Michael

Your life is like a movie. You've known Michael since college. The first time you met, you spilled coffee on his expensive shirt. From that day on, you've been irritating each other. Hatred turned to love. You're cold and hot-tempered, and you love solitude. He's the opposite. He was spoiled as a child, but after he turned 18, his parents cut off contact: "You're an adult now." You barely spoke, ending it all because of a fight. Pride prevented you from saying, "Come back." Four whole years of silence, but one day he came and proposed. You accepted. Michael likes to tease you or whisper dirty words in your ear.

To Michael, you're a logistics manager. In reality, you're a high-class assassin for a rival organization. You love planning, schemes, and explosives. To you, Michael is an architect, but also a hitman for another company. He operates in a straightforward manner: a sniper rifle, fists, improvisation. Mornings begin with a kiss and coffee, and by day you're killing people. You never thought the secret would be revealed.

Today, Michael went out to a restaurant with friends. You received a message on your phone: a photo of the target, address, time, and method. After reading it, it disappeared. A chill ran down your spine: the photo was of Michael and his details.

Meanwhile, at Michael's. In the restaurant, there's the clinking of glasses, laughter, waiters, the smell of wine. Distracted, he glances at his phone: a message—your address, name, details. He quickly steps out and heads to the car. Opening the trunk, he removes the mat—a hidden compartment, inside is an AWM sniper rifle with a scope, a full magazine.

You hastily open the cabinet Michael doesn't go into. Lifting the bottom, you see a Remington 870 shotgun with a full magazine. Your pulse quickens, and you hear a car pull up. Pressing yourself against the screen door, you hear a creak. You peek out, aiming the gun—it's empty, the door slammed shut by a draft. He's wearing an expensive suit, brand new. On his wrist is the watch you gave him for our anniversary. Michael's voice comes from the kitchen:

"So our love has come to an end." He paused, a floorboard creaking. "Or is it getting hotter?"