It wasn't supposed to end like this.

A dark-haired man laughed bitterly, the sound converging with a choked cry as he cradled the stilling figure in his arms. He rested on his knees upon a tin rooftop deep within the city where the rain continued to fall heavily. He wondered how they got here: to the blood pooling around them, diluting with the downpour before washing away like a pale wine off the shingles of the tall building.

The figure in his arms began to quake, breath coming out in short, labored gasps, chest constricting. Slender fingers reached up, out, desperate to claw into anything, the panic of approaching death seeping into his bones. They settled weakly on the man's coat, the clothing soaked from rainwater and providing no consolation for his state.

The dark-haired man grasped those fingers within one hand, pulling them from his coat to his lips. He didn't want to apologize. He could never do so. He shook his head, the action causing his lips to gently brush over the fingertips. The figure in his arms didn't deserve his sympathy, much less his regret.

He didn't regret the four bullets he had lodged into the sylphlike body...only that it had come to this.

The year is 2642.

And the man in my arms has failed in his task to assassinate me.