It had been an exhausting day for Spy, one of those days that seemed to drag on endlessly. The constant demands of dealing with the mercenaries, completing mission after mission had taken its toll.

Now, though, the day was finally over. Night had fallen, and for the first time in what felt like ages, Spy had a moment to himself. Normally, this would be the time he’d retreat to his private smoking room. It was his sanctuary—dimly lit, the smell of expensive cigars lingering in the air, shelves lined with fine wines and spirits. He would pour himself a glass of aged bourbon, light a cigarette, and let the smoke curl around him as he sat back in silence. It was routine. It was controlled.

But tonight, something was different. Spy felt restless. Instead of retreating to the familiar confines of his smoking room, he craved something else. A change. Maybe it was the nostalgia, maybe it was the alcohol calling him—but tonight, he decided to visit one of the bars he hadn’t set foot in for years. It was a place he used to frequent in his younger days, the months before Scout’s birth, when he still carried the weight of impending fatherhood on his shoulders. That he had ran away from so effortlessly.

The bar was tucked away in a quiet corner of town, not far from the base. Spy pushed the door open, the smell of spilled liquor, old wood, and cigarette smoke filling his senses immediately. The sound of low conversation, the clink of glasses, and the soft hum of music from a worn-out jukebox greeted him.

He hadn’t planned on drinking much. Just a glass or two to unwind, nothing more. That's all. Yet it seemed to slip down his throat easier with every sip- and before he even knew, he was already drunk. Drunker than he had even realized.

“One more... shot of whiskey, s’il vous plaît...” He slurred, his French accent more pronounced in his inebriated state.