Yves receives a letter.

 

It's not like all the others she's used to; no fancy penmanship and words too superfluous, or crisp folds of a signature with a cringe sign of “— love, your secret admirer.”

 

Nothing like the ones she’s eager to read, curt notes of appearances and typical routes a target will take, or the fun challenges her handler likes to give— “aim with your eyes closed,” or “be a little messier; make them feel like you’re losing your touch.”

 

The letter's written on loose leaf, folded with crinkles and jagged lines that look like repeated mistakes before finally settling.

 

Yves didn't think she'd ever have to read a letter written with a purple crayon.

 

(Hello, Miss!

 

You're so pretty. I'm glad you're my new neighbor. My mommy thinks you're pretty too. She says she's going to talk to you and bring blueberry muffins one day so you won't want to leave because we'll be friends, but it's already been 2 days.

 

I'm writing this letter so it's not going to be 3.

 

Talk to you later!

 

— Your Penpal,

:D Choerry.)

 

First thing that comes to mind is that they spelled 'Cherry' wrong.

 

Second, does the mother know?

 

And third, they’re now penpals?

 

Yves snorts. The kid is eloquent enough, at least. Proper grammar (besides the word 'cherry') and punctuation. Even if it's all in that horrible thick purple crayon that it's hard to discern between an 'e' and a 'c'.

 

She'll forgive the disgusting penmanship if only because it's amusing to hear the implication of bribery just to make her stay.

 

Yves chuckles, folding the letter neatly back into the purple envelope before going off to continue rinsing her blood-soaked dress shirt.

 

It wouldn't hurt to read it again before bed.

 

—

 

The kid has purple hair. 

 

Yves blames her for why she's now thinking of a fake dinosaur who likes to sing about family.

 

She's just stepped out, off to work and clicking the door shut when she hears a yelp, quiet thuds followed by her mailbox clanking shut, catching tiny feet scurrying away behind her wooden fence.

 

Innocent eyes and a purple envelope peek above the gate.

 

No doubt the kid is waiting for her to go so she could leave the letter. She wonders if her mother knew what she was up to at times like these.

 

Yves figures it wouldn’t hurt to indulge in the little girl’s curiosity, sending a brief wave at her, smiles when she sees a hand hesitantly rise behind the fence, waving back with the envelope.

 

Later, as expected, she comes home to find the letter inevitably in her mailbox, along with an extra note scribbled at the end:

 

(You weren’t supposed to see me!

 

:(

 

But you waved at me so it’s okay! Welcome back!

 

— Your Penpal,

:D Choerry.)

 

—

 

The next time Yves sees her neighbor, it isn’t just Choerry.

 

She catches a flurry of purple hair and tiny legs dashing off for the school bus, haphazard wave thrown over her shoulder before she’s climbing up the stairs and disappearing behind the door.

 

Yves knows it’s Choerry’s mother who’s still standing on the sidewalk, watching the bus fade around the corner, before she’s off to her car, donned in business attire. Much like all the others Yves' already killed.

 

This time clearly won’t be any different.

 

She doesn't mean to stare (she’s got her profile already memorized), but when their eyes meet, Yves doesn't flinch if only so she doesn't look guilty, smoothing the awkwardness of getting caught with a timid wave.

 

When Yves receives a fleeting smile, she thinks it's no surprise where Choerry got hers.

 

Even if it isn’t by blood.

 

—

 

Weekends prove to be quieter, sort of; less curious eyes hovering over the fence and clanging mailboxes.

 

Choerry's letters don't arrive. Perhaps it functions the same way actual mail does — normally on weekdays (not that it's required considering Choerry doesn't need a mailman to get her letter sent).

 

She doesn't mind it though. Besides, Choerry's loud enough to hear through her bedroom window that Yves doesn't need to read scribbles made out of crayon to imagine what she'd say next.

 

“Rise and shineeee!”

 

Yves groans into her pillow, swears that with Choerry next door, she doesn’t need an alarm clock. Though it doesn’t change the fact that she definitely prefers the letters, instead.

 

—

 

Yves forgets that snapshots of her neighbors' lives come with both ups and downs.

 

Sometimes they're quiet, murmurs of anger and disappointment thrumming into her ears through footsteps stomping next door.

 

Sometimes they're loud, screams and yells and crying filtering past her walls. Her pillows muffle nothing.

 

“You're not even my real mom!”

