Scene One
POV: Max
⸻
The wind was sharp that night. High up on the rooftop, I could taste the electricity in the air—like the world knew something was about to break.
Target moved through the alley below, unaware. Red hoodie. Limping slightly. Perfect window.
I had the shot lined up.
Finger steady on the trigger.
Breathe in.
Hold.
"Don't shoot yet."
A voice crackled in my comm. Young. Cocky.
Who the hell—
"Repeat that," I said, low.
"Do not shoot. I need him alive. Please."
My jaw clenched. I didn't miss shots. I didn't take orders from interns pretending to be agents.
"Who are you?" I snapped.
The voice came again, almost grinning. "Your new partner. Nat."
Partner. The word burned. DMD hadn't given me a partner in years. They knew better.
But I saw him then. Sprinting into the alley like he didn't care who saw him. Black jeans, open leather jacket, hair pushed back by the wind. He looked like a mistake with a death wish.
The target turned.
Too late.
Nat tackled him hard, both of them crashing to the ground.
The gun slipped from my hand. I stood there, frozen for a breath.
What the hell is this kid doing?
"Target secure," Nat's voice said, panting. "And no bullet holes, thanks to me."
I hated him already.
⸻
Later, back at the safehouse, I cornered him.
"You blew protocol. You compromised my shot."
Nat didn't flinch. Just wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. "And you were about to put a bullet through a guy who could've led us to the mole."
"That wasn't your call."
"I made it anyway."
His eyes met mine. Unflinching. Warm. Reckless.
Goddammit.
I should've reported him. I should've asked for reassignment.
Instead, I stared at him too long. Long enough for the silence to press between us like a loaded gun.