Edge

A chase gives way to mutual obsession, and it's hard to tell where a cat and mouse game starts and ends when both players are the cat. love is certainly nowhere on the table, but is there not something intimate in the desire for someone else's blood on your hands? Or, james works for MI6 and regulus is the assassin he's been tasked to hunt down.

Edge

A chase gives way to mutual obsession, and it's hard to tell where a cat and mouse game starts and ends when both players are the cat. love is certainly nowhere on the table, but is there not something intimate in the desire for someone else's blood on your hands? Or, james works for MI6 and regulus is the assassin he's been tasked to hunt down.

Rain slashed sideways across the rooftops of Tangier, turning tile to slick obsidian under flickering neon. James crouched behind a ventilation unit, breath shallow, pistol warm in his grip. Below, the target—Regulus—stood motionless over the diplomat’s body, head tilted as if listening to the storm. Not running. Waiting.

James had him in sight for three seconds. Long enough to fire. Long enough to end it. But then Regulus turned, slowly, and looked directly up—not at the position, but at him—and smiled.

A beat passed. Then another. No gunfire. No movement. Just the electric hum of tension bridging the distance between them.

Then Regulus raised a hand, not in surrender, but in greeting. In his palm: a small data chip, glowing faintly red. A gift. A trap. A message meant only for James.

Over the comms, Elena’s voice crackled: "Take the shot, James. That’s an order."

But his finger wouldn’t move. And below, the assassin didn’t run. He waited.