 

Those nights, sleep escapes her. Choerry's hiccuped sobs and her mother's choked whimpers spill through her open window, thundering ache into Yves’ chest.

 

Choerry never mentions them in her letters.

 

—

 

The sun isn’t permanent on Choerry’s face.

 

Yves spots her slumped against the railing when she gets back, makes sure to tug down her sleeves so the bite mark from target #90 on her wrist doesn't show.

 

Choerry's on the steps, as if too weak to bother settling for anything more comfortable than cold iron and cement.

 

She’s not sure if she’s allowed to approach her; it’s not like they’ve been properly introduced, and it doesn’t help that Choerry’s a child. Her mother probably wouldn’t appreciate seeing her daughter talk with a stranger — even if she’s the neighbor next door.

 

Choerry doesn’t spare a glance, seemingly more preoccupied with picking at her shoelace.

 

Yves chooses not to ask. It’s none of her business, and Choerry looks like she’d rather not talk at all, so she leaves.

 

But not without greeting her a “good morning” and grinning when she finally sees a smile carve across the kid’s face.

 

—

 

She meets Choerry's mother at the coffee shop; her drink a harsh brown stain against Yves' burgundy button-down.

 

“I'm so sorry!”

 

It's sticky and it burns and Yves is undoubtedly late for work. Having to go with a splotch of imperfection on her tailored outfit will probably not help her blend in long enough to slit a business partner’s throat.

 

“It's okay,” Yves grimaces at bundles of napkins pressed against her stomach, thankful that her reflex of twisting a wrist doesn’t happen all the way, loosening her grip on the woman. Not yet. She’s not supposed to kill her just yet. “Really.”

 

“No, it's not.” Frantic hands scour for more tissues, movements poised with urgency it almost makes Yves panic even though it's literally just coffee. “I'm sorry, I've just been so out of it lately and I still have to pick my daughter up from school.”

 

“Then you should go,” Yves doesn't like the thought of Choerry waiting, “I'm fine. Seriously. Don't worry about it.”

 

A frown curls her lips, clearly not convinced.

 

Yves tries harder, notes the stray strands of auburn plucking out of the woman’s head, all in disarray like she’s just gotten out of bed, thrown on whatever was the closest to grab, and left before checking in front of a mirror to notice that her shirt’s inside-out.

 

“I’ve gotten coffee spilled on me before, so this isn’t the first time.” She attempts to lighten things up (it was the truth for the most part— when she shoved Target #93 off the rooftop yesterday), ease the wrinkles on her neighbor’s forehead. “Trust me. I got this.”

 

Yves watches her mumble more apologies before darting away with a promise of making it up to her one day.

 

—

 

Yves doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be getting used to this.

 

The grin breaking across her face almost hurts, catching the little girl nearly tripping on branches to hide behind a tree when she steps out, purple hair giving her away.

 

Yves pretends she doesn't see her, if only so she could watch from the corner of her eye how Choerry jumps and squeals when she pulls out her letter from the pile of envelopes and newspaper.

 

She heads back inside so Choerry doesn't have to stay out any longer than necessary.

 

(Are you not going to write me back?

 

 :(

 

I asked mommy why people don't send letters and she said it's a waste of time because there are cellphones now. Is that why you won't write me back?

 

Mommy won't let me have a phone until I'm older so please bear with me for a little longer! I get lonely and so does mommy so write back, okay?

 

Talk to you later!

 

— Your Penpal,

:D Choerry.)

 

Guilt festers as fast as her want to find a piece of paper and pen.

 

She catches herself as soon as she jots down the first letter to 'hello', wondering if it's creepy of her to be writing to her neighbor's child. There isn’t really a point in forming a relationship with them either— much less the kid when her mother’s inevitably going to be a part of her tally.

 

She has half a mind not to bother replying, but glancing back at the sad-smiley face, Yves figures she could do something better. It wouldn’t hurt — she’s used to all the lies she’s promised others before; friendship, comfort, or something more. It didn’t really matter when she’d be off to a new city with a new start and a new name.

 

Tugging her jacket on, Yves goes out to buy a gift for tomorrow.

 

—

 

Yves fiddles with her nerves in one jean pocket, brandishing blueberry muffins in the other.

 

Knocks once. Then twice.

 

Pitter-patter of tiny thuds and an “I got it!” before the door creaks open to purple hair and big innocent eyes.

