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Orange clouds filling out a purple sky, grape fields below elegantly sloping Argentinian mountains, a landscape of wealth and reputation. A neatly paved path separated him from the mansion, but it was visible in the distance, Mediterranean roofing and arches and all. It wasn’t exactly the tasteless opulence of the Burj Al-Ghazali, or the intimidating extravagance of the Palais de Walewska, but like any location he had been previously sent to, the looming threat of its powerful inhabitants weighed down on him. It was even worse, perhaps, because she was here. Diana.
She stood on the balcony, the gleaming image of grace and decorum. Gloved fingers rested gently on the railing, standing close, but not close enough to the edge, he noticed, she knew better after watching him work for so many years. Her hair was pinned into its usual chignon, the colour particularly pretty against the warm evening sun. She was lovely, he ached.
Steady steps, not too loud to draw attention but not so quiet as to seem out of place approached her - the key to blending in was staying just out of reach but in plain sight. Tonight, he was just another party guest hiding no ulterior motives whatsoever.
He recognised her perfume immediately. She had worn the familiar scent in oh so many clandestine meetings. Heavy and warm and musky, it soothed him to have her near. He leaned onto the railing, somewhat awkwardly, turning to face her.
“You got my message,” her voice was sultry, with fond, plummy vowels as she met his gaze. How he had missed her eyes, always so cunning and brilliant. She would raise her pencilled eyebrows when teasing and purse her lips as he’d return some almost equally witty comment. He could only ever steal glances, rarely seeing her face to face under ICA protocol, but that was over now, he could look all he wanted after the job was done.
“You’d never get caught on camera, not unless you wanted to be seen,” he explained, and seen she most certainly was. He noticed her dress had a long slit up the leg, a bold choice considering Diana’s usual wardrobe of conservative cuts and colours mundane enough to disappear within a crowd and be taken seriously by men twice her age with half of her IQ, but naturally perfectly tailored, because it’s her. “So what’s the play?”
“You’re not the only one who’s been busy, 47,” her tone was fierce, defending an honour he never attempted to insult, “I’m this close to becoming the next constant, I’ll be able to dismantle Providence from the inside,” this had been the goal, had it not? It seemed odd now, with Grey gone and Olivia in hiding, and Diana having joined Providence, purely undercover, he hoped. “Only one man stands in my way - Don Yates. That weasel was the Partners’ legal counsel for years, he’s the top candidate, but remove him from the playing field- ”
“It won’t work,” it couldn’t, Edwards wasn’t stupid. He could piece the puzzle together. “If Edwards suspects- “
“I will convince him you acted alone, retaliation for Grey, trust me, I know what I’m doing,” a request of his trust was comical, he had sworn his fidelity long ago, that was the nature of their relationship. He wondered when her voice had gotten rougher, harsher. It was not the same voice purring excitedly in his ear as he pushed Margolis off a balcony onto Novikov.
“The Herald, Tamara Vidal - she has eyes everywhere, and they’re all fixed on you. The plan won’t work unless we take her out,”
“She never leaves my sight for long,” she mused, “whatever your plan is,” she turned to face him once more, the sun stroking her cheeks, eyes glinting with an emotion he couldn’t quite read, “I’ll help you if I can.” The idea sounded promising, he had always wondered what it would be like to have Diana there with him as he worked, though at the time the premise seemed absurd to even consider as she would whisper instructions into his ear, miles away from him, behind airports and screens and encrypted data. Still, she was here now, and this was real, they were close, so close to destroying Providence, and then everything would go back to normal.
“You’re sure about this?”
“As sure as I’ll ever be,” her hand reached out to his, a gentle stroke of leather fingers. She rarely touched him, either confident she understood him better than she really did, or just following ICA guidelines. She didn’t know he had spent nights thinking of her touch, wondering how her skin would feel against his own. He hadn’t expected the feeling to be so strange, so painful, her touch practically seeping into him. “Here, I got you an invitation,” she held out the sleek card, her posture illuminated from behind, “just like old times,” her smile lines were clear, pretty, lifting up supple cheeks. Any doubts of her were immediately dispelled, their success had always ultimately depended on his implicit trust and unwavering loyalty to her. She had risked her life, and her career (though often it seemed the two were one and the same) for him over and over again, she wouldn’t, couldn’t hurt him. He picked up the invitation, swiftly tucking it into his front pocket. The final look for now, he had a job to fulfil, and he could not disappoint, “come find me when it’s done, good luck 47.”
