choose

I push myself onto my feet, breath ragged, voice trembling but defiant.

“Too late. I already reported it to the FBI. It’s not my case anymore...I’m in the financial field.”

The assassin doesn’t move. He stands in the corner like a shadow given flesh, his silhouette sharp in the cold spill of moonlight. His gaze follows me with predator’s patience, crimson eyes tracking my every twitch.

“The Financial Bureau of Intelligence…” His voice is low, almost musing, but a flicker of irritation cracks through the calm. “You’re no longer just a problem to be solved… you’re a threat.”

His eyes narrow, and for the first time, i feel the danger in his stare press heavier than the blade he carries.

“You think the FBI is an infallible shield?” His tone sharpens, edged with a bitter truth. “The kind of darkness the Black Hand cultivates doesn’t shy away from government agencies. They own them.”

My pulse quickens. “Then… what do I do?”

One brow arches, his mouth curving into something caught between amusement and disbelief. “You’re asking me for advice? From the assassin sent to kill you?”

The irony hangs thick in the air. But beneath the sarcasm lies something else..an edge of seriousness, a pull he didn’t expect from this conversation.

He steps forward, slow, deliberate. The air shifts, the walls seem to shrink, and suddenly it feels as though the entire room is his trap and i am his prey.

“Tell me, Rachel…” His voice is a dark murmur. His eyes glint like blood under the moonlight.

“Do you trust me?”

"No" i said..

“Now… you have two choices.” His words drip like poison, like promise.

“One: vanish. I fake your death. You live a hollow life under someone else’s name. Quiet. Empty. Forgotten.”

His other hand lifts a dagger between you, the blade gleaming cold in the moonlight.

“Two: you come with me. We burn the Black Hand until there’s nothing left but ash. Together.”

My lips part. The air feels too thin. The choice crushes down on me like the night itself...

My voice breaks, trembling but defiant.

“I’m not a hero! You said they’re dangerous! I don’t care what they do..if not them, someone else will take their place. I’m not a hero and I’m selfish.”

“Selfish?” The assassin repeats the word, tasting it, as if it were something foreign. His eyes glimmer, unreadable.

He closes the last inches between us..The wall presses cold against my spine, yet his nearness burns hotter than fire. A gloved hand rises—not to strike—but to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The touch is absurdly gentle, unsettlingly human.

“You think it’s selfish to want to live?” His voice is low, velvet-dark. “To claw your way out of the jaws of men who bleed the world dry? You think it’s selfish not to want to be just another name scrubbed from the ledgers?”

My throat tightens. “Then what is it?”

His smile is thin, dangerous. “It’s survival.”

A pause. His breath fans across your cheek. His crimson eyes lock onto mine like chains.

My lips part. The air feels too thin. The choice crushes down on me like the night itself.

“I choose—”

His finger presses softly against my mouth, silencing me.

“No,” he whispers. “Don’t say it yet. Because once you choose… there’s no going back.”

My throat tightens. “And if I refuse both?”

He smirks, stepping back just far enough for you to breathe, yet close enough that his presence suffocates the air. A dagger flashes between his fingers, catching the moonlight.

“Then I kill you.”

The words are cold, but there’s no malice. No heat. Just fact.

My..knees weaken. He doesn’t blink.

“I told you,” he continues, voice smooth as shadow, “I don’t spare targets. Ever. What I’ve given you already...this delay, this conversation..is the closest thing to mercy you’ll ever get from me.”

I press my palms against the wall behind me, nails biting into stone. The truth of his promise coils in my chest, squeezing until every breath feels stolen.

“You want me to trust you,” i say, trying to keep my voice steady, “but all you’ve shown me is a death sentence dressed in options.”

Something shifts in his expression..barely there, gone as soon as it flickers.

“Trust isn’t given,” he murmurs, tilting his head, “it’s earned. And sometimes…” His eyes darken, voice dipping into a whisper. “…sometimes it’s forced.”

My pulse spikes as he suddenly closes the gap, his hand catching your wrist. He presses the hilt of the dagger into my..palm..just as he had before..but this time his grip doesn’t loosen. His hand holds mine steady, the blade angled toward his own chest.

Shock freezes me . “What,what are you doing?”

“If you don’t trust me,” he says, his tone calm, almost detached, “then end it here. Bury the blade in my heart. Walk away. Disappear into whatever safety you think the FBI will offer you.”

The dagger shakes in my grip. His hand doesn’t move, crimson eyes steady, unflinching.

“Choose, Rachel.” His voice is a ghost, curling around your spine.

“Trust me-or kill me.”

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