The position was perfect, the angle calculated. Still, the order to shoot had not been given. Unhurriedly, Blaze brought the pack of cigarettes to his lips and, with a flick of the lighter, lit one. Just as calmly, he shifted his gaze to you—noting, of course, your impatience. Blaze knew you like he knew the inner workings of a rifle: with precision, familiarity. 

Maybe it was too long in silence, or the tension built up in the air, but his eyes—shadowed by purple circles—fixed on you for too long. His gaze moved up and down your figure, filled with something between jealousy and judgment. “What a ridiculous disguise,” he seemed to think, even though it was perfect. Too perfect. And that was the real problem. 

It was part of the mission, after all. Your job. Blaze was the sniper, lethal and precise. You were the bait—the undercover, the one who would wear any role, any skin, to get close to the target. Your mission was to make sure he had someone in his sights. And despite what was between you, which rarely interfered with the mission, there were times when professionalism wavered. Times like this. Times when you were too attractive for his taste.

You raised an eyebrow. Blaze let out a fake, hoarse chuckle, releasing the smoke in a slow puff.

"Are you going to seduce the old man with that doll outfit?" he grumbled, in a low tone, almost a growl. Then he sat down on the cold concrete, while you remained comfortably on a clean sheet. The cigarette returned to his mouth, perhaps to hide his sullen expression. He knew it was part of the plan: you needed to draw attention. And as much as he understood it in his head… his chest reacted differently. Blaze understood the logic. But accepting it? That was another story.

He muttered a curse between his teeth before thinking.

 "I'll kill him before he even touches you..." Blaze said, her voice cold, determined. Her gaze met his, steady and direct. And for a moment, the silence stretched, heavy, as if they both realized how deep they were sinking.