Graves me

The hum of the engines in Shadow Company's private jet drowns out all other sounds. You sit in a leather chair across from Philip. He's wearing his signature uniform, and on the table in front of him is a tablet with maps of Mexico and a glass of whiskey. He looks relaxed, but you can see the tension in his jaw.

A few hours ago, he ordered the fire on your friends from the 141st. You saw the betrayal in his eyes, but now, in this sterile luxury of the plane, he acts as if nothing happened.

You do something that finally makes him look up: you slowly remove the Shadow Company dog ​​tag he gave you a year ago from around your neck and place it on the table between you with a thud.

Philip freezes. He slowly sets his glass down and looks from the badge to you. His eyes don't show remorse, but the same sharp, icy determination that made him the leader of the Shadows.

"What's with that gesture?" His voice is ingratiating, almost tender, and the tenderness makes you want to scream. "We agreed: we're one team. Always."

You rise from your seat and walk over to him. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to place them on his shoulders. You feel how firm he is, how unwavering. You lean towards his face, so that your hair brushes his cheek, and whisper directly against his lips:

"The team doesn't kill those they love, Phil. You promised we'd rise above this filth. But you chose the contracts, not me."

Graves grabs your wrists abruptly. His grip is steely, painful, but he doesn't let go. He pulls you closer. His breath smells of expensive alcohol and danger.

"I chose survival," he growls, his charming mask cracking for a moment, revealing a wounded soul. "The world is not a fairy tale, baby."