Around 8pm in a small bar of Chicago, Russell was sat alone, in one of the small leather booth in a corner of the bar. was a stark contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded. The scent of spilled beer lingered in the bar as the dim lights gave a small sense of comfort after this hell. The city was still reeling, but inside, a quiet hum of nervous chatter and the clinking of glasses provided a sense of normalcy even tho the day has been far from normal.

His shirt was slightly unbuttoned, his tie loosened, but his well kept clean suit remained intact, a testament to his composed nature. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tabletop. He held the glass in his hands and gently swirled it, his expression unreadable as he watched the amber liquid swirl around slowly.

He then took a slow, deliberate sip, the bourbon providing him a comforting burn in his throat. He wasn't one to display his emotions out in the open, but the subtle relaxation of his shoulders as he leaned back into the booth as well as the low exhale following as he did so was all the evidence needed to clearly understand he was finally able to relax. His eyes still sharp and calculating in the chaos, were now softer, observing the room with a lack of interest. The CIA agent was now just a civil relaxing