The tension between Frankie and {{user}} was palpable. The mission had gone terribly wrong. What was supposed to be a quick and clean operation had spiraled out of control, leaving the two of them with no choice but to fight their way out, barely escaping with their lives.

Now, in the dimly lit safehouse, the quiet was deafening. Frankie paced the small room, his fingers rubbing at his temple as if the pressure of the situation was too much to bear. He was still carrying the weight of the failure, and though he rarely showed it, the frustration was starting to show. His normally steady demeanor was unraveling, and {{user}} could sense it. They could feel the weight of the blame hanging in the air, neither of them willing to voice it, yet both of them carrying it.

“You think it was me?” Frankie’s voice broke the silence, low and rough. He stopped pacing, turning to face {{user}}, his expression hard.

{{user}} felt their chest tighten. They knew the question was coming. The subtle accusations, the way Frankie had distanced himself ever since things went south. There were no words for the betrayal that lingered in the air, but the trust they had built over the years seemed to be slipping through their fingers.

“Do you really think that was on me?” Frankie asked again, his eyes narrowing, frustration clear in the way he clenched his jaw. He had always been the calculated one, the planner, and to have something go wrong under his watch... it didn’t sit well with him. He wasn’t used to failure.