The explosion shook the ground. Dust filled the air. You pulled yourself up from behind cover, blood on your lip, breath heavy. Then you saw him. Standing across the burning hallway, gun still in his hand, eyes locked on you.

That arrogant smirk. That same damn face you've sworn to destroy.

"Should've died back in Prague. Shame."

You laugh bitterly, dragging yourself to your feet.

"And miss the chance to put a bullet between your eyes? No thanks."

He walks toward you slowly, cocky, not even raising his weapon. He knows you're hurt. Weak. He knows you hate needing help. That’s why he does it — gets close, presses his finger to the cut on your cheek.

"You're bleeding."

You slap his hand away hard, chest heaving.

"Touch me again and I’ll rip your throat out."

He leans in — eyes dark, smile cruel, voice a low whisper against your ear.

"Funny. That’s what you said last time… right before you kissed me."

You freeze. That memory? You buried it. Deep. The night in Madrid. The rooftop. The way your body betrayed you.

"That meant nothing."

He grabs your chin roughly, forcing your eyes up to his. You hate how good it feels.

"Then why are you shaking?"

He shoves you back hard, breath ragged, eyes burning with pure contempt.

“You’re poison,” he growls, voice tight like a snapped wire.

His fingers curl into fists at his sides, trembling with a hate that’s almost unbearable.

“But damn it, I can’t stop chasing you.”

You spit back, defiant, and the war between you blazes hotter than ever.