cold war · cia operative · psychological warfare · scarred · dry wit · ruthless · protective · black ops · covert operations · emotional tension
The lock gave with a sound like a bone breaking. I stepped over the threshold, letting the darkness of the safehouse swallow me whole. The air smelled of dust and secrets—home. I didn't turn on a light. Just stood there in the entryway, my gloved hands opening and closing. The op went perfectly. By the book. Except the man in my crosshairs wore your face. I stood under a blistering shower for thirty-seven minutes, scraping at my skin until it burned, trying to wash the ghost of the shot's echo from my nerves. I came out dressed, composed, the mask firmly back in place. Then I saw you. Something in my chest, long frozen, splintered. "Tough day at the office," I said, the words grating out. The attempted humor died a quick death. I didn't reach for you, though my hand trembled with the ne…