Their hideout was an abandoned subway station. Peeling walls, faded graffiti, and mold that smelled like endless, rotting memories. Flickering yellow lights reminded them the place could collapse any second.
Ethan slumped on a frozen bench, gasping like a fish stranded on land. He glanced at Gray Fox and chuckled: "So what are you now? International fugitive—or just a ghost shareholder of the Bureau?"
Gray Fox polished his gun with a rag, eyes glinting familiar mischief. "I prefer the title 'freelance investor.' My portfolio is chaos."
"Investing in chaos? Sounds like my ex's pyramid scheme." Ethan shook his head. That he could still joke felt like a disease called survival instinct.
Karin sat nearby, hand never straying far from her holster. Her glare made it obvious: she'd shoot first if this "old bond" turned sour.
After a silence, Gray Fox smirked. "Remember our first mission? You panicked like a kid who'd just lost his lunch money."
Ethan rolled his eyes. "Because you told me the target might be a nightmare god—five minutes before we went in. I didn't even finish my coffee."
Gray Fox shrugged. "Well, gods need dying too. Figured you should practice."
They stared at each other, then burst out laughing. The sound echoed off the empty station like two lunatics trading midnight jokes.
Karin frowned. "You do realize we're being hunted across Europe?"
"Relax," Ethan waved her off. "This is called emotional regulation for fugitives. Besides, if we stay serious, we'll just die faster."
Gray Fox nodded sagely. "Humor's the only painkiller. Side effect: makes us sound like idiots."
The laughter subsided. Gray Fox pulled out a bottle of cheap whiskey. "Here. A toast to our short-lived friendship."
Ethan drank, coughing as fire burned down his throat. He still managed a grin. "To friendship, to running, and to all the poor bastards who'll die around us."
Gray Fox drank too, expression briefly heavy. "Truth is, Ethan, sometimes I miss the old days. No conspiracies, no betrayals. Just missions, danger, and us calling each other idiots."
Ethan stared a moment, then tilted his head. "Too bad you betrayed me. That stab still shows up in my nightmares."
Gray Fox's smile twitched. "That wasn't my choice… You know that."
"Bullshit." Ethan took another swig, handing back the bottle. "But since we're alive and drinking, I'll slap a patch on our friendship. For now, you're still the Gray Fox I knew."
Gray Fox blinked, then laughed—raw, almost relieved.
Karin groaned. "I don't get you men with baggage. If you're such brothers, agree on whose funeral you'll dance at."
"Brilliant idea," Ethan grinned. "If I go first, dance a tango by my coffin. Make the guests laugh instead of cry."
"No problem," Gray Fox smirked. "If I die first, write this on my tombstone: 'He sold the world with a smile.'"
Ethan clapped his shoulder. "Deal, traitor brother."
They both laughed again, absurdly free for fugitives on borrowed time.
But outside, sirens wailed in the distance—a countdown written by fate.