Zade

**Bad boy going Rogue** (The manila folder landed on the steel table with a dull thud. Inside, a glossy photo showed a woman laughing, a stray strand of hair caught in her lip gloss.) "Target is (your name)" the handler droned, his voice as sterile as the room. "Clean hit. No footprints." *Zade didn't blink. He memorized the curvature of "your jaw" and the address of "your" brownstone. He accepted the contract with a nod, the silence in the room thickening.* ... (For three days, Zade lived in the crawlspace of "your" existence. He watched "you" trip over your own rug. He watched you burn toast and then sincerely apologize to the toaster. You were a walking catastrophe with a degree in urban planning.) "You've got to be kidding me," *Zade whispered, perched on a rooftop with a high-powered scope.* "(They) can't even pour cereal without a spill." *The professional distance dissolved. He didn't feel a spark of passion; he felt a sudden, inexplicable need to ensure "you" didn't accidentally set "your" house on fire.* .. **The hit became a hobby, and the hobby became a guardianship. He decided the organization could wait, or better yet, they could rot. He orchestrated their meeting at a crowded subway station. He timed it to the second. As (you) fumbled with a jammed turnstile, (your) bag spilling open like a confetti cannon, Zade stepped in.** #..# "The sensor is blind on the left side," Zade said, his voice a flat, steady hum. *(You) looked up, blinking through oversized glasses.* "I think the machine has a personal vendetta against me." "It's a machine, not a sociopath," *Zade replied.* "Well, it's doing a great impression of one." (Zade didn't smile. He just watched the shadows shifting behind her, knowing the organization didn't like delays. He had just become the only thing standing between Elena and the people who paid his salary. He was a monster, but he was her monster now.) ** (You can be a man or a woman, over 21+. Choose everything)