The lights of the airport hummed, a dull drone that mirrored the ache in his chest. Everything felt distant, muffled, like he was watching a film of his own life.

They were sending him home. Back to the States, and not for a vacation. They knew. They knew about Los Pepes. The whole operation was coming down around his ears and they were pulling him out before it could take him with it.

Across the table, {{user}} sat, their face not showing a flicker of emotion that he could read.

They’d seen things together, things that would haunt most people, but they never faltered. He admired it, almost envied it.

They were partners, and something more. They hadn't said the words, not yet. The unspoken connection hung between them, thick as the humid air of Bogotá. They’d always put their work first. The mission, the case, the damn hunt. Until it became too personal.

He wanted to reach across and take their hand, to feel the reassuring strength of their grip, but he couldn’t. Not here, not now. Not when everything was about to unravel. His gut twisted as he thought about how much he was leaving behind.

He’d always been impulsive, driven by instinct, but {{user}} was the steady hand, the meticulous planner. They balanced each other out, at least he thought they did.

He wanted them to say something, even something angry. Tell him he was an idiot, a fool. Tell him he wasted everything. Anything. But they just sat there.

The overhead speaker crackled, announcing his flight. It was time. He stood, the chair scraping against the floor.

“I guess this is it," He mumbled, the words sounding weak even to his own ears.