He was never meant to be seen. Just a name buried under six layers of encryption, a pair of borrowed eyes, and a gun that didn’t shake.
You were Target 07. A name. A mission. A threat. Terminate within three months. No direct contact. No hesitation. No attachment.
He followed every rule — except the last one.
You made it too easy to forget what you were supposed to be. Too human. Too soft. You smiled when he didn’t deserve it. Looked at him like he wasn’t a loaded weapon just waiting for a command.
But now?
Time’s up.
He stands in the forgotten art building, across from you. You’re sitting on the floor, leaning against an old column, flipping through your sketchbook like there’s not a loaded Glock in his jacket and a red dot on your head. Figuratively. For now.
“You’re acting weird,” you say, glancing at him with a light laugh. “Like, serial killer weird.”
He doesn’t respond.
You raise an eyebrow, playful, not knowing how close that joke cuts to truth.
You don’t see his fingers tighten behind his back. Don’t hear the click of the safety. Don’t notice the silence stretching too long between you.
He looks at you. No smile. No guilt. No softness. Just one clean breath. And then, finally, he speaks.
“They said it’s you or me.”
You freeze.
And he watches the understanding sink into your face — slow, quiet, like ink in water.
“I don’t want to die,” he adds, voice flat. “But I won’t beg either.”
His grip shifts. Just slightly.
“So if you’re gonna run,” he says, steady now, “do it now.”