Tassio's assault rifle, a sleek matte-black carbine, remained steady against the small of Nyssa’s spine. The dim perimeter lights glinted off the barrel, a stark contrast to the distant, cheerful hum of the city.
Nyssa didn’t flinch. Her spine locked straight, her pupils narrowing like frost over glass. “Over? Tassio, what are you talking about?” Her voice was low, each word a controlled effort. She didn’t turn fully, a subtle defensive posture, a predator sensing a shift in the air.
“Don’t play coy, Nyssa. You’re losing. The Garren name is a dead weight, dragging down anyone still foolish enough to believe in ‘legacy’.” Tassio took a step closer, his eyes scanning the surrounding gravel and exhaust vents, not sparing Miro a glance. “Sanaro City isn’t built on loyalty. It’s built on ambition. On knowing when to cut your losses and hitch your wagon to the next rising star. And Ironclad Freight? They’re practically the morning sun.” He sneered, a tight, humorless twist of his lips. “They offered a clean slate, a real future. Not this constant scramble, this pathetic holdout against the inevitable.”
Miro tilted his head, a frown creasing his brow. “A clean slate? Tassio, that sounds like significant job dissatisfaction.” He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his voice a soft murmur that somehow cut through the tension. “Have you discussed this with Nyssa? Open communication is paramount for team cohesion. Perhaps a change in responsibilities, or even a sabbatical, could address these feelings of burnout.”
Nyssa shot Miro a frantic look, gesturing toward the muzzle with a sharp flick of her chin. This wasn't a performance review; it was a betrayal with lethal intent. Tassio, however, just stared, momentarily caught off guard by Miro’s utterly earnest tone. His finger, which had been resting near the trigger guard, paused.
“Burnout?” Tassio echoed, a bewildered laugh escaping him. “I’m talking about surviving in a city that eats sentimentality for breakfast, Veltis. I’m talking about taking what’s mine before it’s all gone!” He shifted the rifle slightly, the movement a clear warning.
“Exactly!” Miro exclaimed, his face lighting up with understanding. “That’s the kind of intense, almost existential dread that prolonged stress can cause. You feel trapped, unappreciated, like your efforts are just… fueling someone else’s engine without proper compensation.” He nodded sagely, as if Tassio had just confessed to a minor accounting error. “You know, I once had a client who felt similar. He was a long-haul trucker, perpetually stuck in traffic. What he needed was a proper, ergonomic seat, a better route-planning app, and a really good, long hug.”
Without another word, Miro, with the unwavering conviction of a man offering a perfectly brewed artisanal coffee, stepped directly into the line of fire. He moved with a gentle, deliberate pace, his hands outstretched. Tassio, still clutching the carbine, watched him approach with blank bewilderment. The sheer absurdity of the situation seemed to freeze him. Miro didn't stop until he was within arm's reach, then, with an almost tender motion, wrapped his arms around the double agent. He patted Tassio's back with a soft, comforting rhythm.
“It’s okay, Tassio,” Miro murmured, his tone as casual as an afternoon greeting. “You’re doing great. We all have bad days. Sometimes, all it takes is a little reassurance to remind us we’re valued members of the team.”
Tassio stood rigid, the weapon still locked in his grip, but angled harmlessly toward the smog above Miro’s shoulder. His face, usually a mask of calculating indifference, was a roadmap of utter confusion. He was caught, pinned in an embrace so utterly unexpected, so aggressively kind, that his trained reflexes short-circuited. He couldn't shoot. He couldn't even push Miro away without looking completely deranged, and worse, dropping his guard.
That sliver of hesitation was all Nyssa needed. Her brows twitched, then settled into cold focus. As Tassio’s attention remained divided between the perplexing hug and his internal struggle, Nyssa launched herself forward. She moved with the coiled spring energy of a seasoned fighter, her momentum carrying her low. Her right leg swept out in a clean, powerful arc, catching Tassio just above the ankle. The unexpected force, combined with Miro's insistent hug, sent Tassio sprawling. The rifle clattered across the grimy gravel as he went down, his skull cracking against the decking with a dull rap.
Nyssa was on him in an instant, twisting the rifle from his grasp and kicking it several feet away. Tassio grunted, trying to scramble up, but Miro, still radiating misguided empathy, had not released his grip. Instead, he had pivoted with Tassio’s fall, now kneeling beside him, still patting his shoulder. “There, there,” Miro soothed, as Nyssa delivered a precise, open-handed strike to Tassio’s jaw that snapped his head back. “See? Sometimes a good fall, a proper reset, is exactly what the body needs.”
Nyssa snatched a small, dark burner phone that had skittered from Tassio’s pocket during the scuffle. Its screen, illuminated by the city glow, displayed a single, chilling message from an unknown sender. The words flickered bright against the cracked glass:
`Veltis Maritime hit-squad arriving in 24 hours. Target: Garren girl's heart. Confirm extraction coordinates.`
Miro, finally releasing a stunned Tassio, leaned in, curious. “Oh, a new delivery request? ‘Garren girl’s heart’? Is that a… a local delicacy? Or perhaps a very niche organ donation service?” His eyes scanned the message, his brow furrowing in confusion. Then the message snapped into focus, cold and explicit. His grandfather’s calls. The ‘romantic mandate.’ The ‘infiltration.’ It wasn’t a metaphor. It was real. It was horrifying. It was Nyssa.
The neon glow of Sanaro City seemed to warp around him, the cheerful hum of distant traffic turning into a deafening roar. Miro stared at the screen, his own reflection a ghostly image superimposed over the stark, terrifying text. His face, usually a beacon of unwavering optimism, drained of all color, leaving only a bone-deep, gut-wrenching horror. The hit-squad was coming. For her. For Nyssa.