Blood always smelled the same. Metallic, warm, heavy. It clung to the air like a second skin, thick enough to choke on, familiar enough to ignore.

The girl stepped over a body without looking down. Around her, the mansion had fallen into silence. A few minutes ago, it had been filled with desperate footsteps, screams, pleas for mercy, and the sharp crack of gunfire. Now, only the slow drip of blood from her blade disturbed the stillness.

She wore black. Not because it looked intimidating, nor because it hid the stains. Blood never stayed hidden.

It was simply practical.

Her expression remained empty as she walked through the grand hallway, past shattered glass and overturned furniture, past men who had once believed money could buy safety.

At the end of the hall, one man still breathed. Barely breathing.

He lay against the wall, one trembling hand pressed against the wound in his stomach, his expensive white shirt ruined in red. His eyes widened as she approached.

Fear. The look she had seen too many times to count.

“P-please…” he rasped. “I can pay you. Double—triple—anything—”

She stopped in front of him. For a moment, she simply stared. Cold and still, like a machine.

The man’s breathing turned frantic.

Her blade moved once. Clean and precise.

Then the man slumped forward, and the mansion returned to silence. She stood there for a second longer, staring at nothing.

Slowly, she reached into her coat and pulled out a small phone. No name appeared on the screen—only a single number she had memorized long ago. She answered it.

“Report.” A man’s voice. Sharp and direct

“The assignment is complete.” she responded with no emotion nor pride, just fact.

“Any complications?”

“None.”

A pause. Then, “Well done. Now return.” The line ended.

She lowered the phone and slipped it back into her pocket.

Outside, rain had started to fall.

“Ajin! You’re burning the eggs again!” The sharp voice snapped through the apartment like a slap.

Ajin blinked. Smoke curled lazily from the frying pan in front of her.

“Oh no—!”

She grabbed the spatula in panic, nearly dropping it as she hurried to save what was left of breakfast.

From the small dining table, her younger brother burst into laughter. “You were spacing out again.”

“I was not!”

“You were staring at the pan like it insulted your ancestors.”

“It did,” she said with complete seriousness. “It betrayed me.”

He laughed harder.

Morning sunlight poured through the kitchen window, warm and golden, touching the small apartment with a kind of peace that felt ordinary, and precious.

Ajin stood there in oversized pajamas, hair slightly messy, arguing with breakfast like it was her mortal enemy.

She is known in their neighborhood as someone who's a cheerful, kind and gentle young lady. At first glance, you can tell that she is well loved by the people around her.

Just a young woman trying—and failing—to cook eggs.

She placed the slightly tragic breakfast on the table with dramatic pride.

“There. A masterpiece.”

Her brother stared. “…I think it’s still moving.”

“Protein.”

“That’s charcoal.”

“Flavor.”

He sighed like a tired old man despite being younger than her.

“I worry about your future husband.”

Ajin gasped. “Excuse you. My future husband will appreciate my artistic cooking.”

“He’ll appreciate the hospital.”

She pointed her chopsticks at him. “Traitor.”

He grinned.

The television in the corner hummed softly, morning news playing in the background.

Ajin barely paid attention as she sat down. Until the anchor’s voice changed.

Her brother reached for the remote, but she froze first.

"BREAKING NEWS. A luxury estate on the outskirts of the city had been discovered this morning after reports of multiple casualties. Authorities described the scene as a massacre. No survivors had been found. Investigations are still—"

Her brother frowned. “Ugh. That’s horrible…”

“Right…? That’s why you should always be careful, okay? And call me whenever something happens.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He waved her off with the careless confidence only younger brothers seemed to possess, shoving the last bite of breakfast into his mouth before standing up.

“I’m serious,” Ajin said, said, narrowing her eyes.

“And I’m seriously going to be late.”

He grabbed his school bag from the couch, nearly tripping over one of his own shoes on the way.

Ajin sighed and stood, following him to the door like she always did.

“At least take your umbrella.”

He looked outside through the small window by the entrance. The sky, still gray and heavy.

“I’ll survive.”

