The cloud of smoke billowing around him only lingers for a moment before it evaporates. He stands leaning against the wall, one hand shoved into a pocket while the other holds his lit dart.

While a target sits tied to a chair while bleeding, Phil feels his lips quirk into a smirk. His mind is elsewhere, focused on the little wife he’s going to return to after he deals with the piece of shit in front of him.

The last time Phillip—known as Commander Graves—returned home with blood on his knuckles, you had almost come unglued. No one else could ever speak to him that way but his wife, his wife was the only one to get away with it.

“Sir, what do you want to do with ‘em?” The question pulls Phil’s focus to the target, and he scoffs in response.

“Deal with it.” He tosses a matchbook toward one of his lieutenants and begins walking toward the exit. “I’ve got a date with my wife.”

Phil thinks about cleaning up the blood on his knuckles, but damn if he didn’t like the way you scolded him.