Mendoza was a beautiful city, and the mansion clearly a specimen of excellency. Perhaps he could retire in a place like this if things were different. For now, retirement was out of the question. There was a job to do, the question was how to go about it?
He had always taken it upon himself to impress Diana, but this was the first time she was with him in the field, she deserved a good show. The first kill was practically done for him. When eavesdropping revealed the opportunity to disguise himself as Corvo Black and be taken on a tour of the winery with Diana and Vidal, he wasted no time tracking down the man and choking him unconscious. The beret would certainly thrill his handler somewhat. He soon had the pleasure of meeting his first target face to face. Vidal was a short, stout woman, with sun-tanned skin and bleached hair. She walked proudly, and talked loudly, the gestures of a politician permanently imprinted on her. He could have easily eliminated her with the industrial grape presser, but he felt it too violent, especially with Diana next to him. After concluding the tour, a sommelier disguise and a bottle of 1945 Grand Paladin was all it took to get into a private meeting with both targets and Diana. After 47’s convincing presentation of the wine, Yates started a speech he seemed all too proud to give.
“This wine was gifted to me by the Ark Society in acknowledgement of my firm’s legal services. It stands as a powerful reminder that Providence draws its strength not from force, but from partnership. We are but a few - and yet together, we are unstoppable, because we stand united. My friends, loyalty is everything, which is why,” he pointed at Diana with an outstretched hand, “we cannot allow traitors into our ranks.”
“Ah, yes. Here it comes,” she sighed,
“This woman has waged bloody war on us,” Yates argued. “More than a dozen Heralds and operatives – dead. Your colleagues and clients, my friend - Ken Morgan, not to mention the Partners themselves - our founders, our benefactors,” he paused. “Make no mistake, this woman’s hands are soaked in blood. Our blood! And Arthur Edwards, the new supreme head of Providence is handing her the keys to the kingdom! Now does that seem right to you, my friends? Does that sound like loyalty?”
Mutterings of agreement stretched a scorn onto Diana’s face.
“Perhaps Edwards simply recognises talent when he sees it,” she was bold, her voice booming through the room, “perhaps this is why I am also in the running to become Constant, and following this childish outburst, I dare say I am in the lead, Don,” she spat his name like it was garbage, gasps spreading across the table.
“You’re lying, of course,” Yates gave her a tight smirk, “which only proves my point. You cannot be trusted, Miss Burnwood. This woman will be our downfall,” he promised, “that is, unless we take matters into our own hands.” A devious smile. “You are Heralds, sworn to protect Providence against all threats, including inside ones. I have devised a plan. Together, we can make it work, but you have to decide now, my friends. Are you with me?”
The gathered Heralds all gave their own confirmation, Vidal getting visibly uncomfortable.
“Listen to yourselves!” She began in protest, hitting her fists against the ancient table, a true politician. “Don Yates is not even appointed Constant yet and already he conspires to betray his master? I don’t pretend to understand Edwards’ every move, but I do know that this man is an opportunist and unworthy of office,” she pointed towards Yates.
“Then you are a traitor to the Heralds,” he deduced. “The room is against you, Tamara, stand down now or share her fate,” his gaze switched to an apathetic Diana. Her fate? 47’s blood thickened at the thought. Yates only created more reasons to conclude this mission far more violently than necessary.
“Edwards will hear about this,” Vidal crossed her arms defiantly, a confrontation, a promise.
“I think not,” his voice seeped with venom, “I am sorry,” he wasn’t, “but you brought this on yourself,” he turned to his bodyguard, “Mr Cortázar?” Yates turned his back as the Herald was shot, her limp body hitting the floor, the other Providence members jumping aback at the sight of blood spilling from the woman's blonde head. That was one target dealt with. “Escort Miss Burnwood to my office. I’ll join you shortly,” Yates clenched his hands, one thumb smoothing over the other.
Diana got up before the guard approached her, with all the confidence of a Sanguine model, which seemingly annoyed Yates. Cortázar struck her with a baton, 47’s chest tightening. Just a baton, non-lethal, but seeing his cherished handler be forcefully pushed to the floor, clutching her cheek from the impact solidified that he would allow himself to abandon the idea of a clean hit, with no collateral damage.
