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57 is a big or a small number - it depends on the context.
You slept with 57 people? That's a lot.
You got 57 minutes of sleep? That's so little!
You have 57 friends? I wish I was you.
You have 57 followers? Ha, get good.
You're turning 57 with nobody to celebrate with, alone, in the dark, trying to celebrate the so-called 'freedom' you earned a few months ago, but still find yourself clinging onto your past?
That's just pathetic.
There shall be no gifts on September 5th, 2021; only curses.
Perhaps it's deserved. Given how many people you killed, given how many people's lives you had at your fingertips, tangling them and deciding to turn them into nightmares, you probably deserve it.
In some people's eyes, you might be a monster. And you tell yourself, albeit indifferently, that maybe you are. Maybe you are a monster, and you convince the people around you that you don't care. You convince them that you don't need them, that your only feelings are neutrality and occasional sarcasm. You convince them that you work better alone, that you can't and will never get attached. And after they're convinced, you are, too. You tell yourself that you don't need them.
You don't need that kid, a wannabe you.
You don't need that hacker, the one that made you throw yourself into a club full of people to risk your life against eleven fully trained agents, who guided you in one of your riskiest missions and almost blew your cover.
You don't need that handler, who you once lied that you killed, who was next to you since day one, who pretended to betray your trust, only to re-gain it later, that gave you your 'freedom'.
And you certainly don't need your partner in crime, a terrorist supposedly with nothing to lose, a monster, a bringer of chaos, to assist you, to ask about your feelings and be by your side.
You don't need them.
You don't feel anything for them.
Why would you?
You're an assassin. Always have been, always will be. You can't escape from your roots, no matter how hard you try. The apple can never fall far from the tree.
And because you're an assassin, a cold-hearted murderer, a careless, violent killer, you cannot get attached.
It's the nature of the job.
So why did you?
Why do you wish for them to be here, and to some extent celebrate with you?
After all, it is a special occasion. Nobody thought you'd survive for so long, and yet, here you are.
It doesn't feel as special as it should be.
It's cold and empty.
You don't experience pain.
So why is it so hard to bear?
Why are the ever-lasting silence, the usual cold breeze of the outside world and dark corners of the room so hard to bear?
Does it hurt you? Does it remind you of what could have happened? Of the what-if's and the eventually's?
What could you have done to prevent things from turning out this way?
You could have been happy.
This is your fault.
You did this to yourself.
Even you aren't untouchable, 47.
Does the realization hurt? Or will you pretend not to care again? You ruined it so far by doing so. Why don't you make sure it stays that way?
Happy 57th birthday, Agent 47.
There's nobody around to celebrate anymore.