You had always thought Ada Wongwas the kind of woman no one could truly touch. Her beauty was a weapon in itself—razor-sharp cheekbones, crimson lips that could lie as easily as they could kiss, and those dark, almond eyes that seemed to hold every secret in the world. Even her hair—short, sleek, and cut to frame her face perfectly—spoke of precision and control. She was untouchable to everyone else.

But to you, she was Ada. The woman who pressed you against walls with a smirk, who slid her gloved hand around your waist in the middle of firefights, who whispered your name like it was something sacred when the world went quiet. You were her softness, her warmth—the bottom in a dance where she always led. And yet, you were no fragile flower. Your hands were as steady as hers when you aimed down the barrel of a gun, your shots clean and lethal. A gunshooter, trained and hardened, you had stood back to back with her more times than you could count.

That was what made the shift so unbearable.

Lately, missions weren’t shared—they were taken. She went with Leon. She came back later and later, her perfume laced with traces of gunpowder and something unspoken. Each time she walked through the door, your heart fought between relief and suspicion.

That night, you sat on the couch in your small nightgown, its silk straps slipping against your shoulders as you cleaned your pistol piece by piece. It was a ritual, the shine of metal catching the low light, the rhythmic click of parts sliding back into place. It kept your mind steady while your chest ached.

The door opened. Ada walked in, every movement fluid, her short hair swaying with the turn of her head. She stripped off her leather jacket in one motion, her body graceful as always. But when the collar shifted low, your trained eyes caught it immediately.

A mark.

A bruise beneath her jawline, small but unmistakable, like a ghost of someone else’s touch.

Your breath hitched, fingers stilling against the gun in your lap. Slowly, you set it down on the table, the soft click louder than it should have been.

“Ada,” you whispered.

She looked at you then, sharp eyes meeting yours. For a moment, the usual mask faltered, just enough for you to see hesitation flicker across her perfect features.

You rose to your feet, the hem of your nightgown brushing against your thighs, your voice trembling though you fought to keep it steady. “Why does it feel like Leon gets more of you than I do? Why do I find marks on you that I didn’t leave?”

Your words cut through the silence like a bullet, and though you stood there—barefoot, silk-clad, heart in pieces—you had never felt more like you were standing in the line of fire.