“Right, move it. Let’s go.” It was tempting to run over and stab him there and then, to push him to the floor and batter his head in with the nearest empty bottle, but he couldn’t ruin all of their hard work now. Diana held herself up on the floor, clearly shaken but unwilling to give Yates the satisfaction of witnessing her in anything but collected composure.
“I’m warning you, Yates. This will not go your way,” she declared, and she meant every word, whether Yates knew it or not. She followed the guard, perfect poise and pride intact and all, despite the reddish bruise on her left cheek.
“We need to get our stories straight,” this should be good, “Diana Burnwood died today by the hand of her rogue Agent 47.” Ironic. 47 zoned out, Yates continuing to drone on meant nothing when Diana’s life would be taken in 10 minutes. 10 minutes. More than enough time to help her escape, probably. There was no other option. Climbing up a set of stairs and a drainpipe was no challenge, and he found himself on the balcony just outside the room where Diana was being held hostage. One guard subdued, his body hidden in a chest, a disguise stolen, and he was in.
The office was fairly spacious, cream walls, tiled floors, cleaning supplies already laid out, Yates having planned the murder beforehand.
“Took you long enough,” Diana teased, “quick, clear the floor. Yates won’t be long,” she stood in the middle of the room with her arms crossed, as though she had full control over the situation, which, admittedly, wasn’t far from the truth. The guards were quickly taken care of – he found one leaning on the balcony and the other in the bathroom, their bodies efficiently disposed of in nearby dumpsters or closets. Diana smiled as he entered the room once more, “good, I was beginning to worry,” she admitted. It sounded like a line from a movie, something some distant, fictional woman would say. While it was understandable for her to be concerned, Diana had never previously doubted his skills, and he couldn’t help but ponder over the implication.
“Were you?”
“No,” she deadpanned, “listen up, 47,” she waltzed over to the desk in the corner, the necklace on her back glistening in the light from outside. Her composure was certainly impressive, though she had never disappointed on that front. “Yates will be here shortly, he’ll have his thug Cortázar do his dirty work but he won’t pass up the chance for a good gloat and a monologue,” she picked up the letter opened, observing it briefly before tucking it into her glove.
“So, private space, kill room décor…” he began, a hint of a smile creeping onto his face. Diana gave a single nod.
“Exactly. We won’t get another shot at this,” she placed a slender arm on her hip, radiating confidence, a woman in control. “Now sit down and blend in - when I provide a distraction you just be ready to move,”
He sat down near Diana, posture perfect, silverballer in hand. The fire crackled near him gently, he could hear Yates’ footsteps approaching, along with frustrated mutterings to Corvo over the phone that wouldn’t be returned until someone finally discovered his unconscious body in a lavender field. Yates approached Diana, crinkly footsteps on the plastic cover that he hoped would save his lavish floors from being painted with the woman’s blood. His bodyguards stood nearby obediently.
“Miss Burnwood,” he approached her with a glory unmatched, a man celebrating his victory. His hands formed a triumphant triangle.
“You rolled out the red carpet just for me? Don, you shouldn’t have,” she gave him a teasing smile, calm, collected, arms crossed neatly behind her back.
“So confident, even in defeat,” Yates marvelled, returning a glance of mock respect, “I suppose you’re not used to danger, always hiding behind your screens,” he’s not the first to mistake her profound confidence for naivety. He paced back and forth, revelling in his power. “Just tell me one thing before we part ways,” he faced her.
“Why me,” she concluded.
“Why you? Why would Edwards trust you?” Diana gave a knowing nod, the man struggled to contain his frustration, “please, it will keep me awake at night and I’m sixty-five. I get up four times to piss as it is,”
“Oh, it’s simple really. Edwards is proud,” she announced, at which Yates crossed his arms. He stopped pacing, intrigued. The warm light looked funny on his forehead, furrowed brows and a surprising lack of wrinkles that could only mean Botox. “He considers himself the cleverest man alive and yet we tricked him on Isle of Sgail and its eating him up. He needs to win - full, unequivocal victory. My recruitment was just the feather in his cap.” Yates seemed to contemplate this, his moustache twitching as he tapped his fingers against his sleeve. “By the way,” she added, her voice with that familiar hint of mischief, the sparkle in her eyes when she knew she had won, “you were right about one thing,”
Yates strutted up to Diana, pointing a thick, wrinkly finger at her, “yeah? I’m all ears,” he taunted.