“That sounds exactly like something people say right before they don’t.”

“Wow. Encouraging.”

She shoved the umbrella into his hands anyway.

“And your lunch.”

“And my dignity?”

“Already lost.”

He laughed, slipping on his shoes.

For a moment, he paused at the doorway and looked back at her. In that small pause, something softened.

“You worry too much, sis.”

Ajin crossed her arms. “And you don’t worry enough.”

“That’s why we balance each other.”

She wanted to say more. But she just laughed.

Eli. He wasn’t her brother by blood.

He was someone she found eight years ago—small, thin, and far too quiet for a ten-year-old child.

It had been raining that night too.

She was just on her way home from work, when she saw him sitting alone near the back of an abandoned alley. He was not crying, nor shouting. Just a boy hugging his knees, staring at the ground like he had already accepted being forgotten.

Most people would have walked past. She could have walked past. But she simply can't let a child stay there all alone. So, she went up to him and asked where his family was, he looked up at her with hollow eyes and said, very simply— “I don’t have one.”

She never asked for the full story. Maybe because she understood too well what it meant to lose everything. Maybe because some wounds didn’t need names. She only knew he had nowhere to go. And somehow, without planning to, she brought him home.

At first, it was supposed to be temporary. A few days. A week at most. But days became months, and months became years. And somewhere between shared meals, school reports, arguments over homework, and burnt breakfasts, Eli had stopped being a child she took in. He became family. The only family she ever had.

The little boy who once looked like he expected the world to leave him behind had grown into someone bright, stubborn, and annoyingly good at teasing her before eight in the morning.

To them, they were siblings.

To Ajin, he was someone very precious to her—someone she loved enough to fear losing.

She smiled and reached up to fix his slightly crooked collar like she used to.

“…Just come home early.”

He smiled. “Yeah. I will.”

Then he turned and left.

The door clicked shut. And suddenly, the apartment felt too quiet.

“Ahh right… I still have some deliveries to do.”

Ajin exhaled softly, as if shaking off the weight that had briefly settled in her chest. The unease from the news, the lingering silence after Eli left—it all stayed behind in the apartment as she grabbed her things.

A simple routine was waiting for her outside. And she followed it.

The neighborhood was already awake. It as it usually was.

A small, tightly packed district tucked away from the louder parts of the city, where people knew each other by face, if not by name. It wasn’t the kind of place that changed quickly. Shops opened at the same hours. Old men sat in the same chairs outside convenience stores. Children ran through narrow walkways like they belonged to them.

Ajin had been part of it for almost ten years.

Long enough that people stopped seeing her as a stranger. Long enough that she became part of the rhythm.

As she stepped out, a few early risers were already outside. The bakery owner was arranging fresh bread near the window. A woman sweeping her storefront paused and gave a small wave. Someone from the nearby stall called out a greeting without even looking up.

Ajin responded the same way she always did—simple nods, soft smiles, familiar gestures that required no effort anymore.

She moved through the streets like she belonged there. Because she did.

Her shop was only a few blocks away.

A small flower shop, tucked between a stationery store and a quiet café that never seemed to change its menu. The sign above the door was slightly faded, but still readable. Inside, the scent of fresh flowers always lingered—gentle, calming, almost stubborn in how it refused to fade even when the day grew long.

Ajin unlocked the door and stepped inside. The space greeted her like an old friend.

Rows of neatly arranged blooms. Buckets of water catching soft light. Vines and petals carefully tended, each one placed with quiet intention. It wasn’t a large shop, but it was alive in its own way.

She moved behind the counter, setting her bag down, already slipping into the familiar rhythm of work.

Then a soft chime rang from the bell above the shop door.

“Good morning.”

Ajin looked looked up.

The café next door’s owner’s son was standing there, holding a small paper cup with both hands like it was something fragile. He looked slightly awkward, as always, his gaze briefly darting away before returning to her face.

“I… I made extra coffee,” he said. “Thought you might like it.”

Ajin blinked, then gave a small, polite smile. “That’s kind of you.”

