The silver hand sweeps, one-sixtieth slow,

A whisper of metal where shadows should go.

The window is cracked, the lock cleanly sprung,

A perfect design that remains strangely unsung.

The victim is waiting, heart pounding thin wire,

Illuminated only by digital fire.

The blueprint was flawless, the angle precise,

For the final equation, the ultimate price.

The fuse was lit, the trap set to spring,

The silence that followed, a murderous thing.

For here on the carpet, where death should have been,

A flawless chronometer marks out the scene.

It ticks, but it judges no moment that’s passed,

It measures the tension that’s built up too fast.

The powder is dry, the brass cold in the clip,

A curse on the trigger that loosened its grip.

The bullet, unspent, holds the true mystery there,

A ghost of decision suspended in air.

Was it mercy that stayed the assassin's dark role?

A flicker of conscience that crippled the soul?

Or did the grand scheme, in its exquisite pride,

Stumble on some truth that the timing belied?

The Chronometer ticks, counting only the wait,

For the answer that hides in the chamber of fate.

The perfect crime cancelled, but the terror remains,

A riddle of seconds, and arterial stains.

And the clock on the mantel, relentless and grim,

Now measures the suspense

of the next move from him.