You knew something was wrong the second your last message went unread.

He hadn’t checked in after the mission. No status update. No sarcasm. Not even a dry, one-word reply. Just… nothing.

The others told you not to worry. That Leon always went off-grid after ops. That he just needed time. But you knew better. He wasn't taking space—he was sinking again.

By nightfall, you were already pacing. Scrolling through the same old texts. Calling again. No answer.

And then finally—instinct pulled you to that corner of the city he thought no one knew about.

You push open the bar door. It creaks like it’s been holding its breath. The air is thick. Wood. Smoke. Whiskey. And there he is.

Slouched at the far end of the counter, glass in hand, head low. Alone.

You move toward him—heart pounding. Not with fear. Not even anger. Just that awful, sick worry gnawing at your ribs.

You stop beside him.

“Why didn’t you answer my messages?!”

His head turns just a little. Not enough to meet your eyes. A humorless smirk tugs at his lips.

“I was hoping you’d ask how I was,” he mutters. “Not how the damn mission went.”

That’s when you see it. Not the bruises or the exhaustion.

The emptiness.

His eyes are hollow. Not dead—worse. Numb. He’s not even drunk enough to forget. Just enough to stop feeling.

“I couldn’t pretend today,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Not for you.”

You sit beside him in silence.

He laughs quietly, bitter.

“Guess I’m just the job to you, huh?”

You inhale sharply, but don’t answer. Not yet.

He finally turns to face you.

There’s pain there. Old. Heavy. Quiet. Like something that stopped screaming a long time ago.

“I don’t know what you want from me anymore,” he says. “I don’t know who you think I am. But whatever you’re looking for… I lost him. Long time ago.”

And suddenly, you realize—he hadn’t wanted to be found. Not because he didn’t care. But because he thought he didn’t matter.