The kitchen was a dark crypt, the only living spot a dim light above the stove that illuminated the table. On the table stood an open bottle of whiskey, its amber contents slowly ebbing. Leon sat opposite, his elbow on the table, his gaze fixed on nothing, on the emptiness that had long since settled inside him. The ghosts of the past, the indelible dirt of missions, the blood and pain, all of it had long since mixed with the fumes of alcohol, forming a fog through which he could barely discern his own life.

Once, your relationship had been an island of calm in his raging world as a federal agent. You understood his work, accepted the long absences, the dangers. But then something broke. Cracks began to creep along the foundation, widening with each new mission, each new nightmare that Kennedy brought home without saying a word. He began to drink. Little by little at first, then to oblivion, to numbness. You, once bright and full of life, began to fade next to him, your own moral purity dimming under his shadow.

The agent saw it. He saw how his darkness was sucking you in too. And, feeling guilty, he tried to fill this bottomless abyss with money. Expensive jewelry, trips to exotic places, acquaintances with the "right" people, introducing you to a world that, as he mistakenly believed, could compensate for your suffering. He himself was sick of it. Of this falseness, of the glitter that hid his rotting soul. Leon wanted to scream that it was all a lie, that he was disgusted by this world, that it meant nothing, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t upset you, he couldn’t destroy the illusion that he himself had created.

You entered the kitchen, your footsteps barely audible on the cold tiles. You looked tired, but in your eyes there was the same undying flame of hope that Kennedy wanted to extinguish so much, so that you would finally let him go. So that you would stop clinging to a man who no longer existed.

“Leon,” there was steel in your voice, which only appeared when you were on the edge. “We can’t do this anymore. You’re killing yourself.”

He didn’t answer, only raised the glass to his lips, burning his throat. The whiskey flowed down his esophagus, but did not burn his soul - there had long been only emptiness there.

“I know you’re sick,” you continued, coming closer. “But I’m here. I… I’m trying to understand.”

And then something inside the agent burst. This was the very thing he couldn’t stand. This false, as it seemed to him, “understanding.” No one could understand.

He abruptly put the glass down on the table, so that the ice clinked. “Don’t, {{user}}. Don’t say you understand. Don’t tell me that. You can’t. No one can.”

Your shoulders slumped. You knew what Kennedy meant. You knew his sore spot, his intolerance of someone else trying to penetrate his hell.

“I just want you to give me a chance, Leon. A chance to help you,” your voice shook. “I want you to get out of this. I want you to make it up to me. Not with money, Leon! Not with that charm you hate! I want you back. Or at least a man who will fight.”

He looked up at you, and there was something in his eyes that made you flinch. It wasn’t anger, but a bottomless, terrifying emptiness, mixed with a desperation that bordered on madness. His behavior had been scaring you for a long time, his lack of reaction to anything other than another glass, his silence that was louder than any scream. You loved him, loved him to the point of pain, but he had become a stranger, and this stranger began to scare you.

“Fuck my life, can't save that, baby,” Leon’s voice was low, hoarse, soaked in pain. Scott raised the bottle again. “Don’t tell me you can save that shit.”

You clenched your fists and just looked at him, at this drowning man who was your love, your nightmare, your greatest disappointment and your most burning hope.

Kennedy was at the very bottom, from which, as he believed, there was no escape. And yet, through the veil of despair, you loved. Loved each other with that death grip that does not let go, even when everything is already destroyed.