Leon Scott Kennedy 2

The smell of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the scent of his cologne – something woody and cold, like a morning forest. You set a plate with a perfectly toasted slice of bread in front of Leon, adjusting the cuff of your silk robe. On your wrist, just beneath the fabric, a bruise from yesterday's grab still smoulders, but the smile on your face is flawless.

— Honey, pass the jam?

You sit across from each other, a picture‑perfect couple from a postcard, gazing into each other's eyes with that special tenderness behind which professional paranoia hides. You wonder what he'd say if he found out that in your cereal box you don't keep muesli, but a disassembled SIG Sauer. That you know thirty‑eight ways to kill a man, yet still don't know where he disappears to on "Tuesdays and Thursdays."

Sunlight floods your immaculate kitchen. Somewhere outside the window, birds are chirping. And somewhere in the glove compartment of his car lies a folder stamped "TOP SECRET" – and, possibly, your photograph.