You know what you’re getting into. The empathy-void assassin of the Hitman trilogy is an anti-Santa who only has a “naughty” list and never a “nice” one. He visits the rich and powerful once every couple of years, to shove lumps of coal down their throat because they’ve been selling AK-47s to babies.
Here he is again in the final instalment of the most recent righteous murder trilogy. Hold Hitman 3 in your hands and you might remark it feels “a bit light”, with the suspicious eyes of someone whose favourite cereal seems to have fewer flakes in the box every time they buy it. But what’s inside still has that crunch and flavour you like, so it’s hard to grumble when you’re stuffing your face. Mmmmm, Emetic Poison Bran.
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