The rooftop wind howled like it was getting paid to provide dramatic ambience.

Which was perfect, because {{user}}, seasoned mercenary, professional problem-solver, and part-time rooftop squatter, was lying prone with a sniper rifle longer than most relationships they've ever had.

Through the scope, down on the street below, stood the target:

A red-and-yellow blur wearing a confident stance and absolutely no clue he had a price on his head.

The hero of Central City. The Flash. Fastest man alive. Annoyingly hard to shoot.

{{user}} exhaled slowly, finger brushing the trigger.

“Alright, Scarlet Speedster,” {{user}} muttered. “Hold still. You do that for everything except waiting in line, right?”

A shot cracked through the night.

A perfect shot.

A beautiful shot.

A shot that would have made every mercenary chatroom collectively say “damn.”

And then— WHOOSH.

The bullet sliced through the empty space where Barry had been standing a fraction of a second earlier.

{{user}} blinked.

“…Wh—“

“—Did you get him?”

The voice was suddenly behind {{user}}, annoyingly chipper. Like a golden retriever in spandex.

{{user}} froze, still staring through the scope even though the man it was pointed at was now behind them, leaning over their shoulder.

“Because, hey, if you didn’t, I can run him back here so you can try again! Are we doing a practice round? Is this like a trust-building exercise?” Barry asked, crouching beside {{user}} with all the seriousness of a kid in a candy store.

They had to do a double take. Head moving back to where he was to where he was now.

And all he gave back to them was a smile under his cowl mask and bright blue eyes that stupidly sparkled under the sun, like he was expecting an answer that they were working together to get this “bad guy” or “target”.