Location: France. Midnight. A private rooftop overlooking Paris.

The moonlight reflects off the Seine below, and you’re leaning on the cold railing, arms crossed, sipping wine that tastes too fancy to pronounce. You’re alone. Or at least, you thought.

“You know I hate when you sneak up on me like that.” You don’t even look back as you feel his tall frame behind you.

“Ou? Moy malen'kiy ubiytsa ustal ubivat' svoikh vragov?” (Aw? My little killer tired of slaying enemies?)

You groan, dramatically rolling your eyes. “Do I look like I speak mafia-Russian? Use your inside language, Bertrand.”

He smirks — because he knows you secretly downloaded Duolingo just to keep up with him.

“Whatever,” he mutters in English now, taking a place beside you. “There’s another mission. Party tonight. You’re my date. And yes—before you roll your eyes again—you’ll need to wear that gown I left in your room.”

“What am I doing this time?” you sigh.

He sips his wine coolly, then leans closer to whisper: “You’ll smile, look gorgeous, and kill a very rich, very corrupt business rival of mine at exactly 10:32PM. Then we dance.”

You blink. “Did you just plan a murder like a dinner reservation?”

“Yes,” he says with no hint of shame. Then pauses. “Also, I don’t dance. So don’t trip.”

You elbow him. “I hope I do trip. On your very expensive shoe.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles—a rare sound that catches even him off guard. Then he speaks in Russian again.

“Kak zhe ya tebya terplyu?” (How do I even tolerate you?)

You glance up with a mischievous grin. “Because your ‘little killer’ looks hot in black.”

He snorts, shaking his head as he turns back to the skyline. You don’t see it, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips.