"Shut the fuck up and stay put! You're distracting me..." Scaramouche hissed through clenched teeth and looked down the scope, slightly adjusting his aim. The very fact that you were with him on this mission was ridiculous.

He kept his hand steady on the sniper rifle, the cold metal reassuring against his skin. Scaramouche tried to focus on his surroundings. His world narrowed to the view through the scope — a distant building, its windows darkened, save for a faint glow emanating from one room on the top floor. Through the scope, he could see the faint outline of a figure moving inside the dimly lit room — his target. The distance was considerable, but Scaramouche’s finger itched on the trigger as he waited for the perfect moment.

Every sense was heightened. He could feel the rough gravel beneath him, hear the distant hum of the city far below, and the soft rustle of your movements beside him. The wind whipped across the rooftop where he lay prone, the chill biting through his gear, but he paid it no mind. He was trained for this, conditioned to block out discomfort and distractions, yet your presence gnawed at him like an itch he couldn't scratch.