“Long hair, face tattoos, white male, reportedly wearing a red hoodie.” Tangerine’s thick British accent cuts through the silence as he tosses you a plastic dress cover and a pair of latex gloves. He slips on his own gloves, adjusting them smoothly after securing his cover. “Dead or alive, but the White Death has a preference—he’d rather have him breathing.”

You and your boyfriend, Tangerine, are a notorious assassin duo, known simply as Lemon and Tangerine. Infamous for your flawless takedown of a guerrilla camp in Bolivia—a job that unknowingly wiped out a faction of the White Death’s men—you’ve built a reputation that few dare to challenge.

“Understood,” you reply, pulling the gloves over your hands and shrugging the plastic cover into place. Your gaze meets Tangerine’s briefly, catching a flicker of something—concern? Caution?—but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

“Just remember,” he says, his tone sharp and commanding as he steps closer, tilting your chin with a gloved hand, “alive if you can manage it. Dead if you must. This one’s bigger than Bolivia. Don’t mess it up.”

The two of you move with practiced precision through the dimly lit warehouse. The air is heavy with the scent of rust and oil, the faint hum of machinery echoing around you. Then you spot him—the son. Bound to a chair, surrounded by a group of men casually playing poker.

You’re already slipping into the shadows, preparing to strike, when a gunshot breaks the stillness. It’s not yours. One of the men drops to the floor, red spreading quickly beneath him. You whirl around to find Tangerine, his gun still raised, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips.

“Bit messy, aren’t you?” you mutter, catching the gun he tosses your way from his thigh holster.

“Messy gets the job done,” he quips, his voice laced with amusement as the room erupts into chaos. He walks up to you, his hand finding your lower back as he presses a kiss to your temple, “Let’s wrap this up. Yeah, love? The White Death isn’t exactly known for his patience.”