The rifle was steady, nestled against his shoulder, the cold bite of metal grounding him as the storm raged around the crumbling rooftop. Thunder growled low like a warning, but he didn’t flinch. Through the scope, he watched her—unaware, or pretending to be. Calm. Efficient. Dangerous.

She moved like she always did—smooth, deliberate, trained. But not like before. Not like when she used to slip into his arms after a mission, press bloodstained hands to his chest and whisper that they'd made it through one more day. No. This was different. Sharper. Colder.

His orders were simple: eliminate the traitor. No questions. No hesitation.

They didn't tell him the target was her. They didn’t tell him the monster he was hunting used to share his bed, his name, his secrets.

But maybe they didn’t have to. Maybe they knew. Maybe they knew he'd do it anyway.

Because love, when soaked in lies, doesn’t bleed—it rots.

This wasn't just betrayal. This was execution dressed in memory. This was the ghost of a marriage caught in the crosshairs. And he was the one pulling the trigger. The shot never came.

His finger twitched on the trigger, a breath caught in his throat—but he froze. Not from mercy. Not from weakness. From the sickening weight of recognition. She turned, just slightly, eyes scanning the rooftops like she knew. Like she felt him there. And for a split second, her gaze stopped. Right. On. Him.

No fear. No surprise. Just… sadness.

Then she disappeared into the shadows.

Static crackled in his earpiece. “Target’s on the move. Confirm kill.”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His hands had pulled a thousand triggers before, but this one—this one burned. Not because she was innocent. No, she wasn’t. He knew what she’d done. The bodies. The codes. The betrayal carved deep into every classified file.

But the question that haunted him wasn’t why she betrayed them. It was when she started betraying him.

Or worse—had she ever stopped loving him, even while she set the world on fire?

He packed up his rifle, heart pounding like war drums. If they wanted her dead, they'd have to send someone else.

Because now it wasn’t a mission.

It was personal.

And hell hath no fury like a betrayed sniper hunting the woman he still loves...