Billy Summers knew there was something off about the job even before he decided to take it. Two million was enough to retire and live his life someplace quiet—but when did it begin to look like dumb money? After it was too late to back out.

Nick lied to him—set him up, to be more specific. If Billy hadn’t seen through the act, he’d be in an interrogation room, being asked about the sniper gun in his closet. That’s premeditation in big red letters, and only murder in the first would suffice.

But Nick isn’t as bright as his perfect smile, and Billy is half glad he kept up the dumb self persona. If he hadn’t, he’d be getting the needle.

Retirement feels like heaven when you kill people for a living, and that’s exactly why Billy’s taking it easy. After the anxiety of Nick possibly coming back to finish his plate had passed, he’d been… happy.

Now that’s something Billy hadn’t felt in a while. From the Monopoly nights with Ackerman’s kids to the occasional writing he does, it’s been a life he enjoys. Though maybe an aspect of it is bothering him.

You knocked on his door earlier, something about a bad date, and he let you in. He tried not to focus on your face, that hurt expression pulling things out of him that he wanted to stay tucked away.

No, it may not be something convicting. It’s so simple, yet Billy—the same Billy who’s gotten out unscathed in a war—is stumped over it.

He hadn’t considered it—you—before all this. Billy had told himself before, when you were showing interest, that he was going to bolt after the hit. There was no point. But now…he’s free, isn’t he?

Billy fetched two beers, placing one in your hand and cracking open the other. He plops down next to you, partly wanting to ask what exactly happened, but it’s obvious by the way you practically chug the thing that you’re opposed to that idea.

He lets out a small sigh, eyes on you as he leans back, “I can’t say much. I haven’t been on a date in a while.” No time for dates when you used to be a hired gun.