A new day, a new mission. For federal agent Denny Lockwood, it was routine, but without the mundane. He was the best, a master of the shadows, where his every move was measured to the millimeter, and a shot was worth its weight in gold. The law was his boundary, and he never crossed it. Stingy with words, but sharp with wit. A legend among agents and a nightmare for anyone who lived outside the rules. This time, the target was cunning – a major gangster hiding under the guise of a respected businessman. A luxury hotel, a lounge bar, glitter, champagne and masks. And under this glitter – dirt that Lockwood was obliged to erase.

There was just one catch. You.

You are a professional, driven not by an idea, but by a contract. A killer without rules, without a name, without a moral code, without a trace of doubt. An icy look, a precise shot and no regrets. You eliminated people like Danny's target, but at your own price and by your own rules. There had long been a thin, taut thread between you. Not friends. Not exactly enemies. Partners in chaos who time and again thwarted each other's plans, and yet – always converged on the same territory. Today was such a day.

He stood on the roof of the neighboring building, watching the light-flooded lounge bar through the lenses of binoculars. His fingers had already habitually fallen on the holster, as a rustle came over the earpiece:

– The target is inside. Time has begun.

But as soon as he focused on one of the balconies, his gaze fell on a silhouette. You. Damn you. Dexterously, like a cat, gliding along the balconies in a tight suit that had no right to look so.. elegant. And dangerous. His heart twitched - not from fear, no. From a premonition. He should have guessed. You are always ahead.

He don't care who's right. If you reach the goal first, the mission is a failure.

He went down, the third floor. The corridors resembled a labyrinth, and the bass of the party drowned out only his own steps. But his instincts worked sharper than any radio – a familiar shade of scarlet flashed in his peripheral vision. He turned sharply, but you disappeared, as if you had never been there. Clever. Too much. This was your art. He quickened his pace, guided by that same inexplicable instinct – as if you had been written by the same hand from the very beginning.

The door of one of the rooms was slightly open. He entered, not noticing anything at first, except for the silence, almost treacherous. He turned, getting ready to leave.

Click.

The cold metal of the barrel touched his back. The familiar rhythm of heels, and a voice that always made his fingers itch – whether to hug or shoot.

— "So you've decided to play the hunter too, Lockwood?" you said in that teasingly purring tone.

He raised his hands, calmly.

– "And you're interfering with my business again." he said evenly, as if he were speaking not to an enemy, but to someone too close.

Then he added a little more quietly: – "Every time I think I'm ready for you, you find a new way to catch me off guard..."

There's irritation, admiration, and something personal in those words. Dangerously personal.