 

Yves clears . “Hi.”

 

Her nerves dissipate at the giant smile painting across Choerry's face.

 

“Hello, Miss!”

 

“I, um,” it's a far cry from her image of cool and composed, but Choerry's probably not the type to judge, so Yves doesn't need to pretend. “I'm here to say hello.”

 

Choerry giggles. “Hello, again!”

 

Yves chuckles. “Hello,”

 

“Yerim, what did I tell you about opening the door without me?”

 

Auburn cascades over slim shoulders, pulling Yves’ gaze from a childish smile to a terse frown that’s as unwelcoming as she’d expect.

 

Yves straightens up under her scrutiny.

 

“Hi, I'm the new neighbor. Yves.” She lifts her gift of blueberry muffins, catching innocent eyes from her peripheral sparkle with every movement. “I just thought I should say hello.”

 

The kid perks up. “Eevee?”

 

She frowns. “Yves,”

 

“Eevee!”

 

“...Yves.”

 

“I want a Pokemon name too!”

 

“It's not—” Yves pauses, realizes that the glow in her eyes means there's no point in arguing over something that's already been decided. “Never mind.”

 

Giggles worm into her ears. “Hello Eevee!”

 

The child seems too content with her new name to bother settling for the truth. Yves doesn't want to expend any more energy than necessary. Guess she'll have to get used to her new name.

 

She watches the mother's gaze flutter between Choerry (Yerim?) and the muffins, how she pulls Choerry a little closer so she's hiding behind her leg.

 

“Thanks, um,” the mother’s eyes narrow, Yves half worried that she’s done something wrong, when recognition laces her voice. “Wait, you’re…”

 

Yves jerks back when she’s bombarded by apologies a moment later, sheepish at the number of bows and sorrys spilling into her ears, confusion painting Choerry’s face.

 

“Really, it’s okay.”

 

She doesn’t know how many times she’s going to have to repeat herself, but the mother doesn’t seem to want to stop, not until Choerry’s tugging her sleeve and whining about how she’ll likely break her back if she bows any more.

 

“Just— sorry. Again.” Yves watches her straighten up, pink tinted across her cheeks; whether from the excessive motions or embarrassment, Yves isn’t sure. “I’m Jungeun. Kim Jungeun.”

 

“And I’m Choerry!”

 

Yves feels a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

 

“Nice to meet you.”

 

—

 

She wasn’t expecting to have dinner at her neighbor’s home.

 

It was supposed to be just dropping off muffins and exchanging a brief hello or two — maybe recite the story of why she moved here (business deals to close; often traveling, never in the same place twice) so her rehearsals with Haseul wouldn’t be a waste.

 

Leaving was the first option; Yves tried. Hard. But any attempts at reaching the door meant giant teary eyes and a heart-wrenching whine that Yves found more difficult to escape from than any close encounters with police.

 

“She really likes you,” Yves’ drying the dishes, Jungeun by her side at the sink when Choerry’s finally not tugging at the end of her jacket, settled in front of the TV. “She’s normally not this...homey, with a stranger.”

 

Yves’ not sure if it’s smart of her to mention the letters. On one hand, Jungeun deserves to know — it concerns her daughter, after all. On the other, she knows that she’s the only one receiving it (at least, that’s what Yves hopes for — if only because she trusts herself not to do anything besides find it amusing and leave it at that).

 

Suspicion isn't hard to see in Jungeun.

 

“She seems like a good kid.” Yves settles for neutrality, scrubbing at ceramic.

 

“I'm glad,” Jungeun pauses, resting her hands at the edges of her sink. “It's hard though. Sometimes I'm not sure I'm good enough.”

 

Yves slots a plate on the rack. “But you are,”

 

“You don't know me.” Jungeun sounds as sharp as Haseul warned her she’d be.

 

“You take care of her,” Yves stops, reels herself in, makes sure she doesn’t mention the times she hears them through the window of moments when Jungeun and Choerry would laugh together, or whenever Choerry mentions her mother’s famous warm hugs in her letters. “That sounds pretty good to me.”

 

When she’s finally allowed to leave for home, Jungeun promising to properly make it up to her when she’s free, Yves’ tangled up in a hug and purple hair at the door — and a whispered threat into her ear that if she doesn’t come visit again soon, she won’t be getting any more letters for the week.

 

Yves laughs into her shoulder, ignoring the festering growth of something she’s learned to pretend doesn’t exist, and vows for a next time with a pinky promise.

