[⚠︎] ▼ 𝙵𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑 𝙱𝚒𝚝𝚎 ▲ Miguel O'Hara x Reader▼ 𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝟷/ 𝟸

▸ EIGHT ◂

WARNING! This chapter contains death and mentions of suicide. Read at your own risk! You have been warned.

Miguel immediately dismissed you after the incident. You didn't even argue or put up a fight because you were still processing what had happened. Even as you lay in bed that night, you remained dazed by the kiss. A part of you felt ashamed and guilty because you caused such an inconvenience for Miguel, but you knew the fact still stands that you had saved his life. 

As you tossed and turned in bed, you thought back to the incident and wondered what you could have done differently. Instead of digging a jagged scrap of metal into his back, you could have strangled him from behind. But would that have been enough to stop him from clawing Miguel's face right off? 

You shake your head at the haunting thought, forcing your eyes shut. You forced your mind to go blank, lying stiffly in the quiet room. But the memory of the kiss slowly crept into your thoughts. The pounding of your heartbeat filled your ears the more you thought about the kiss. Your face grew warm as you buried it into the coolness of your pillow, trying to find the will to sleep amidst the flusteredness.

.

.

.

The sirens wailed through the concrete halls, each shrill echoed off the walls. You feel the vibrations rattling in your chest as unease settles in your gut. Dark, flashing red lights illuminated the underground facility, painting everything in shades of panic and urgency. Trainees and comrades sprinted past you, their faces twisted with determination and alarm.

Even as the alarm blared, calling you to get moving, you remained hunched over, staring lifelessly at the wall across from you. You sat on your thin mattress carved into the cold, cracked concrete walls as the soldiers ran past you in a flurry of duty. You had lived this moment before. The ear-piercing shrieks of the alarm, the hurried footsteps of soldiers—it was all painfully familiar.

The scene around you blurred as you finally stood to join the others. The dull, concrete facility shifted into a rooftop with the sheen of rain. Your sniper was suddenly in your hands, its cold weight pressing into your palms.

Was this a dream?

"Reap here. Do you read me?" A familiar voice crackled through your earpiece, cutting through your thoughts like a knife.

Your fingers pressed the communicator almost on their own, "Yes, sir."

"Good. Eliminate the target quickly and quietly. Try not to make a scene. Got it?"

You knelt on the rooftop, the rain soaking through your uniform as you raised the sniper to your shoulder and lowered your eye into the scope. Below, a man stood behind a lectern, addressing the crowd with passionate gestures. Your scope fixated on him as the red dot hovered menacingly above his brow. Your finger ghosts over the trigger, and usually by now you would have pulled it without a second thought, but ... 

"You're more than what they made you." This familiar phrase rang in your ears.

... Something held you back.

"We're running out of time, his speech is nearly done. What are you waiting for?!" Your commander growls in your earpiece.

"Restraint." His voice made your knees weak.

Your finger trembled on the trigger as hesitation halted any movement.

"...Your purpose isn't defined by violence, (Y/N)." You hear it again—Miguel's voice.