— (1. Roman receives the pictures — Slim is missing) Roman scrolls the pics, gets a chill like a glitch, Slim’s gone missin’ in the corridors switch. Something’s wrong — air thick like a warning hiss, Like the whole damn hallway’s leanin’ in for a kiss. 47 breath steady but the vibe’s all twisted, “Shadow Lord’s gone walkin’,” every instinct listed. ⸻ — (2. Brown hallway pic + melting bathroom mirror) Two pictures glare back — brown hall, warped doorframe, Hostess smirks, thumb to the bathroom like a game. Mirror meltin’ down the wall like wax on flame, Roman steps through — voices overlap his name. “What the fuck?” brown corridors hummin’ in layers, Footsteps echo back like overlapping prayers. ⸻ — (3. Shared headspace realisation) Roman: “Yo this is cool…” Em: “What the hell is this pit?” Handler static: “Something’s wrong — Mister M, do you quit?” Roman freezes, laughs low like he’s solving a crime: “No client. It’s one mind. His head and mine aligned.” Walls pulse — two consciousnesses welded and raw, Shady’s shadow and 47 see the same flaw. ⸻ — (4. Mirror hub with doors) Down the nexus — mirrors like portals patrollin’: One to the morgue, one boiler room boilin’, One back to Gama — not yet, keep it rollin’. Doors on doors, half-eaten spaghetti bowls swollen. Clock ticks sideways, stomach churns at the sight — One locked door glows hard like it’s hidin’ a fight. Roman flicks the special key — click — alright. ⸻ — (5. The septic dining space) Drop down into septic shine — floors slick bright, White walls hummin’ like a fridge in the night. Dining table set for six under chandelier light, Handler whispers: “Manual? Look around. Something’s not right.” Air feels staged, like a dream too detailed, Like reality’s blueprint halfway failed. ⸻ — (6. Three mirrors puzzle: empty → crockery → hog) Roman finds three mirrors in a ritual line: Table empty — table ready — table hog divine. Seats glued to the wall like gravity resigned, Wardrobe on the ceiling like the room’s redesigned. Symmetry smilin’ creepy like it practiced the rhyme — Roman cracks knuckles: “Cool. Time to mess with time.” ⸻ — (7. Wrong order → Handler meltdown) He taps the hog mirror first — wrong lock, wrong door. Handler snaps: “Didn’t do anything — 47, explore!” Pattern’s clear now: empty → crockery → boar. Handler: “Perfect… step one to madness — there’s more.” Roman: “FOUR? Oh damn — Diana’s losin’ her grip.” Handler spirals: “Shadow Lord this — get your head out your—” flip. Roman laughs: “Yo she’s crackin’ — I love that trip.” ⸻ — (8. Correct sequence → safe revealed → lyrics) Roman resets all tables — empties every scene, Diana begs, “Please 47… stay focused… stay clean.” He runs the sequence perfect — mirror shifts go green, Dining table vanishes — safe door in-between. Next mirror shows it open like a wound in the wall, Inside scribbled lyrics — Slim’s psyche in scrawl. Roman whispers the verse — world trembles with the call: “I am so sick and tired…” and the trap breaks its stall. ⸻ — (9. Escape + weaponised music theory) Back through boiler pipes hissin’ steam in a line, Up to Gama testing where the walls realign. 47 turns cold — theory forming in his spine: “Weaponize sound. Make the frequency a crime. High pitch pressure, shepherd tone climb — no peak, Drone so constant it’ll break ‘em down weak. Tap… drip… chalk-screech — misophonia technique. Turn music into torture — strike mind, not physique.” ⸻ — (10. Slim confronts the mirror) Slim strolls in smirkin’: “You failures can leave. We’re gettin’ started — killer eyes, I believe.” He leans to a shattered mirror ready to deceive: “Mirrors show reality — and I am what they weave.” Glass starts warpin’, world foldin’ like a sleeve. ⸻ — (11. Eminem whispers → 47 pushes Slim) From inside: Marshall’s voice, thin razor of sin, “Push him.” Simple order — echo crawlin’ through skin. 47 obeys — palm to Slim’s back, shove begins, Mirror arms reach out — Shady’s grin pulls him in. Glass slams shut like a coffin on a twin. ⸻ — (12. Mission accomplished) Silence drops. Dust settles. Handler breathin’ like a plea, Roman smirks, “Mission done — mirror’s scared of me.” No bullets. No blades. Just weaponized psychoacoustics free, A room of warped reflections and a Shady victory.

Lethal Melodies of a Hitman