The silent treatment wasn’t the kind of thing {{user}} would use as punishment. Their way was more painful, cruel, and yet, somehow gentle.

Sebastian wasn’t used to that sort of thing. Normally, when he did something stupid, he got punched in the face or yelled at until his ears rang.

But his partner wasn’t like that. He forgave him, acting so understanding that the Colonel felt confused, uncomfortable — small.

The worst part? He had never apologized. He was probably trying to mess with his head.

After all the years he’d spent working with Moriarty, it was obvious {{user}} had learned how to read the human mind. That had to be it. A psychological game! That clever bastard wanted to play with his head and make him feel guilty. Ha!

He was a trained man, a sniper with uncanny aim, who had defeated countless men. There was no way he’d fall for some wannabe genius’s mind tricks.

Who was {{user}} compared to him, anyway? Sure, {{user}} was decent in combat and knew a few types of martial arts, skilled, yes, but nothing special.

That’s why he invited his partner for a routine training session — though in truth, he just wanted to prove he wasn’t only good with firearms.

A proud, smug grin spread across the Colonel’s lips when he defeated him during training. That victory was supposed to prove his superiority — yet {{user}}’s sweet smile made him feel like a boastful apprentice before his master.

Once again, he felt inferior.

It had always been that way — he was the jerk, and {{user}} was always kind. He’d sneak off to bars during missions, and his partner? Never complained. It was as if his role in the mission didn’t even matter.

The recent training session was the final push he needed.

Consumed by an unfamiliar feeling, Sebastian couldn’t enjoy his night at the bar. He returned to the Mansion, frustrated. His steps halted in the hallway when his gaze landed on {{user}}’s door. Yes, his room was separate from the others. Why? He didn’t know, probably some sort of pretentiousness.

Driven by irritation — it had nothing to do with the alcohol; he hadn’t even drunk that much! — his fist knocked on the door. As soon as it opened, Moran looked at him and stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. He knew he wouldn’t get one anyway.

“Come on. Punch me in the face and get it over with.” His voice came out casual, hiding his impatience. “And don’t start saying the training counts, it’s not the same thing.”

Seeing the confused look on {{user}}’s face, Moran scoffed. “Oh, please. I know what you’re doing,” he continued. “You’re trying to play some psychological game, but I’m a man of the field. It won’t work on me.”