 

—

 

Bumping into Jungeun occurs more frequently now.

 

Sometimes they pause for a short conversation, more out of common courtesy than an excuse to stall time and play catch up (which isn’t necessary considering they see each other too often even on the weekends — whether Yves’ mowing the lawn or Jungeun tending to the Gardenias and Carnations with Choerry).

 

Sometimes they don’t bother stopping at all, passing by with a glance and a polite smile just to acknowledge that they know each other enough for a simple greeting.

 

Yves wasn’t looking for a reason to get to know Jungeun beyond being her next-door neighbor with a kid too curious and eager to be friends. She already knows that whatever the client is concerned about with her, it’s enough to warrant her name on their hit list.

 

But a slap across the face and a burning print of fingers ghosting Jungeun’s cheek was all Yves needed to try and be acquaintances, at least.

 

She intercepts when a hand raises to hit Jungeun again.

 

“What the—!”

 

It’s hard to pretend she doesn’t know how to twist an arm and incapacitate with a flick of her wrist and a pivot to the right. But she’s not here to give up Haseul’s hard work of finally finding a place she could stay in and lay low long enough so she doesn’t exist.

 

“...Yves?”

 

Jungeun’s clutching her face that’s redder than the soft hue on her blouse, stunned frozen that she seems to have forgotten the purse she’d dropped from the impact.

 

“Who the hell are you?!”

 

Yves doesn't let him go, not until she makes it clear.

 

“Raise your hand one more time,” her grip tightens, “and you might never get to use it again.”

 

He doesn't buy her threat until she's digging fingers deeper into his skin, twisting just enough to have him crumpling to his knees; she makes sure everyone hears him beg.

 

He stumbles out of the café when she finally frees him with animosity on his tongue and a curse to be back next time. Not that Yves is worried.

 

She knows how to keep people quiet.

 

“I...thank you,” Jungeun looks sheepish, as if desperate to hide the reddening handprint on her face. “You didn't have to.”

 

Yves picks her purse off the tiled floor, handing it to Jungeun, making sure Jungeun's fingers properly grip the leather strap. She’s trembling.

 

“I'm your neighbor,” Yves cringes at the poor excuse, runs with it anyway. “Who was that?”

 

“Someone not important,” Jungeun sighs, as if to ease the jitters still rattling her skin. “My ex runs a business and I guess one of her loan sharks still thinks we're together or something.”

 

Yves doesn't recall this information on Jungeun's profile.

 

“Did you always know how to do that?” Jungeun appears less shaky now, though she hasn't let go of her cheek.

 

Yves decides it wouldn't look good on her part to leave her like this, tugging her wrist towards the nearest restroom.

 

“I took a few classes,” she says, squeezing water out of a bundle of napkins she's folded together before pressing it against Jungeun's pink skin. “Comes in handy, sometimes.”

 

Jungeun flushes. “Thanks. I always seem to be bothering you.”

 

Yves doesn't reply, instructing Jungeun to hold it down before she's straightening up, readjusting her collar.

 

“I should go,”

 

She should. The next window for her kill wouldn't be open for another forty-eight hours if she misses it. And she's been delaying her primary objective for three weeks already.

 

Which, if she's careful and discreet, could be completed right at this moment. No one else is in the restroom, and it's not like the elderly couple outside could do anything. The employees wouldn't really notice until it's time to clean or use it, either.

 

Haseul would appreciate moving on to another big job, anyway.

 

“Can you come over tonight?” Before Yves fully processes the question, Jungeun's already tripping over her words. “I—I mean, for dinner. You know. Food. Yerim would really like it.”

 

The thought that flickers in her head lasts only a split second— one too long, that Yves still grimaces it even existed. What about you?

 

Yves figures Haseul wouldn't mind waiting an extra week.

 

“Sure.”

 

—

 

Giggles wash over her ears for the next several days, bright and unabashed that Yves almost forgets she’s supposed to be more accustomed to strangled gasps and muffled screams than childish happiness.

 

“It’s a butterfly!”

 

Choerry’s running around in the yard, laughing and chasing after wings that can’t compare to the spectrum of colors in her hair — purple fading to hues of yellow and pink.

 

Jungeun settles beside her on the steps of her front porch. “Want one?”

 

The popsicle’s a welcome cold to the spring heat.

