Ethan watched his friend's back vanish into the rain, the bar door groaning shut behind him. The smell of whiskey and wet soil lingered, along with the one question Ethan never asked aloud: Who the hell are you?
The bar buzzed again. A drunk pounded the jukebox until it finally coughed out the rest of a song. Its triumphant chorus clashed with the chaos in Ethan's skull.
"Freedom fighter… Bureau traitor… part-time graveyard preacher?" Ethan muttered, lifting his hand for another drink.
The bartender, an expressionless old man, slid him a glass and murmured: "Best not to speak too loud, friend. This city's full of ears."
Ethan smirked. "Then make sure they note I ordered a drink. Don't want my treason on record but my tab forgotten."
The man said nothing, shuffled away.
Before Ethan could savor the burn, a shadow fell over his table. One of the Bureau's European operatives—the woman cold enough to be mistaken for a machine—loomed above him.
"Who were you with?" Her voice was a blade.
Ethan plastered on a smile like wet paint."You mean the gentleman in the tragic coat? Relax. He just tried to sell me life insurance and threw in a conspiracy pamphlet."
She didn't blink. Instead, she slid a photo across the table. The face was blurred but unmistakable—his friend. The caption beneath:
"Former Special Agent, Bureau ID S-17. Status: Defector."
Ethan spun the photo like a coaster, admiring it."Well, look at that. My buddy isn't just handy with a knife—he's also a Bureau blacklist poster boy. Man changes roles faster than I swap SIM cards."
"He used you," the woman said flatly. "You still plan on trusting him?"
Ethan sipped his drink, shook his head with mock solemnity."No, darling. I never trusted him. I trust only this: the louder someone insists they're innocent, the guiltier they probably are."
Her eyes narrowed, weighing his words. Ethan lounged back, hands spread."You Bureau types are such artists. One man, cast as traitor, savior, executioner, victim. This is beyond espionage—it's daytime TV. All we're missing is a long-lost twin brother reveal."
Silence.
At last she pocketed the photo. "Be careful. He may be your ally. Or a double agent. The Bureau won't clean up your corpse."
She left, straight-backed, like a knife wedged in the dark.
Ethan stared after her, his grin widening."A double agent. How romantic. Sounds like vintage wine—but it's probably cheap swill cut with water. And this time, the extra ingredient might be my blood."
He clinked his glass against the photo still on the table, whispering:"Old friend, if you are a double agent, at least do it properly. Don't stab me again while wearing that pathetic 'I'm doing this for you' face. Too sentimental. Truly."
He downed the drink, throat burning. His laughter rang through the bar, echoing like a satirical funeral march.