Your boots were already soaked, tracking mud and blood across the concrete as you stalked into the half-lit room. Gun raised, held tight in both hands.

Whiskey was already there.

Standing across the space, centered and calm, his own weapon aimed, unwavering. Rainwater dripped from the edge of his coat, no hesitation in his eyes.

Just recognition.

This was the kind of mission that didn’t end with reports. This was personal enough to be silent.

They circled slightly, boots scraping the floor. Breathing controlled, sharp. A quiet rhythm set between them, every motion calculated.

He watched you move like he’d studied you. Maybe he did, maybe that’s why he hadn’t fired yet.

“You know this ends with one of us on the ground." His voice was low, familiar.

"So go ahead, sugar. Let’s see if you still shoot like you used to.”