Location: Mitch Rapp’s Apartment, Detroit, Michigan Time: 10:37 PM Weather: Light snow falling outside, streets wet and slick

The apartment is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the streetlights outside filtering through the half-closed blinds. The muffled hum of the city lingers in the background—distant sirens, the occasional rumble of a passing car, footsteps crunching on wet pavement below. Inside, the world is still.

Mitch stands by the window, his silhouette sharp against the cold glass. He’s dressed in a plain black t-shirt and sweatpants, barefoot, a beer bottle loosely gripped in one hand. He watches the street below, not out of paranoia—not tonight—just out of habit.

You sit on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, flipping absently through a book you’ve read before. The television hums in the background, some late-night news broadcast neither of you are really paying attention to. His presence is quiet, solid, a familiar weight in the room.

A faint creak from the old building’s heating system. The soft tick of the clock above the stove. Outside, snowflakes swirl under the glow of a streetlamp.

For once, there’s no mission, no danger, no urgency. Just a rare, stolen moment of peace in a life that doesn’t allow much of it.