She steadied him by the shoulder with one hand and stuck the letter opener into him with the other. The sound of flesh being hit, as Yates staggers back and falls to the ground, hands gripping his torso. All it took was two bullets – one to a chandelier, the other a headshot, and the guards were gone.
“Turns out this woman will be your downfall,” she utters, as Yates is barely lifting himself up in a growing pool of his own blood. How thoughtful of him to have planned ahead with the plastic carpet.
“What are you doing, you asshole? Don’t just stand there, shoot her!” He’s pleading to 47 now, to no avail of course – it seems he still hasn’t figured it out as shattered grunts and curses are spilling from his mouth.
“I will be Constant now, and I will make it my mission to tear down Providence, brick by brick,” Diana enunciates each word, standing over Yates now, a silky, sculpted pillar, and 47 thinks if he were dying her voice would be the last thing he’d want to hear too, taunting or not. “Finish it,” she turns to 47, who kneels down by Yates’ side, and removing the letter opener from his guts, stabs him through his skull to complete the job. Diana looks pleased, her smile once more pleasant, the one she saves only for him, “well done, 47. Better get rid of the body. Won’t be long before they come looking.” He stashes the 3 bodies in closets respectively; funny how they’re always empty, as though ready to cover up his dirty work. It’s only dirty morally, of course, his expertise is unmatched, messes are only ever created on purpose. “When you’re done, meet me on the dance floor,” it’s a command, not an offer, and though he doesn’t quite understand her plan he trusts her to have one. She always does. Their eyes meet and she scans him up and down with a teasing smirk, “Oh, and… dress appropriately,”
She’s there when he’s walking down the stairs, his pace perfectly controlled and calculated as usual. The band has picked up a rhythm – the tango, and he gulps, not even in his wildest dreams had he thought that they would ever dance together, not in public, not on a mission, with the sun setting and her standing tall and composed, watched by Providence members and party guests alike, yet only seen by him. Her perfume beckons him, come closer, and her arms are folded behind her back. She’s smiling as he meets her eyes, playing the part flawlessly, a look of pure admiration towards him, as though it were real.
It’s not, her reminds himself, this is all for show. He approaches her, hoping his classic suit will suffice. It’s nothing new, but it’s safe – it fits him perfectly and Diana has always appreciated the subtle poetic symbolism of a burgundy tie.
“47,” she greets, her hand looking rather lonely as its outstretched towards him. He accepts, naturally, going over the steps in his head. Dance classes from something like a decade ago have prepared him to blend in effectively, courtesy of Diana herself, still, it’s different now. She’s here. She places her other hand on his shoulder as he holds her waist, and he immediately wishes he hadn’t worn gloves. To simply feel the fabric of her dress under his fingertips would be enough, but he’s here now, and he has to live in the moment, savour this, and catalogue every moment away for later, as another memory of her to hold onto when days are long and talks are brief, nights are cold and he’s lying on a firm mattress in a safehouse half a world away from her.
And it’s perfect, in a way. They fit well, look like the kind of couple that deserves to take the spotlight, so playing the part comes naturally. She could be some housewife and he some militant husband, or a political power couple, perhaps a result of some premeditated, arranged marriage – and its believable, at this party a woman like her belongs on the arm of a man like him. It’s strange too, because its new, and he’s never touched her like this, never been this close, seen her in this magnificent detail, the slight tint to her cheeks, the softness of her lips, the sun in her eyes. It’s the best and it’s the worst, she’s so close to him, yet so far. If he kissed her now, how would she react?
The thought intrudes, and it runs cold down his spine. Looks are deceitful, and he doesn’t belong here. This isn’t real, it’s all a show, a cover. He’s completed the job, and she’s invited him to dance for some reason that he feels best not to question, so what happens now?
“It’s done, now what?” he refuses to make eye contact. It would be too much, with her dipping neckline and smooth clavicles, little freckles decorating her slender arms, not to mention the way she’s looking at him; hungry, indulgent, the polar opposite of his detached glance into the distance.
“Now, we strike at the heart,” she leans in as she speaks to him, and her breath tickles on his neck. She seems to enjoy putting his resolute self-control to the test. He decides one glance can’t hurt, so he turns to her, studies her expression. She’s not exactly encouraging, more so teasing, surveying the people behind him, denying him the satisfaction, a challenge, an invitation to indulge.
