The cleanup crew showed up before dawn, their boots clicking against marble floors, faces grim with the weight of their task.
The office where the assassination took place was a canvas of carnage. Splattered walls. Floors soaked red. The air thick with the iron tang of death.
One rookie lasted barely thirty seconds inside before he doubled over, vomiting hard into a trash bin, gagging on the stench.
"God," he gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
"Don't call Him here. He won't help you." The older agent's voice cut through the gagging, steady as stone.
This one didn't flinch. He pulled on gloves like it was second nature and eyed the unrecognizable corpse sprawled across the floor.
"Explosive as always." He muttered it with a gruff shake of his head, not even looking at the others.
"Explosive?" another whispered.
The older man's eyes narrowed at the shattered glass and shredded curtains swaying from the night breeze. "It's her. You'll learn to recognize the… signature."
No one dared say her name, but every man in that room knew it. Tatiana.
The older one crouched, scraping the remains with practiced hands. "Move faster. We've got hours to undo chaos, and chaos doesn't wait."
So they worked.
Windows, ceiling to floor, replaced, pane for pane. Furniture swapped out, set exactly as before. Scratches polished away, gouges filled, even the dust patterns carefully restored. One man swore under his breath when he realized the rug fibers didn't match. Another barked at him: "Do it again. Perfection or nothing."
This wasn't just cleaning. It was erasure. A war against memory itself.
By the time dawn cracked open the sky, the office was pristine. Not a drop of blood, not a whisper of violence. Just sterile calm.
A secretary would walk in hours later, none the wiser.
•••••••••••••
Meanwhile, miles away in their cramped apartment, the Grim Couple slipped inside.
Tatiana stumbled first, half drunk on adrenaline and exhaustion, her heels clicking unsteadily against the wooden floor.
"God, I can still smell it," she muttered, pressing her hand to her temple. "It's like it followed me home."
"Take it off before you collapse." Mikael's voice was quiet, but unyielding. He was already pulling the straps of her blood-soaked dress off her shoulders.
She let out a tired laugh, the sound brittle. "Romantic, aren't you? Undressing me while I'm half-dead."
"You're not half-dead," he said, folding the ruined fabric with methodical care, as if it were fine silk instead of bloodstained evidence. "You're just dramatic."
Tatiana huffed, falling against his chest like her bones had given up. "You try running through that mess and tell me I'm dramatic."
"I did try once." He shot her a flat look. "You remember how that ended."
She smirked, eyelids drooping. "Hospital. Three stitches. You couldn't even keep up."
"And yet here I am, still cleaning up after you." His sigh was quiet, but his hands were gentle as he guided her toward the bed.
Tatiana groaned, collapsing onto the mattress. "I could've done it cleaner. I swear, I planned it. But then, he started begging."
Mikael arched a brow, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. "And you listened?"
"No." Her eyes flickered with something sharp beneath the exhaustion. "I hated his voice. So I shut him up."
Mikael didn't answer. He simply brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his silence heavier than any lecture.
Tatiana tilted her head toward him, lips curling into a lazy grin. "What? No scolding tonight?"
"You're not awake enough to listen," he murmured.
"I'd listen," she argued, though her voice slurred, her body already sinking into the sheets.
"You'd argue," he corrected, straightening up. "There's a difference."
She chuckled softly, the sound fading as sleep began to drag her under. "You love it when I argue."
Mikael lingered, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. For a long moment, the room was quiet, the chaos of the night settling into stillness.
But calm was a fragile thing around Tatiana.
Even half-asleep, her hand shot out, clutching his wrist. Her eyes cracked open, glinting with mischief. "You didn't kiss me goodnight."
Mikael blinked. "You can barely keep your eyes open."
"Doesn't matter." Her grip was surprisingly strong. "I killed for us tonight. You can manage a kiss."
He leaned down, brushing his lips against her forehead. "Sleep."
"Forehead?" she grumbled, but her voice was already drifting. "That's… cheap."
"You'll survive," he said softly.
Her fingers finally loosened, slipping from his wrist as sleep claimed her fully.
Mikael stood there for a moment longer, the dim light washing over his face. To anyone else, it would have been just another night, another mission, another mess erased.
But to him, it was another reminder: chaos would always follow Tatiana, and calm would always be his burden to hold.