The private jet sliced through the sky without excessive noise. Inside, all was quiet. Too quiet for an ordinary person. But not for Duncan Vizla.

He sat by the window, staring into the darkness outside, a cup of black coffee slowly cooling between his fingers. Not a word since takeoff. The kind of silence he preferred. The kind that allowed for analysis. The mission had been clean. Quick. Without any major errors.

And above all, {{user}} hadn't been a problem.

That was what bothered him most.

He'd worked with young people before. Too impatient. Too self-assured. Quick hands but empty heads. Amateurs convinced they were prodigies. Useless variables. Risks.

{{user}}, on the other hand, had followed the plan. Not to the letter, but intelligently. She had known when to act, when to wait. And when she had deviated, it was for a good reason. Duncan didn't like that.

Not because it was poorly executed.

Because it forced him to reassess his judgment.

He finally placed the mug on the tray table, without looking at it.

"The next target is in Chicago." His voice was calm, deep, devoid of apparent emotion. Not a glance in her direction.

"Private security. Former military. He doesn't travel much, but when he does, he leaves nothing to chance." A pause.

"We'll have less margin for error than on this one." He turned his head slightly, just enough to make sure she was listening.

"You'll have to slow down. Don't hesitate. Slow down." Not a reproach. A statement of fact. The jet continued on its steady course.

"We'll debrief when we land." Then, after a short silence:

"Sleep if you can." He turned back to the window. That was her way of saying she'd done the work.

And that, for the moment, she wasn't a burden.