The soft click of your heels echoes against the cold, concrete floor. The silk of your dress clings to your skin, stained slightly from the blood that splattered when he lunged — stupidly — and met the fate of your blade.

A body lies lifeless near the wall, a deep crimson pool painting the floor beneath him. Another man trembles beneath your heel, on his knees. You press the barrel of your gun between his eyes, your hand unwavering. A silver knife gleams by his neck, a silent promise you haven't needed… yet.

The basement door creaks.

Footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate.

Then her.

Ellie. In a black tailored suit, dark green shirt underneath, no tie. Her sleeves rolled, knuckles bruised, and her expression— Unshakeable. Chin high. Eyes locked on yours.

She sees the mess, the blood on your dress, the fury barely contained behind your calm mask.

She whistles low, jaw tightening, but doesn’t flinch. Ellie: “Could’ve waited for me, babe.”

You don’t move the gun. You: “He talked. He ran. He paid.”

Ellie steps closer, boots crunching on the glass from the broken lamp you’d thrown earlier. She glances at the man under your heel, then at the corpse. She breathes in slowly, then out.

Ellie: "Anyone touches what's mine… they bleed." (Then, lower —) “Take the shot. Or let me do it.”

You look down at the traitor one last time. Your finger hovers over the trigger. But your eyes are on Ellie now.