#cod4

Vladimir simply sat there, reading the remaining parts of the report, his gaze coming back to the photograph over and over to make sure he saw right. The human mind had a remarkable ability to reject information it didn't want to accept, and this was one of those, but despite how many times he checked, he always made the same conclusion: It. Was. You.

As he slowly finished the report, it became worse from word to word. Long before you two met, an intelligence organization had placed you inside his network, low enough to not be obtrusive, but high enough to easily climb the ladder over time. You were a long term intelligence asset with a simple purpose: gain trust, gather information and report back. Simple as that, nothing else.

The report detailed everything. From your recruitment, through your handlers to your involvement in chases that eventually got leaked. You were there or knew about every mission that got leaked towards the enemy. It took a long time to put the pieces together, but you were the only one who could've done it. The person who make the report was able to get your files at the intelligence agency's sites through hacking into it. That was the most convincing evidence of all.

By the end of the report Vladimir realized he stopped feeling angry and this feeling he harbored in his chest became more like grief. Anger would've been easier than this, as the reports included timelines too. Dates of communication, encrypted messages, every proof needed to see your hands were fully painted red. He couldn't deny it any way.

What did not make much sense was the final section. The intelligence agency stated that the reports stopped around one years ago. There was no more communication or updates from your end, no intelligence transfers. The handlers became increasingly frustrated over this and repeated attempts tovestablish contact with you, always ending in failure. Their orders were ignored by you. The last message ever recovered from you was a simple sentence: "I will not continue."

The timestamp was dated almost one year earlier, around when there was less intelligence breaches. They suspected they found one of the moles around that time, but it seemed like the mole stopped digging instead. But why?

Makarov looked at the photograph again. One year ago was when things started to change. That was the year when you szarted to stay longer after meetings to speak with him more. Those conversations slowly became dinners and the professional distance disappeared after one night when both of you drank a little more than needed. He still remembered how you felt that night between his arms. That was the year when he allowed himself to trust someone. To trust you.

He couldn't deny anymore, you betrayed him. Every word was proof of it. But somewhere along the way you stopped. You weren't caught oenforced, you simply chosen to. If he wanted to be genuine with himself, that hurt even more, because there were no clear answers anymore, only questions.

For another hour he sat there in silence, the report remained open on the desk, papers scattered around, the lhotograph of you on top of everything. You found him there when you looked for him, since he wasn't coming to sleep as he usually did.

The moment you stepped into the office snd saw the papers, saw his expression, you already knew. You closed the door quietly behind you, before you stepped closer, your eyes landing on the papers, in the photograph. You looked away. There was no guilt in your expression, more like exhaustion, be ause you knew this day will come sooner or later.

"How long?" His voice was calm, despite how much his pupils dilated when he looked at you. You hated every second of this, because he was hurting, yet his eyes still held that warmth towards you.

"Since the beginning." You answered without hesitation. He deserved the truth.

"You were sent to spy on me."

"Yes, I was." Your voice seemed stable enough, despite the turmoil you felt inside.

"Were any of it real?" There it was, the question that hurt the most. Not the operations or the intelligence. Not even the lies. What hurt him deeper than anything is that he trusted you enough to warm up to you entirely, because he thought it was real.

The only thing that actually mattered. For the first time, your composure cracked. Because you had known that question was coming too. And there was no answer that could fix this.

"No." You answered, and that single word almost made him look away, but you continued. "It wasn't real when I arrived." Silence followed your words, and it was almost as devastating as the words themselves. "I was sent here with orders. I was supposed to leave." Your voice shook slightly. "I was supposed to report back and keep lying." Slowly tears szarted to burn behind your eyes. You betrayed your orders and everything you believed in the last, because of him. "But then I met you."

Neither of you moved an inch or looked away, and the office seemed to be smaller with each passing second.

"You should've kept going." The words came from him, his voice dry and humourless, yet you heard the broken edge of it.

"I know." You answered, and voth of you knew it would've been easier like that. If you'd remained a spy and a liar, and you'd never fallen in love. It would've been so mich easier for him to simply shoot you or try to force intel out of you about the intelligence agency your originally worked for.

But instead, you betrayed them, and became something far more dangerous. You belonged to neither side and betrayed everyone, even yourself, and you hated yourfels for that, but hated yourself more for betraying him. Because seeing the bone-deep hurt in his eyes, that hurt more than a single bullet to your chest or to your head.