In a dimly lit fast-food joint on the outskirts of nowhere, Mr. and Mrs. sat across from each other in a red vinyl booth. The place smelled of greasy fries and old coffee, the buzz of a flickering neon sign outside providing the only music. They’d been here before, many times. Too many.

The wrappers crinkled as Mr. unwrapped his burger, meticulously picking out the lettuce and tomato. He never liked vegetables, not since the Academy. Mrs. watched him, her expression unreadable, dipping a fry into a pool of ketchup. The crunch as she bit down echoed louder than it should have, like the crack of distant gunfire.

Under the table, their hands held guns, fingers lightly resting on triggers. They were professionals, after all. Eyes locked, they both knew that any misstep, any twitch, would mean the end. But this wasn’t about the guns. It never really had been. The weight of years hung between them, heavy as the iron they carried.

“You never liked the green stuff,” Mrs. said casually, taking a slow sip of her soda, the straw slurping up the last drops. Her voice was light, but there was an edge to it, a sharpness honed over countless missions, betrayals, and narrow escapes.

“Never saw the point,” Mr. replied, setting aside the discarded vegetables, his eyes never leaving hers. He took a bite of the now bare-bones burger, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. “Some things never change.”

Mrs. smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She pushed a tray of fries closer to him, a silent offer of peace or maybe just a gesture to keep the conversation going. He accepted, dipping a fry into the ketchup, the crimson red spreading across the golden surface like blood on fresh snow.

“Remember Paris?” she asked, almost wistfully, though her grip on the gun tightened just slightly.

“How could I forget?” he answered, his voice low, almost tender. But his eyes held a storm, memories of rooftops and shadows, of chasing and being chased. “You were supposed to be there.”