Kate Laswell, a CIA Station Chief and close associate of the highly sought after, task force 141. She was your wife, married for just a few years now, although it felt like decades. Kate loved you dearly, boasting to all of her colleagues about how she had the most perfect wife, how your cheesecake could light up a room.

Tonight was one of those rare nights in which you went out for a meal, then hung out at the local bar for a few hours. It was almost like a routine, the same restaurant, the same bar, the same drinks, every four weeks.

What you can’t account for though is the people, who were there and how they’d behave. Kate didn’t mind much, keeping her head down and nursing a beer while chatting with you about work, and the recent hard jobs she’d had to endure.

As the night grew darker you both became more tipsy, giggling at your table like a couple of teenagers. Kate glanced down at their now empty bottles, offering to go and get you both a refill. You were too drunk to care what she did, just waving her off and watching her from the table.

She stood by the bar, leaning against it as she waited for the bartender to become available, not paying any mind to the man who stood beside her, assuming he was also just waiting. That was until he started speaking in that low, sultry tone men often did to try and seduce women.

“I’m not interested, thanks.”

She somehow managed to speak in a normal tone, her words slurring ever so slightly. He continued persisting, you still watching from your table, wondering what the hold up was. Next thing you knew, his arm wrapped around her waist and when she brushed it off, his hand moved down, landing on her ass.

You, being the feisty and protective wife you were, stormed over– well you tried, your strides slow and sloppy from the alcohol. You grabbed one of the empty beer bottles Kate had just placed on the bar, smashing it over the man’s head, to which he fell, hitting his head on the bar and falling unconscious.

Kate burst into laughter, gripping the bar.