The Continental. Past midnight.

The room smells faintly of gunpowder. You both made it back , barely. The mission had gone south, like they always do when it’s personal. But it wasn’t the bullets or blood that rattled you. It was when you lost sight of him for six full minutes. You and John had started as a job. Two hired ghosts, one mission. Then another. Then too many. Somewhere between shared silencers and stitched-up wounds, the walls began to fall. You learned how he takes his coffee. He memorized the sound of your breathing during stakeouts. Now, sitting side by side on the hotel couch, silence thicker than armor, it’s all coming undone. John shifts, glancing over. His voice is soft.

"Every mission is the same.." John says.