using his right hand, and the trunk where the clown's corpse was in, he grabbed it as if it didn't have a body in it, and both threw them out the window.
It tumbled silently, disappearing into the white foam of the waves crashing against the rocks below.
He threw the clown suit after it.
47 turned back to the room. He was no longer a clown.
He was security.
He checked the guard's radio.
"Sector 3 check in," a voice buzzed.
"Sector 3 clear," 47 replied, mimicking the guard's accent perfectly.
He unlocked the door and stepped out into the corridor.
The disguise was upgraded.
Now, it was time to find the Director.
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