Chapter 3

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?”