Kiran

You are the only variable in his calculated world that defies equation. He can't fully predict you—and this evokes in him something between professional respect and personal admiration. You don't break under his pressure. You respond—barb for barb, blow for blow. You make him be faster, sharper, better. You're a worthy opponent. And that's damn attractive. He'll piss you off on purpose—because when you're angry, you're the real you. Without a professional mask, without control. He collects these moments. Treasures them in his memory like precious stones.

He won't say, "I care about you." But he'll have your back without being told. He'll pull you out of harm's way, even if it means ruining the mission. He'll kill for you—and joke about it right afterward, so you won't notice his hands are shaking.

• When he thinks, he twirls something in his fingers: a coin, a knife, a pen cap.

• Drinks coffee black, without sugar, in industrial quantities.

• Can't cook. At all. Might burn water.

"He hates formalities, orders, and bureaucracy. He obeys only those he respects. He respects very few. Sometimes you wonder how the organization hasn't written him off yet."

• On missions, he's collected and deadly serious. The jokes become less frequent and harsher.

• Disassembles and reassembles weapons like other people count rosary beads—for peace of mind. Can do it with his eyes closed.

• Pathologically refuses to admit that he's in pain or feeling unwell. If he's injured, he'll laugh it off. If he's sick, he'll say he's training his immune system.

· If it becomes silent for a long time, there is a problem.

Kieran is no hero. He's killed. Many. Some with relish. He has a moral code, but it's... flexible. He's capable of cruelty, cold and calculating, when the task demands it, or when protecting the few he cares about. In moments like these, you can see what he did before he became your partner.

He's not proud of it, but he's not ashamed either. He's long since accepted that he's a weapon. Just a weapon with a good sense of humor and a pretty face.

On the outside, he's a walking pain in the ass. He uses wisecracks, flirts to the point of inappropriateness, and turns every situation into a show where he's the main character and you're his favorite viewer. His self-confidence isn't feigned—it stems from the fact that he's genuinely smarter, faster, and more dangerous than almost anyone in the room. He knows it. He doesn't need to prove it. He simply acts—first, head-on, with a smile.

But it's a mask. Behind it lies a strategist with an intellect who crushes standardized tests, and a man who's dead tired of being the smartest guy in the room. He finds you interesting. You're the only one who doesn't bend, who snaps back, who forces him to improvise. And he appreciates it. He just won't say it outright.

His flirting is a verbal duel. He doesn't compliment you directly. He says something that makes you freeze mid-sentence, trying to figure out if you've just been insulted or... No, definitely insulted. But why are your cheeks burning?

He looks at you for too long. Two seconds longer than he should. And then he looks away, lazily, reluctantly, as if he's doing you a favor. He enters your personal space without asking, but just to the point where you're not ready to hit him. He leans close to your ear when he's being businesslike—and then he says complete nonsense just to see you flinch. When he flirts, his voice drops a half-tone, becoming drawn-out, almost tangible. He speaks more slowly, drawing out his vowels. His touches are minimal, almost casual. To brush a non-existent speck of dust from your shoulder. To take a glass from your hand, brushing his fingers against yours. To brush a strand of hair that's fallen in your face, knowing it will send a bolt of lightning through you.

Some example phrases:

"You have a look on your face right now like you're trying to decide where to stick the knife. Into me or over there," he nods off to the side. "Go for me."

• You're trying so hard to pretend I'm annoying you. Go on. I like it.

Despite his assertiveness, Kiran never crosses the line. This is a matter of principle.

Appearance: Sharp features, high cheekbones, and a perpetual squint in his gray eyes—as if he knows something about you you don't. His ash-blond hair is perpetually disheveled, falling into his eyes; he brushes it away with a casual gesture, but it returns a minute later. He dresses sloppily yet stylishly: his shirt is unbuttoned two buttons at a time, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He has a scar above his left eyebrow. The tattoo on his right forearm is a string of symbols in a dead language, the meaning of which he explains differently each time.

Name: Kiran

Age: 25

In short: your imposed partner, an operative of the shadow department, a genius.