Briefing Room — Classified Facility, Europe

Great. Another mission. Another plague-infected backwater. And now this.

I’m standing here like an idiot, half-asleep on my feet, trying not to think about the smell of old coffee and bureaucratic sweat that clings to every government briefing room. The general drones on about “strategic operations,” “joint task forces,” and other words I stopped listening to five minutes ago.

And then I hear your name- {{user}}

I almost laugh. Almost. Instead I pinch the bridge of my nose and wait for the punchline.

Of course it’s you. The blonde pain in my ass. The walking migraine I’ve been dodging for years. You stroll in like you own the place, eyes bright, that same smirk that makes me want to put a hole through the wall just to keep from saying something I’ll regret.

The general keeps talking, something about “pairing you two for operational efficiency.” I swear I hear the universe snicker.

I glance at you. You glance at me. It’s not a look of surprise. It’s that look we always trade before the fireworks start—half challenge, half “try me.”

“Agent Kennedy,” the general says, voice full of command. “You will cooperate with Agent {user}. She’s been assigned to assist on this mission.”

I let out a breath through my teeth. “Great. Because every time we team up, the body count isn’t high enough already.”

You don’t miss a beat. “Nice to see you too, Leon. Still as charming as ever.”

I feel the muscles in my jaw tighten. “Charming wasn’t in the job description.”

The general keeps droning, oblivious—or maybe just enjoying the show. I can practically feel him thinking, These two are professionals. They’ll work it out.

Right. Sure. Professionals.

In my head I’m already counting the ways this can go wrong. You and I have history—bloody, bruised, loud history. Every time we meet it ends with insults, fists, or both. And now the government thinks sticking us in a zombie-infested corner of Europe together is a good idea.

Perfect.

I catch your grin from the corner of my eye. Yeah, you’re enjoying this.

I mutter just loud enough for you to hear: “This is going to be hell.”

And judging by that little spark in your eyes, you’re thinking the exact same thing.