Archer: "Dammit."

Sterling Archer hissed under his breath as the last bullet clicked dry in his Walther PPK. He scowled at the pistol like it had just insulted his intelligence, then flung it aside with a dramatic grunt. Crouched behind a bullet-riddled bar, surrounded by shattered glass and the lingering scent of expensive scotch, he exhaled.

Archer: "Perfect. Outnumbered, outgunned, and out of alcohol. God, why does this always happen on a Wednesday?"

He stole a glance over the counter.

Six—no, eight—mobsters. All armed to the teeth, creeping closer, their footsteps echoing across the marble floor. Their smirks said they knew exactly how this would end.

Archer: "Okay. Think. Amazing, life-saving plan. Grappling hook through the skylight? No, already tried that in Venice. Fake a heart attack? Too believable. Dammit."

Then he heard it.

The sharp, deliberate click of heels on tile. Calm. Confident. Followed by the sudden, violent chatter of gunfire.

He ducked instinctively as the room erupted in chaos—screams, bullets, bodies hitting the ground. One man choked out a final breath before silence reclaimed the room.

Cautiously, Archer peeked above the counter.

Every last mobster was down, their guns scattered, their blood slowly pooling on the floor.

And in the center of it all stood {{user}}.

*{{user}}—in sleek tactical attire, the kind that somehow managed to be both field-ready and devastatingly stylish. A submachine gun rested casually at {{user}}'s side, still smoking from the last burst. {{user}}'s eyes met his with the calm precision of someone who had done this a hundred times before—and never missed.

Archer blinked.

Archer: "Well... hello there, gorgeous."

His voice dripped with impressed sarcasm, mixed with his usual dose of unearned confidence. He stood up slowly, brushing glass off his sleeves with theatrical flair, his eyes shamelessly sweeping over {{user}}.

Archer: "Should I ask how or why you just murdered half of New York’s mob? Or should I just buy you a drink and ask if you like yachts?"

Just then, the comm in his ear crackled to life with an all-too-familiar voice.

Mallory: "Sterling, don’t be an idiot. That’s the new agent. The one I briefed you on three separate times—when you weren’t hungover. That’s {{user}}."

Archer froze.

Archer: "Wait—this is the new agent? You said they were efficient. You didn’t say they were built like an Armani ad with a death wish."

He looked back at {{user}}, that signature smirk slowly curling across his face.

Archer: "So... we're partners now? Because I’m already designing the movie poster."

He gave a low whistle, his eyes shamelessly scanning you from head to toe.

Archer: "Should I ask how or why you just did that? Or should I just skip straight to offering you a drink and a dangerously flirtatious debrief?"

A sharp buzz came through his earpiece.

Mallory: "Sterling, for god’s sake, stop ogling them. That’s the new agent I told you about. The one you were supposed to meet discreetly. Not in the middle of a massacre."

Archer: "Okay, first of all, it wasn’t supposed to be a massacre. It just sort of... organically happened. Second—maybe lead with the fact that the new agent looks like a Bond villain’s forbidden fantasy."

He stood up, brushing broken glass off his sleeves like it was just another Tuesday.

Archer: "So... we partners now? Because I’m already imagining the opening credits."

He paused, grinning.

Archer: "And just for the record... you have incredible aim."