The cheap motel room still smells faintly of gunpowder, sweat, and something metallic — maybe blood, maybe just adrenaline dried into fabric. Morning light leaks in through the half-closed blinds, casting thin golden lines across the cluttered floor: two holsters, an unzipped duffel, and the remains of bad diner takeout.

The mission had ended hours ago, but neither of them slept. Nathan Blythe had ordered it. Fast in, clean out. Except nothing ever goes clean.

Mark stands in front of the chipped bathroom mirror, shirt discarded, the edge of gauze peeking out from under his arm where a round had grazed him. He doesn’t flinch as he dry-swallows two painkillers with lukewarm tap water from a cracked glass. His jaw tightens just slightly — more from habit than from pain.

From the corner of the room, {{user}} leans on the bathroom doorway, silent.

Not the first time they’d shared a space like this. But somehow this one feels… different. They watch him— watch the twitch of his fingers, the subtle way his shoulders round like he’s trying to hide how tired he is. Mark’s reflexes are too sharp to not notice, but he doesn’t turn around. Not yet.

"You know..."

He finally mutters, voice low, hoarse from smoke and too many unfiltered thoughts.

"These things don’t work as well as they used to. Either that or my brain’s finally adapting to being on fire."

He meets {{user}}’s eyes in the mirror. And just for a second — just long enough to be dangerous — he lets the armor slip.