“Edwards - you know how to find him, don’t you?”
“Why, Edwards finds you, 47,” her eyebrows jump, she’s ever so charismatic, and she’s putting on a show, but not for the crowd this time, it’s for him, just out of range for anyone else to hear, “he is untraceable, and he never lets you forget it. He is cocky, and that will be his downfall.”
“What’s the plan?” it comes out low, and almost frustrated, but he struggles to conduct himself as elegantly as she does herself, she must understand. Her radiant shoulders rise as she takes a breath.
“Too many eyes. Meet me at the olive grove at sunset. One last tango, 47.”
She’s there when he arrives. For a while, he just stands, observes from the distance. She fits here perfectly, cradled by the sun, lavender by her feet, in warm Argentina. Sure, she could blend in perfectly at a party, confidently conversing with wealthy guests, but he thought it was here, in this serene solitude where she really belonged. Coming closer, he could see she clearly didn’t feel at home one bit. Her posture was tense, her jaw clenched, and she sighed uncomfortably, looking out at the celebration below. Away from the eyes of the party guests, he knows what he has to do. She’s joined Providence; an impressive manoeuvre, but one that must have required some unscrupulous deal.
He cocks his gun and points at her head. Its familiar, and ironic as she nods her head, as if to acknowledge his presence, and the nature of this act. So what if the worst has happened? They both know he won’t shoot.
“How did you know?” Her voice is low, there’s a note of something there, and it’s not defeat, not curiosity, but some kind of sick understanding.
“Your deal. That kind of power always comes with a price. What’s yours?” As the words leave his mouth, he feels it going dry. There is only one answer, and he doesn’t want to hear it. She’s his handler, his ally, his friend - she was in his arms just over 30 minutes ago, and now she’s a world away.
“I think you know,” she admits, turning to face him. Her voice is sinister, and her shoulders are back, it’s not with confidence this time, but the posture of a child caught misbehaving. She’s strangely timid, and he hates the implication.
Providence agents reveal themselves from amongst the olive trees. So it’s true. Grey was right. She lied to him in his arms, and his blind obedience was finally used against him. Pointing his gun at the guards as a threat, he considered his chances. He has fought larger numbers off before, and he could take cover behind the olive trees, but what then? Where would he return with the ICA gone and Diana abandoning him?
“I am sorry,” she recites, and it isn’t sincere. Her voice is cruel, and beautiful, and he hates that he ever came here in the first place. “This is a necessary evil,” he watches intensely as she presses a remote, and he feels his blood passing him by, his heart clenching with nothing to hold onto. She’s unapologetic, posture tight, not with the collectedness of before, but the stance of winner.
“What have you done?” He chokes out as his limbs go weak, and he’s on his knees now, in front of her, clutching his chest, and he can’t die now, not here, not by her hands, not when Providence still exists, and she’s used him all along. He feels stupid to have trusted her, stupid that he’s still convinced that this is one of her elaborate schemes, because minutes, only minutes ago, she had let him touch her properly for the first time, but it makes sense as he thinks about it, it was all just to reel him in, just to leave him at his worst, when he had outlived his usefulness to her.
“Ether brand neurotoxin. Transfers by touch. See, Edwards learns by his mistakes, 47,” her voice is muddled, and everything is shaking, his head aches uncontrollably, he rolls onto his back, and she watches from above, “and as you’ve clearly demonstrated, brute force is futile.” Her face is twisted into a scorn, and he doesn’t like it. This isn’t the Diana he knows. In his dying minutes he twists and turns and wishes that it had been any other Providence operative to kill him, and that she, despite her betrayal, would kneel by his side, whimpering words of comfort, horrified by the idea of living without him, a death with the promise of her devotion, like the couple of times he had been hurt on a mission and needed extracting. It’s like she knows what he’s thinking, and she probably does, having studied him closely for decades. “It had to be me,” she explains, “it was the only way-”
“…to get this close,” his voice is heavy with the dryness of his throat, but he understands. How long has she been a part of this? Did she know from the beginning? Has every word, every promise been a lie? There are too many questions and there is no time, he can feel his body closing down, and she just stands and looks on. Always one for poetic justice, this must be a spectacular display for her.
