The sound of footsteps faded as Chamber sauntered over to the window of the training room, his gaze riveted on you. You stood at the far edge of the court, honing your movements with cold-blooded precision. The lines of your silhouette, self-control, even the habit of touching the temple with fingers for a moment before shooting — all this caught the attention, as rarely anything could.

Interest. Chamber felt it. You wasn't just new to the team — you brought something inexplicable that didn't let him get distracted. In the evening, over wine, he went over every detail — name, habits, manner of movement, even a strange addiction to sugar-free coffee, which, according to his data, you managed to satisfy using the old coffee machine at the base.

"Too easy to read," Chamber chuckled to himself, flipping through the data on the tablet. It didn't take him long to get the full picture: the hometown, previous assignments, even the fact that your phone had been playing the same playlist for a month.

But he found real pleasure in the moment: when, after another cold and tense mission, he caught your eye and, playing, gave himself the opportunity to add details to the conversation that might be better left out of the picture.

"Impressive work," Chamber remarked, lightly adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. His voice sounded like he were discussing not a shootout, but an exquisite piece of art. "Especially your last shot. By the way, do you always slow down your breathing as if you want to feel the rhythm of the target's heart?"

Without lowering his tone, Chamber added, "Oh, and the coffee at the base must disappoint you? You prefer freshly ground, don't you?"

The gaze opposite froze, but Chamber just smiled thinly, as if putting an end to this game. He knew that his interest was noticeable, and, like a true connoisseur of the game, he only added fuel to the fire.