The storm had followed her all the way from the safehouse to the manor. Thunder rolled low and distant, like the world itself was holding its breath.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, soaked and silent, watching him through the flicker of candlelight. Elias. Her target. Her husband. The man she was never supposed to love.

He didn’t look surprised to see her. He just sat there — sleeves rolled up, whiskey glass half-full, eyes sharp and tired. The look of someone who already knew.

“You should’ve stayed gone,” he said quietly, swirling the amber liquid. “Would’ve been easier that way.”

Her throat tightened. “Easier for who?”

He let out a humorless laugh. “You tell me, Agent Lira.” The name hit harder than the storm outside.

For months, she’d been {{user}}— his wife, his confidante, the person who learned his smiles and his silences. Now she was a stranger again.

“So that’s what it was,” he said, standing. “The dinners, the late-night walks, the promises—you were just… collecting intel.”

She wanted to deny it. She wanted to tell him the truth — that somewhere between fake laughter and real touches, the mission had stopped feeling like one.

But her silence said everything.

He crossed the room slowly, every step deliberate. When he stopped in front of her, his voice was barely a whisper.

“So the only real thing between us… was the lie.”