“My family,” she begins, bitter, simple, and his chest tightens. She knows. Of course, she knows, and the anger disappears immediately. She has every right to hate him, to kill him like this, it’s only fair. He only wishes he could have told her himself. “I know what you did,” the confirmation, like a receipt to a personal hell. “After all these years, I finally know,” she kicks him, though it isn’t painful, not a demonstration of violence or physical strength, but her dominance and authority. Her heel simply brushes his shoulder, and it feels right, though the sticks below scratch his head, and he lays sprung out uncomfortably. He hopes when he’s dead she will at last get the satisfaction of having avenged her parents. It’s stupid to consider now, but there was a time when he truly believed that he would tell her before anyone else, and she would have been forgiving, understanding. She always understood him. He believed he would tell her, and she wouldn’t hate him, nor push him away, having metabolised the trauma long ago, understanding that he had no control over the matter, and they would move on, stronger than ever. He doesn’t deserve her kindness, this is a truth he must face now, but in his dying moments he owes her everything, and he wishes he was some poet so he could utter all his incoherent thoughts and promises and apologies better, and prove his humanity, like he has tried to for decades. She’s betrayed him now, but she has every right to, and though he wants to be angry, he only feels the deep anguish of her standing above, taunting him in all her murderous beauty, her hatred running deep, strong, releasing after years of concealment behind sweet whispers of passion and respect.
“I am sorry,” it’s weak, and he’s dying, but it’s true, and it’s all he can say right now. He would do anything to turn back time, to tell her when he should have, on the yacht all those months ago, back when Edwards was within their grasp, a nuisance, the hint of a distant threat rather than the wicked force they are up against now. No, no, he’s won. No one’s against him. Diana was always on his side. It’s over.
“You didn’t have a choice,” she reasons, and it’s what he wants to hear. Her face looks angelic now, the sun like a halo, and it’s funny, how in this very moment, as she takes his life, he still thinks of her as the one who loved him. “I did – Providence used you, but I’m no better.” The world is caving in around him, and everything hurts. He knows she’s right, she always is, she’s used him, but he doesn’t care, he wishes she would use him for longer, that he could continue to live in the comfortable, ignorant bliss he had lived in for years. “All I saw was a blank slate, a weapon to wield,” she continues to deride him and it’s strange, because nothing feels real, because this is so unlike anything she has ever told him, but it’s everything he’s always feared. He doesn’t want to believe that she means what she’s saying, because all these years she has shown him nothing but kindness and respect, but she’s used him, and it makes sense, “I told myself it was what you needed, but, people aren’t meant to be controlled,” she’s right, of course, and it hurts. Neither of them had ever said it before, both always seemingly comfortable in their strange dynamic, but facing the truth was inevitable, and of course she would confirm it when he’s dying. Now his throat is tight, and he’s struggling to breathe, but she’s leaning down, kneeling by his side, hands on the coarse ground beside him. He has to stay alive, hear her final words, he prays as his time runs out that she will give in somehow, comfort him, and if she does he has to be able to experience it as fully as his weakened senses will allow. She’s leaning over him, and she’s close, warm, like before, her breath on his face, his mind drowsy in her intimate scent, and it’s nice, an escape from the destruction his body is going through, though he can’t be fully sure that she’s real. Her lips are so close, and she’s evil, she knows what he wants and is mocking him - if only he could reach up ever so slightly-
“This,” she whispers, and he shivers, “is a kindness.” But it’s not, his heart throbs, it’s his worst fears come to life, by the hand of the one he trusts most. He yearns that she would lie to him, hopes she could pretend she loves him for just a second longer, so he could rest with at least the invented memory of her tenderness. Human affection was a funny thing, in that way; when you’ve lived your whole life without it, it was easy to turn it down, ignore it and label it as some plaything for others who are ignorant to the realities of life to enjoy, but when you’ve been exposed to the horrid phenomenon, you live your whole life only craving more.
He’s helpless, stretched out on the floor, in this primitive, dreamlike state, where nothing feels real but hurts oh so deep. Silently he begs for her to fulfil his dying wish, to close the 22-year gap between them in a chaste kiss, but Providence has their eyes everywhere and she has made her choice, picked her side, and he is, no, was just a tool for her to manipulate, she never wanted him like this, and she certainly doesn’t want him now.
“Goodbye, agent,” she spits, but her soft breath feels angelic, a prayer, the last words he hears before the toxins take over.