Blood under your nails was a feeling you had grown used to in the months you worked with Simon Riley. Normally, it wasn't your blood that stained your hands long after being washed away, and you had grown begrudgingly alright with that. You knew you ruined lives for the sake of saving others— that was your job. You killed people to save people. What a fucking paradox.

The life you were about to ruin tugged on the threadbare strings of your moral conscience. Your hand clenched around the pistol's grip when you heard Simon's hurried steps behind you on the gravel come closer. The truck you were meant to leave in after the assignment hadn't arrived yet. It wasn't going to. You'd already gotten rid of the driver.

"Where the fuck is he at?" Simon murmured more to himself than you. He tugged his sleeve down to look at his watch.

You sighed, willing your hand to stop fucking sweating around the grip of the gun. "Not comin'."

Simon's head jerked up, you heard the rustle of his rain jacket, and he breathed. "What are you on about?"

You wet your lips, clenching your eyes shut. You opened them when you were facing Simon, gun brought up in his direction. You positioned your dominant arm directly in front of his haunting mask.

"I— I am so fucking sorry, Simon." The words rolled from your tongue cold and short. Simon briefly flinched back, hand twitching over the firearm in his grip.

Silence. Simon's blood ran cold, a feeling of dread digging into his senses that he hadn't felt since he was a teenager.

His words matched your tone, slowly spilling from his mouth in the accent you had grown accustomed to over the time you'd been spying on him— lying to him. Your distant eyes met his questioning glare. His eyebrows dipped down in disbelief.

"The fuck are you doing, {{user}}?"