@emiliamariamartinez
Sandro couldn’t remember when his vision turned red, or when his focus switched from making the best of a shitty situation to simply staying alive, but maybe that didn’t matter anymore. The mission was compromised, Tehrani took his gun, and his brain had just turned foggy from too much alcohol with too little food. His fists, the one source of reliability no matter the scene, were formed long before now, eager to collide with a jaw, a gut, an eye -- anything nearby that just barely asked for it -- and as his steps echoed in the once-bustling corridor, the curled fingers of both fists raised to his chin in anticipation of throwing the first punch, senses heightening as he turned the corner.
There was no real threat here, only her, and when he saw the living, breathing face of the only agent he’d been properly assigned to assist and protect, he couldn’t help but exhale in relief. There was too much blood on his hands already.
“You,” Sandro barked, not caring who heard him when everything around them had turned to chaos. “With me.” He gestured for her to follow him as he turned back the other way. “Destination might be safe, but the path sure as shit won’t be. Got a gun on you?”









