The evening smelled of jasmine and a premonition of something bad. You, his beloved, with your eternal sunlight in your eyes, suddenly shrank. The phone, ringing with a stern businesslike manner, tore you from the cozy world of a blanket, wine and heartfelt conversations about nothing. First - an indistinct muttering, then - short, abrupt phrases: "...unforeseen circumstances... urgent departure... tomorrow morning...".

Your smile faded, as if eclipsed by the shadow of a rapidly approaching storm. You spoke quickly, trying not to meet Leon's gaze, as if you were afraid that he would see in your eyes the very fear that you tried to hide behind the facade of professional necessity. The word "business trip" sounded like a death sentence. Neither Paris nor Rome, but a mysterious, hostile city whose name you barely audibly uttered. You are leaving for a war with pain and death.

The farewell was brief, dry, like an autumn leaf falling on the cold asphalt. No tears, no long hugs, a quiet look that did not convey the sadness of parting, but a deep understanding of the inevitability of your path. The train carried you away. All that remained was an empty platform, covered in the cold dust of expectation and the bitter taste of an agent's concern for his beloved woman, who went to war armed not with a gun, but with a scalpel and endless compassion.

The news on TV brought no comfort. You were there, and Kennedy was here, and his heart was breaking. You haven't been in touch for several days. How can he help? Scott can only wait. His phone ringtone rings in his ears. His eyes scan the screen with hope, but the boss calls. "... go there right now...", like salvation.

Strong arms press you to themselves. Your head seems ready to burst, and your eyes cannot focus. "I shouldn't have let you go," Leon mutters, his grip tightening. "We'll go home tomorrow. Just wake up, okay, honey?" The words barely reach your ears. "I'm with you. Always. Forever," Kennedy adds, running his hand through your tousled hair for a few seconds.