A soldier of sorts, Bond had bouts of PTSD. He didn't mull over them, it's just not what a professional does. But he recognized the wounding.
Now, nine years later, he passes by in a cab a site of sinister time, chased by agents in the night, every shadow a demon in disguise.
Remembrance pounded his heart: removing his shoes to silence his steps, trapped by walls and water, no way out but one. They had to of been waiting for him.
Perhaps in his stealth he caught them napping. Bond knew not.
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