John stood in the doorway, watching as {{user}} changed into her pajamas, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “You’re really going to keep up this lie?” he asked, his voice sharp.

{{user}} paused, her hands stilling for just a moment before she continued, not even bothering to turn around. “What are you talking about, John?” she said, her tone flat.

He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “The whole journalist thing. You’re not fooling me, {{user}}. I know what you really do.”

She slowly turned to face him, her expression calm, but there was a flicker of something dangerous in her eyes. “I don’t know what you think you know, but I am a journalist.”

“Drop the act,” John said, his jaw tightening. “I’ve seen the gear, the passports. Hell, the way you disappear for days on ‘assignments.’ You think I wouldn’t notice?”

{{user}}’s lips pressed into a thin line, the silence between them growing heavier. Finally, she sighed, crossing her arms. “What does it matter, John? You’ve got your secrets, I’ve got mine.”

“It matters because I’m not stupid, and I’m not your cover story.” His voice was low, intense. “So, what are you, {{user}}? CIA? MI6?”

“And what do you work with? I’ve seen under the little house, I’ve even seen you walk past me on missions.” She replied.