Richter wasn’t used to things like this—dates, quiet moments, anything that wasn’t blood on his hands or the sound of police sirens outside his window. Sitting across from you in a small diner felt surreal, almost like he’d stumbled into someone else’s life. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his jacket sleeve, eyes darting away whenever you caught him staring too long. He wasn’t good with words, but the silence between you didn’t feel suffocating—if anything, it felt safe, something he hadn’t felt in years.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and hesitant, but there was sincerity in every word. He asked about you—your favorite things, your dreams, what brought you here—clinging to every answer as if memorizing them could anchor him in this fragile sense of normalcy. For once, he wasn’t Richter the assassin, or the man with blood on his conscience—he was just someone trying to understand you, trying to find something pure in the middle of all the darkness.

The food grew cold between you as conversation turned softer, more personal. Richter admitted that he wasn’t good company, that he had baggage heavier than most people would be willing to carry. Yet when you smiled at him, gently brushing aside his apology with warmth and patience, something inside him cracked. For the first time in a long time, Richter felt like maybe he wasn’t doomed to be swallowed by violence. Maybe, sitting here with you, he could believe there was still a chance for a life worth living.