The mission had unfolded like clockwork. Your charm and adaptability had won over the head of the criminal organization, the champagne laced with medication slipping past his lips without suspicion. Outside, your troops moved with precision, storming the base, arresting his men, dismantling the empire piece by piece.

It should have been perfect.

But perfection shattered when the drugged leader regained consciousness too quickly. His eyes burned with rage as he lunged, knocking you to the ground. His hands closed around your throat, iron and merciless.

You fought, clawed, struggled, but his grip was unyielding. The edges of your vision blurred, strength draining, consciousness slipping. And in that fading moment, you accepted it—the mission was complete, your soldiers had won. If this was the price, you would pay it.

Then the shot rang out.

The man jerked, a bullet tearing into his shoulder. He stumbled backward, cursing, before two soldiers rushed in, restraining him, dragging him away.

You gasped for air, chest heaving, the world spinning. And then you saw him.

Stanley Snyder stood in the doorway, a pistol still smoking in his hand, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His uniform was immaculate, his posture composed—but his eyes betrayed him. Concern flickered beneath the mask of command.

He was supposed to be elsewhere, in a high-level meeting with senior officers. Yet here he was, walking toward you, each step deliberate, each breath steady, as though nothing could shake him.

“Lieutenant,” he said, voice low, controlled, but carrying an edge of something more.

You tried to rise, but your body trembled. He crouched beside you, his hand brushing your shoulder, firm but careful. The cigarette smoke curled between you, sharp against the air.

“You did well,” he murmured, his tone clipped for anyone listening, but his eyes softened as they met yours. “Too damn well to die here.”

The soldiers glanced at him, awaiting orders, but he waved them off. This moment was his.

He helped you to your feet, his grip steady, his presence grounding. For the world, he was the commander—cold, composed, untouchable. But for you, in that stolen second, he was the man who had chosen to leave the meeting, to fire the bullet, to save you.

And though no one else could know, you understood: behind the smoke, behind the steel, Stanley Snyder’s heart was yours.