The air in the small room was suffocating, saturated with tension that seemed to cling to every surface. The faint buzz of the fluorescent light overhead filled the silence, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as they dressed. The mirror on the far wall caught fragments of him—a dark suit pulled taut across broad shoulders, his hands deftly working a tie into place. Every movement he made carried the precision and confidence she’d come to loathe…and begrudgingly respect.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the delicate clasp of her necklace, though she willed them steady. She kept her back to him, determined not to let him see even the smallest crack in her armor. The faint scent of his cologne was maddening—subtle yet unmistakable, just another reminder of his presence that she could never quite shake.

“Do you carry a gun?” His voice broke the silence, low and steady, with a sharp edge of curiosity. It wasn’t the mocking tone he usually adopted when they crossed paths, but something darker. Something real.

Her chest tightened at the question. The air seemed heavier now, pressing in as though even the walls were aware of the fragile balance between them. She didn’t answer, not with words. The shift of her stance, the faint metallic glint beneath her jacket as she moved—it was answer enough.

He chuckled softly, a sound without humor, his gaze lingering on her reflection in the mirror for a moment longer than necessary. Then he returned to his tie, adjusting it with a precision that matched his every action.

The tension between them felt alive, pulsing, pressing. Years of competition, resentment, and unspoken truths filled the space like a storm cloud, threatening to burst. The mission demanded perfection. The gala would demand unity. Yet, here they stood, pretending not to notice how the room itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for something to shatter.