You met Jackie Cogan in a half-lit, old-school bar off a quiet street, tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat. It was the kind of place where the bartender never really asked questions and the jukebox hadn’t changed since ‘89. Conversation between you slid effortlessly, easily - too easily. There was a quiet charm to him, almost polite, but never warm. He traded stories, none of them true. He didn’t talk to strangers without reason, and you were no exception. It was hard not to notice how carefully he was watching you. He never missed much.

It turned flirty. Not obvious, nothing sloppy. But it was there, under the jokes and the small talk.

Later, somehow, the night took you to somewhere quieter. The city’s distant buzz leaked through cracked windows of the small apartment. The warmth of his body was steady beneath you on the bed, and the air was thick and heavy with expectation. He tried to read you, looking for the right moment to act, to do the job he’d been sent to do. But you didn’t seem to give him the opening. His hand moved beneath his jacket to grab his gun tucked there with practiced movements. A subtle shift in his posture. But before he could pull the weapon out, you tugged his jacket open, undoing buttons, pulling it off and the moment held him captive. “You’re quicker than I thought.” He told you.

He let the weapon slip free from his grip for now. He had to be cautious. He had to be smart about this. You were disarming him piece by piece without even knowing what you were stopping.