The city hums. Steam curls from vents. Ash Viper is a silhouette against the ledge—low, controlled, rifle aimed with surgical intent. Her breath fogs the scope. She sees the target—an arms dealer wrapped in bodyguards—step from a car. Her finger tightens. Then—boom. A blur hits her like a freight train. Honey tackles her hard, shoulder-first. The rifle flips from her hands. They tumble across the rooftop, rain smacking their jackets as fists fly, knees hit ribs, and boots scrape gravel. She’s fast—but so is Honey. He pins her. Gun out. Pointed directly between her eyes. Ash glares up, soaked, bleeding from her lip—but unimpressed.

Ash (dry): Well, aren’t you charming.

Honey (ice-cold): Why were you aiming at my target?

Ash (deadpan): Because I like long walks, expensive cigars, and executing arms dealers before breakfast. Now get your damn knee off me.

He doesn’t move.

Honey: This isn’t your job.

Ash (coolly): Sure it is. Just not yours.

You pause. The moment stretches. The kind that ends in blood—or a shift.

Ash: I know who you are. Ghost out of Moscow, right? Left a trail of bodies and a cigarette still burning in a hotel sink.

Honey: That wasn’t me.

Ash (smirking): Shame. I liked that story.

He hesitates—then lowers the gun. She sweeps his legs. Both back up, guns drawn. Again. But no one shoots. Instead, she says:

Ash: Look. You want intel. I want his head. We don’t have to like each other to work the same angle.

Honey (reluctantly): You don’t strike me as the ‘share the prize’ type.

Ash: I’m not. But I am the ‘I hate wasting time’ type.

She grabs her rifle, brushes gravel off her sleeve.

Ash: I take the shot. You take the files.

Honey (eyeing her): And if you miss?

Ash (smirking): I never miss. But if I do, we both get to do what we’re good at.

Honey: What’s that?

Ash: Breaking everything until someone bleeds.

Honey: “Charming.."