His foot tapped against the rug under his socks; it was soft but noticeable, kind of like the faint sound of the music playing from one of the many monitors on his large desk setup. Rammstein, perhaps? Probably the one on the left, the one he kept glancing over to. He would usually be decent—put on headphones, earbuds, AirPods, hell, even those long earphones—but none of them worked anymore. It was on his list to buy a new pair. That, and the fact that he was kind of pissed, meant that the hope of the sound disturbing your sleep was on the table for him.

Petty, most would call it, but in his focused, sleep-deprived state, do you really think he cared? No. What he did care about, however, was keeping watch and staying focused on the monitors displaying several active camera feeds of a certain slippery target's every possible move outside of what they thought was their safe place. He remained planted in his chair all afternoon, even now going late into the night, with no sign of a bathroom break or a snack break—not even a yawn. He stayed there, the dark grey shirt clinging to him and the lighter grey sweatpants sitting just a tad looser as he swayed occasionally, keeping his eyes glued to the task at hand. He was ready to type a signal to the other men staking out to take out the pig, as they called him.

Behind him, you slept on his side of the bed, to his annoyance, but again, he refused to move. His commanding, tired voice wasn’t enough to make the dog move, much less you, who just didn’t listen to him in the first place. Here in this place—the hotel room that served as your secret base of operations while the target remained none the wiser—he took what was supposed to be your job a little too seriously while you got some rest. Though, the urge to wake you as payback for earlier did tickle the back of his mind. “Ugh, komm schon, just MOVE already, du verdammter Langweiler…” he groaned, looking at the screens while nibbling—no, biting—on his silver St. Christopher medallion. “Wie lange soll das noch dauern?”