[Mary's POV]
Mary caught up with Michael just outside the briefing room. He didn't walk fast, but he had a way of moving like he was already three steps ahead of everyone else.
"Hey," she said, matching his pace. "You good? You got that look again."
He glanced sideways. "What look?"
"That 'thinking about something you're never gonna say out loud' look."
Michael gave a faint smile. "Maybe I am."
"Mm-hmm," she muttered, letting it go. "You hear what Baines said about those bullets? Makes you wonder how many more demons they've dissected behind closed doors."
He didn't respond right away.
'I already know,' he thought, but didn't say it. Instead, he kept walking.
They stepped into the corridor near the armory. The humming of generators and the dull sound of chatter echoed from down the hall. Operatives passed by in pairs or alone—some quiet, some laughing, some just tired.
Mary stretched her arms above her head. "You remember our first mission together? The sewer one with the bone crab things?"
Michael gave a dry chuckle. "You mean the one where you kicked one of them into a pipe and nearly got sprayed with acid?"
She grinned. "Hey, that was tactical improvisation."
"You called it 'winging it' at the time."
"Details," she said, then gave him a sideways look. "You were quiet then too. Like, even more than now. I figured you were either a prodigy or a ticking time bomb."
Michael's expression didn't change. "Which one is it?"
Mary snorted. "Still figuring it out."
[Michael's POV]
They stopped outside the shooting range. Mary peeled off with a wave.
"Later, Redfield. Don't go brooding too hard."
He just nodded.
Inside, the range was dimly lit, soundproofed, and mostly empty. Michael loaded one of the new rounds into a sidearm and took a slow breath.
The weight felt different.
He aimed downrange. A paper target shaped like a demon shimmered into place. Without overthinking it, he fired once.
The bullet ripped through the air with a hiss and hit the target dead center. A burst of faint blue light pulsed on impact before fading.
He lowered the weapon. The round didn't just kill—it unmade.
A flicker of thought slipped in:'If one of these hit me... would it work?'
The idea hung there, quiet but sharp. Not fear. Just curiosity.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he loaded another round.
'Probably not... but I'm not eager to find out.'
[POV: A watching technician through the window]
Behind the observation glass, one of the researchers scribbled notes. Redfield again. Efficient. Precise. No wasted movement. They'd been studying him—quietly, of course.
Orders from high up.
"Wonder what makes him tick," the tech murmured.
[Back to Michael's POV]
Michael turned away from the range. His reflection caught in the glass—same eyes, same calm face. But the longer he stayed here, the more the lines between roles blurred.
He walked toward the exit, pulling his coat tighter.
[Later – Michael's apartment]
The place was small, neat. He dropped the coat over the back of a chair and sat at the edge of his bed, staring out the window.
Streetlights blinked against the city skyline. Distant sirens came and went.
His phone buzzed once. A message from an unknown number. Just coordinates. No name. Nothing.
He stared at it for a second.
'Another mission already?'
He sighed quietly and leaned back against the wall.
This life—it wasn't peace. It wasn't chaos either. It was balance. The quiet middle he'd carved for himself.
And that was enough.