The bar was dim.
Neon lights flickered like dying fireflies.
A half-empty bottle sat near her elbow, but she hadn't touched it.
She sat alone, draped in a black, narrow suit.
Her white half-mask—stained red on one side—rested on the table like a warning.
A fresh envelope lay next to it.
Another target.
Another name to forget.
A girl slid into the seat beside her — uninvited. Wine-red lipstick, dark eyes, a coat too clean for a place this dusty. barely older than her.
"You're young," the girl said , her fingers tracing the rim of her glass.
Her voice was soft, but not gentle — like she wasn't warning Ryu, just… noting something. Observing.
"You don't have to do this, you know… There's more to life than killing strangers."
Ryu didn't look up at first.
She stayed silent.
She traced the envelope's edge with her knife- slow, dedliberate and quiet.
Her eyes flickered with a sadness too deep to hide.
The girl tilted her head, smiling slightly. "You're bleeding."
Ryu didn't look at her, just said.
"Its just a scarpped wound"
Ryu adjusted her grip under the table, where her blade waited.
"Relax. I'm not here to report you." The girl sipped.
"I just know a thing or two about running. And being caught."
For a moment, Ryu's gaze lifted — unreadable.
"What's your name?"
The girl shrugged. "Names are dangerous in places like this."
She stood, adjusting her collar. Her boots made no sound as she turned.
Over her shoulder, she said,
"You can call me Verni."
Then, softly—like the truth hurt to say aloud—Ryu replied:
"You don't come back from the kind of past I had."
Verni turned, her gaze drifting to the mask.
"But maybe… you can learn to walk forward anyway."
She let out a slow breath.
Then smiled—but not kindly.
There was mockery in her eyes.
"I wish you luck on your next mission too, Verni."
And with that, she left the bar for her next kill.
---
RYU'S POV~
The road to my apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
The alley up ahead reeked of gasoline and rot.
That's when I saw them.
A group of men—four, maybe five—laughing, kicking someone small and curled on the ground.
A boy.
Couldn't have been older than seventeen.
I froze.
My hands trembled.
My vision blurred for a second.
My breathing staggered.
No. Not now.
I shook it off and reached into my coat.
Pulled the mask over my face.
The envelope in my pocket crackled as I stepped into the dark.
The flickering streetlamp cast a pale halo on my suit—black and silent, like a shadow with bones.
"Look what we got here," one of them sneered.
His voice was grimy. Slurred.
The others turned.
One had a pipe.
Another twirled a switchblade.
The other two cracked their knuckles like it meant something.
"She alone?" one muttered.
The leader grinned.
"Nah. She's dead."
Wrong answer.
I moved first.
My knife soared through the air and sank into the shoulder of the one with the pipe.
He screamed and dropped to his knees.
Three left.
The big one rushed me.
I ducked, slid low, swept his leg—CRACK.
But he caught me mid-move and slammed me into the pavement.
I groaned.
Before I could fully rise, the one with the switchblade lunged.
His blade slashed across my ribs—sharp, fast, and hot.
Blood bloomed under the clack like a second skin.
I hissed.
But I didn't back down.
I spun and drove my elbow into his throat.
He choked, stumbled, and dropped the blade.
I kicked it away.
Then the third thug landed a punch to my jaw—hard.
The mask cracked - a spiderweb split crawling across one side.
I staggered.
Spat blood.
Too close to get knocked out now.
Too late to quit.
For a second… I felt human.
Then I smiled.
"You hit like a memory."
I surged forward.
Heel to his chest.
Elbow to his temple.
Slammed him into the wall.
He dropped, twitching.
The leader?
Already running.
I didn't chase.
"Huh…" I grunted.
"Not in the condition for a fucking chase."
Instead, I pulled my second knife from my boot.
Walked back to the one still groaning on the ground—the first one I stabbed.
Didn't even look him in the eye when I said:
"Tell the Senior… I don't need orders to kill."
Before leaving the alley, I looked over my shoulder.
Verni stood at the street's edge—wide-eyed.
I pointed to the alley's entry.
My mask was cracked.
Blood dripped from its edge.
Said nothing else.
And walked home.
To patch myself up.
Alone.
---