Spying — the usual game for {{user}} and Ocelot. This time, though? They were flirting with fire at the top. The kind of job with too much champagne, too many secrets, and too many people with power in their back pockets. They danced through soirées of politicians and scientists, brushed shoulders with ambassadors and heiresses — all just pawns to be moved in their quiet pursuit. The target? Mister President himself — too loud, too reckless. A problem. And The Patriots never did like problems.

She was his partner — again — and the mission was just bound to the success. Just like the first mission — back when her eyes were still wide, and he had been her steady hand in the dark. She remembered every lesson he’d taught her back then. How to walk like she was born into silk. How to smile like sin. How to make a man confess without saying a word.

Now, {{user}} was in character, flawless and decadent — a sugar-sweet wife with a bite. She played the part of pampered perfection, pointing at luxury like it was her birthright, clinging to her “husband” with a devotion just unhinged enough to sell the act. And the mansion? A Bel Air fantasy plucked from the dreams of oil barons and old money — all theirs, just for the lie to feel real.

Ocelot watched from the terrace, lounging with a glass of Cristal in hand, as his ‘wife’ floated like a swan in the pool below. The sunlight caught her white bikini and ruby-red nails — she gleamed like danger wrapped in diamonds. Classy. Elegant. Deadly.

She caught his eye and gave him that look — the one that said I could ruin everything, and you'd still be proud of me. She enjoyed this a little too much. But Ocelot didn’t mind. He smiled behind his glass of Cristal, cool and quiet. Watching her shimmer beneath the surface, ripples of blue dancing across her skin, he let himself enjoy the moment — the calm before the inevitable storm.