He stepped a little closer, placing the cup carefully on the counter like it required special handling.

“It’s not too sweet today,” he added quickly. “I remember you said last time it was a bit—”

“Too sweet, yes,” she finished gently, and chuckled.

His ears turned slightly red. “Right. So I fixed it.”

There was a short pause.

Ajin picked picked up the cup, taking a small sip. The warmth spread through her hands.

“…It’s good.”

His expression brightened immediately, like that was the most important approval he could receive.

“Really?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “Thank you. Although, you really didn't have to bring me coffee every time.”

"No... I really enjoy doing this."

He hesitated for a second longer, as if wanting to say something else, then scratched the back of his neck.

“I’ll… bring you some again tomorrow.”

Ajin nodded. nodded. “That’s fine.”

He left soon after, far less smoothly than he arrived, nearly bumping into the door on his way out.

The bell chimed again as it closed.

Ajin watched him go for a moment, then lowered her gaze to the coffee.

A faint, almost unnoticeable softness passed through her expression.

Then she set the cup down behind the counter.

Watering. Trimming. Checking arrangements. Preparing deliveries. These are simple repetitive tasks that she has always done. The kind of work that didn’t ask questions.

Outside, the neighborhood slowly filled with more movement. A delivery truck passed. A child ran by laughing. Someone stopped by the shop window to admire the flowers before stepping inside.

Ajin greeted greeted them without thinking.

Her voice had become part of this place too—soft, polite, steady. To most people, she was just the flower shop girl. Kind, reliable, a little quiet, but always gentle.

No one here knew her as anything else. And that was how she preferred it.

By mid-morning, she was already preparing a set of deliveries.

Small bouquets wrapped carefully in paper, each one labeled with names she recognized by memory. The bakery owner’s wife. The café owner’s mother. A regular customer who always ordered white lilies on the same day every week.

She tied the last ribbon and placed the bouquets into her delivery basket. The usual routine and the familiarity.

She stepped out again, the bell above the shop door ringing softly behind her.

The neighborhood greeted her as she walked. Not loudly, nor formally.

“Morning, Ajin. Flowers are prettier than usual today.”

She smiled softly, adjusting the basket in her hands. “Then I’ll take that as today will be a good day.”

Just small acknowledgments that had become part of daily life.

A nod from the fruit vendor. A wave from the café owner. A passing comment about the weather from someone she had known long enough to recognize but not enough to name clearly.

Ajin responded responded to each one in turn.

Her steps never slowed. She knew every turn of the street, every uneven tile on the sidewalk, every shortcut that saved a few seconds between deliveries. She had walked these paths for years without needing to think about them.

It was almost comforting. Almost enough to make the world feel normal.

She paused briefly at a street corner, adjusting the basket in her hands. For a moment, her eyes drifted toward the distant skyline.

The city beyond this small neighborhood was louder, faster, and heavier. A place where things disappeared without explanation. A place where news like this morning’s didn’t stay just news.

Her grip on the basket tightened slightly.

Then she moved again. One delivery at a time. One street at a time. Returning to the rhythm she had built for herself. The life she had chosen. The life she was trying—every single day—not to lose.

She woke before dawn. Not because she wanted to, but because she was told to.

The room was dark, empty except for the narrow bed, a metal desk, and a single chair placed neatly against the wall. No photographs. No decorations. And not even a trace of personality.

It looked less like a bedroom and more like a place someone had been temporarily stored.

She sat up the moment the alarm sounded. Routine had long replaced choice.

The cold floor met her bare feet as she stood.

Outside the small window, the sky was still black, the city not yet awake.

She dressed in silence. Black shirt. Dark pants. Something light enough to move, plain enough to disappear.

Her reflection in the mirror offered nothing back. A young woman with sharp eyes and a face too calm to be called peaceful. She stared at herself for exactly three seconds. Then she left.

Even before sunrise, the streets were alive with movement—cars slipping through wet roads, vendors arranging their stalls, tired workers rushing toward another ordinary day. Somewhere nearby, music from a street performer drifted faintly through the noise, nearly swallowed by traffic and footsteps. She walked through it all like a ghost.

