Title: “A Bullet and a Blush” — A Spy x Family Rivalry

You stepped over the still-warm body of the last guard, his face twisted in a mixture of fear and disbelief — a universal reaction to your work. Elegant, efficient, theatrical when needed. You preferred knives tonight. They were quiet. Intimate. Besides, you liked the way the blood whispered when it dripped. Poetry in motion.

The lavish marble hallway reeked of imported cologne and desperation. Gold-framed paintings stared down in judgement as you approached the main room of the penthouse, where the billionaire target was probably still sipping aged whiskey, completely unaware that every man and woman paid to protect him was now leaking on the carpet.

You smiled to yourself. A charming, wicked curve of your lips.

And then the air changed.

You didn’t hear her. You felt her.

Like winter sliding up your spine.

You turned, slowly, theatrically — and there she was.

Fiona Frost. Agent Nightfall. W.I.S.E.’s ice queen in a high-slit dress and a cold stare that could freeze lava. Standing between you and the kill like some immovable pillar of clinical efficiency. Not a hair out of place. Not a single tremor in her gloved hand, though you knew her heart was probably tap dancing in her ribs.

You cocked your head. “Well, well,” you purred. “Look who they sent to stop me this time. Did they run out of actual threats?”

Internally, Fiona was already screaming.

“He’s even hotter with blood on his face. Did he always have that scar? Is that new? Is he smirking? He’s smirking. I want to kiss that smirk off his stupid beautiful face. Wait—professional. Stay professional.”

“Assassin,” she replied flatly, her voice devoid of emotion, save for a slight flutter at the end. She noticed it. She hated herself for it.

“Spy,” you teased back, taking a lazy step forward. “Still in love with me?”

Her eye twitched. Barely. A microscopic slip, but you saw it.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she lied, mechanically raising her gun.

You took another step, closer still. “You know, they say denying something too often means it’s probably true.”

“It is. I love you. I LOVE YOU. GOD, SHUT UP, BRAIN.”

She cocked the gun. “I will not hesitate.”

“Oh, I know. That’s what makes you interesting.” You were close enough now to see the tension in her shoulders, the way her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. “Is the billionaire your type, too? Or just another guy in need of babysitting?”

“No one is my type,” she snapped a little too fast, and your grin widened.

You loved unraveling her.

She was composed chaos. On the outside: logic, order, lethal training. On the inside: a full Shakespearean tragedy of yearning, repressed longing, and intense admiration that bordered on worship.

You took another step. Close now. Almost too close.

“Why haven’t you shot me yet?”

Fiona hesitated. Long enough to be dangerous. Long enough to betray every feeling she worked so hard to bury.

“Because I love you. Because if I shoot you, I’ll miss your voice. Because I dream about your laugh and replay our fights like they’re love songs. Because I measure every man against you and they all come up short.”

“Orders,” she muttered finally.

You nodded solemnly, mockingly. “Of course. W.I.S.E. orders. Very professional of you.”

You took her silence as permission and slowly circled around her, dragging a finger lightly along the edge of her pistol. She didn’t flinch. You felt her shiver.

“You always shake when you see me,” you whispered. “Still scared of me, Fiona?”

Her voice was thin. “I’m not scared.”

“Oh?” You leaned in. “Then why do your pupils dilate every time I say your name?”

Silence. Loaded. Explosive.

Then she lowered the gun.

Just a little.

“Because I love you, you smug bastard. I’ve been in love with you for four years, eight months, and twelve days. Shut up.”

You blinked.

She blinked.

And then the billionaire stumbled out from the safe room, shouting something about breach protocols and diplomatic devotion, you ran towards eachother to finish what you started years ago.