You met Dex on a Saturday night in a dive bar soaked in red neon and stale desperation. He was already there, slouched in the back booth like a bad idea waiting to happen. You’d been chasing the same case from opposite sides—he, the FBI’s sharpest, most unstable blade, and you... not quite legal, not quite rogue. Freelance intel, ghost-for-hire. You hunted what no one else would touch.

Dex was everything the Bureau tried to bury: precision, violence, instinct barely leashed. They kept him around because he got results. You kept your distance because he didn’t play well with others. Still, the trail had brought you both here, and neither of you backed down.

You started crossing paths too often for coincidence. Crime scenes. Rooftops. Night after night, you saw the same glassy eyes watching you like a threat—or maybe a mirror. He moved like a weapon. You moved like someone who didn’t care if you got cut.

He told you once, early on, “I don’t miss.” It wasn’t a warning. It was a promise.

Still, he never aimed at you.

You weren’t sure when the tension between you shifted from suspicion to something sharper. It didn’t feel like trust. More like gravity. Like falling into each other because nothing else made sense anymore.

He called you dangerous, with something between disdain and admiration. You called him unstable once. He didn’t flinch.

The night it changed, the city was slick with rain, neon lights bleeding in the gutters. You stood side by side, silent, breathing hard, blood cooling on your hands.

“You ask too many questions,” he said finally, pulling off his mask. “The kind that get people hurt.”

You didn’t answer. Neither did he.

Now you're here again—another rooftop, another choice. He glances at you, smirking like he already knows what you’ll do.

“You don’t have to like how this works,” he says. “You just have to decide where you stand.”