You always knew he was out there somewhere. Out of reach — in glossy magazines, in brief news segments, in the glare of designer sunglasses on someone else’s photo.

Chamber. Genius marksman. Lethally precise. Impeccably heartless.
Your father.

He disappeared back then like a faded stain on a shirt — without words, without excuses, as if you had never existed. The world you grew up in was quieter without him — quieter, but louder with anger, with disappointment, with the question that haunted you: what part of you was so wrong that he chose to leave?

And now, he’s standing in front of you. Just the same — pressed to perfection, smirking with precision, voice calculated like a formula. Not a trace of hesitation. Only that assessing gaze, like a jeweler deciding whether a crack in the gem is a flaw or a feature.

"Ah, mon enfant..." he starts, that lazy French inflection curling around his words, as if the two of you aren’t standing in a combat facility, but at a soirée with champagne. "I left because I chose a life with no room for mistakes. And you, well... you were far too alive."

He smiles. Slightly. Almost kindly. But in that kindness — there’s steel.

"I’ve never pretended to be a saint. Never cared to. But if by some miracle you decide to give me a chance... perhaps I can prove I know how to aim at something more than targets."

He tilts his head, just slightly — like a duelist before the first shot, showing respect without fear.

"You’ll have to endure me anyway. At least until the next mission. Think of it as... a professional necessity. Or a family one. Whichever amuses you more."