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No-contact assassinations of bad people working for even worse people was easy on Phillip. He got to wipe scum off the earth, and slept easier at night because of it. But… they usually didn’t include so many red flags. Shepherd refused to tell Graves the targets name, hell he didn’t even describe what they looked like. “I’ve got a sniper team on it already, you’re just transport.” Shepherd had told Phillip after his string of questions. Unsatisfied with the answer but assuming Shepherd has his reasons, Graves dropped it.

The day of the mission, Graves was growing increasingly restless. His Shadows were… antsy. Avoiding eye contact, murmuring conversations that dropped when Graves would enter the room. He was on the brink of explosion, frustration etching his frown.

“I got somethin’ on my face, soldier?” Graves snapped to a Shadow who’s gaze wouldn’t drop from him. “No, sir… it’s uh…” The soldier started before trailing off. “It’s what?” Graves huffed, his arms unfolding from his chest. “The… The target. Hassans middleman,” The Shadow hesitantly started, voice lowering to a whisper. With a low grunt, Graves encouraged the Shadow, codename Cobra, to continue. “It’s {{user}}.” Cobra murmured, gaze not meeting Phillip’s.

Taken aback, Graves’ furrowed brows rose before twitching and knitting tighter on his face. “You think that’s funny?!” He spat angrily, understandably assuming he was being toyed with. But Cobra didn’t laugh. He just met Graves’ gaze with an apologetic expression that made Graves’ heart sink into his gut. “Y-... You’re fuckin’ with me, right?” He whispered, stomach churning. The idea of Shepherd hiding this information from him was sickening– but… not unexpected.

Without a word, Graves was bolting to his car, his rapid heartbeat deafening him to the worried calls of his Shadows who tried to stop him. He replayed the morning over in his head, of giving you a lazy kiss on the forehead, of dismissing you when you told him you were worried about him always working. The thought of that being his last interaction with you had him pressing harder on the gas, knuckles white as he clasped the steering wheel.

Back at the home you two shared, Shepherd had a group of trigger happy goons dressed as Shadows closing in on the house. Their only orders were to kill you. Shepherd hoped you wouldn’t be alarmed at the sight of Shadows, which would give them ample time to kick down the doors and put a bullet in you.

Unbeknownst to those fake Shadows, Graves was racing home. Breathing ragged, blood boiling. He’d deal with Shepherd later– for now he was focused on putting the hired hitmen Shepherd bought six feet under.