No one looked at her twice. That was the point.

In a city this busy, people only noticed what interrupted their routine. She had learned long ago how to become part of the background—another face in the crowd, another stranger passing by.

Her phone vibrated once. She stopped beneath the shadow of a building and checked the screen. No contact name. Only a message.

A name. Nothing more. And that was enough.

She read it once and deleted it immediately. Orders were never explained, just as questions were never asked. People above her did not repeat themselves, and people below them did not survive mistakes.

She slipped the phone back into her pocket and kept walking. Rain from the night before still clung to the pavement, turning the city lights into blurred reflections beneath her feet. Around her, life continued carelessly. Two people argued over something trivial. An old woman watered flowers outside her shop as if the world had never known violence.

She watched none of it for long. People like her were not built for ordinary things. She had no place in mornings like this. No place in homes where people waited for you to return.

Her life existed in the spaces between endings.

She had stopped measuring time in days or months. Only missions. Before this one. And after that one.

She reached a quiet café tucked between taller buildings and stepped inside. Not because she was hungry. Just because routine helped people disappear.

The owner recognized her by face, not by name. She ordered the same thing every time—black coffee, untouched half the time.

Today was no different. She sat near the window, the file already memorized from a single glance at her phone.

Across the street, people passed without purpose. She watched them the way someone might watch a foreign country. Curious, but separate.

At the table beside her, a couple argued softly over breakfast. Near the counter, a father tied his daughter’s loose shoelace before sending her off to school.

Simple things. Normal things.

But normal was not something she had lost. It was something she had never been given.

She stared for a moment longer than necessary. Then looked away.

She stood as she left enough cash on the table. And walked back into the city without finishing her coffee.

By nightfall, someone would die. And by morning, the world would move on as if nothing had happened. It always did.

And she—

She would already be somewhere else, waiting for the next name to appear on her screen.

Some time, some day, the flower shop was quiet. Not silent—never silent—but the kind of quiet that belonged only to familiar places. The soft rustle of leaves. The faint clink of glass vases being moved. The occasional bell above the door whenever someone stepped in and out.

Ajin stood behind the counter, trimming the stems of fresh white lilies with careful hands.

Sunlight spilled through the front windows, warm and soft, touching the rows of flowers like it had all the time in the world. Outside, the neighborhood moved at its usual pace—steady, predictable, safe.

She liked it that way. There was comfort in repetition. Watering the roses. Replacing the lilies. Checking the delivery list. Smile at the regular customers.

Pretend life had always been this simple.

Mrs. Han from the bakery stopped by just before noon, complaining about her husband forgetting their anniversary again and insisting that red roses were the only acceptable punishment. Ajin listened with practiced patience, wrapping the bouquet neatly while offering the kind of sympathy that required more nodding than actual advice.

By the time the older woman left, dramatically satisfied, the shop had returned to its usual calm. Ajin let out a small breath and reached for the watering can.

That was when the bell above the door rang loudly.

"Hey, hey, hey~"

She looked up. And nearly dropped the can.

“Eli?”

Her brother stood at the entrance, still in his school uniform, grinning like he had personally invented surprise visits.

Beside him was another boy around his age—slightly taller, carrying his bag over one shoulder and looking much more aware that they were interrupting someone.

Ajin frowned immediately. “Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Wow,” Eli said, stepping inside. “Not ‘hello,’ not ‘I missed you,’ just accusations.”

“Correct. Now, answer the question.”

He placed a dramatic hand over his chest. “I came to visit my beloved sister during lunch break.”

Ajin narrowed her eyes. “That sounds suspicious.”

“Because it is,” said the other boy before Eli could continue.

Eli turned to him. “You snitch.”

His friend gave her an awkward but polite nod. “Sorry. He dragged me here." he said.

Ajin sighed. “At least one of you has common sense.”

“I regret bringing him now,” Eli muttered.

She set the watering can down and crossed her arms, trying very hard to look stern and only half succeeding.

“And who is this? Friend of yours, I suppose?”