 

“Thanks,”

 

Yves glances at her watch; she has another hour before she’s off to follow a trail that’s supposedly long gone, which would never last considering Haseul’s love for details.

 

“You know, you're a lot quieter than I thought you'd be.”

 

Jungeun's statement doesn't sound like judgement— more of an observation that she just wants to say out loud.

 

Yves hums, sparing nothing else. It’s the truth, so it’s not like there was anything more to say.

 

She feels her neighbor scoot closer, fidgeting with the wooden stick of her ice cream. Yves wonders what has her so nervous.

 

“Would you, um, be up for a movie or something, sometime?”

 

Yves turns her head. “Why?”

 

Jungeun laughs a little, scratching at her cheek. It isn't imprinted with a red palm anymore.

 

“I told you, didn't I? That I'd make it up to you, somehow.” She shrugs, tucking strands of auburn behind her ear. “Sorry it's taken so long.”

 

“It's fine,”

 

“But I'm serious, you know. I want to make it up to you.”

 

Yves shifts, uncomfortable that Jungeun’s attempting to close the distance between them— figuratively and literally, if the knee bumping her leg every once in a while was any indication.

 

“You don't have to,”

 

“You've helped me out more than once. Besides, we're friends, right?” Jungeun nudges her shoulder; it's odd, the sensation that jolts from her warmth, pooling in her chest as if to nestle there. “So it’s fine. Okay?”

 

“Yeah!” Choerry chirps from where she sits by the flowers, giggling, sun kissing her skin along with the pink coloring her cheeks.

 

Yves gives in so she's allowed to leave, a defeated sigh slipping from her lips because staying any longer meant listening to their triumphant cheers and happy laughter.

 

Which wouldn't have been so bad if looking at their smiles wasn't making her feel dizzy with dread.

 

—

 

Yves stands at Jungeun’s bedside half past midnight, watches the calm rise and fall of her chest, the easy way she breathes— with ease like the twist of the latch on her bedroom window.

 

There are several ways she could go about this; loud or quiet, clean or messy, swift or terrifying. But she’d rather not stick around long enough to deal with the chaos after, hear the screams that would come from Choerry when she inevitably stumbles onto the scene much later, registering a nightmare come true.

 

Thankfully she’d be on a plane to Costa Rica by the time that happens.

 

Yves raises her gun.

 

“Mommy?”

 

She ducks the moment the blankets shift and Choerry’s head slides up beneath the covers, hears Jungeun mumble “Yes, baby?” before the sheets fumble and spread over the edges of the bed.

 

Choerry’s groggy “Can’t sleep” has Yves crouching lower when Jungeun sits up, sliding under the mattress the same time Jungeun pulls the blankets up, matches the rustling of cotton and silk so her movements blend in.

 

“C’mere,”

 

The bed creaks, sheets ruffling before it settles and everything stills.

 

To think Choerry had been sleeping right beside her the entire time; Yves ignores the chilling tremor in her chest.

 

She listens to the soft hum of their breathing, knows it’ll take a bit more time before it’s safe enough to slip out and complete her objective.

 

She lays there, stares up at the tiny flecks of dust and wood beneath an old but sturdy support and thinks—

 

“...Do you think Mr. Snuggly Six-Legs will be okay?” Choerry says, voice heavy with sleep.

 

“...Of course,” there’s a yawn, the bed creaking before it quiets again. “It’s a cockroach. They’re hard to kill.”

 

“...That’s good.”

 

—this isn’t supposed to be difficult to do.

 

Yves listens to the silence that stays before sliding out, stands for another attempt at a job that’s far too easy, raising to aim— and hesitates.

 

She watches the family of two hold each other close, her mind’s eye picturing an alternate reality where she had pulled the trigger; she wouldn’t have been on a plane to Costa Rica by the time Choerry found out.

 

Her chest lurches, throat tightening, feeling uneasy and nauseous and dizzy all at once. Yves returns to the window and twists the lock open, escaping a prison too warm that it’s suffocating.

 

Ironic that she came here to kill just to leave feeling like she’s the one dying.

 

—

 

“There's a spot over there,”

 

Jungeun tugs her up the stairs, dodging pieces of popcorn littering the floor up to the seats in the last row.

 

They squish in between two pairs of lovers busy with each other's faces, something Yves thought they'd at least wait to do until after the previews start.

 

Jungeun pulls her sleeve. “Come on, it's comfy. Or at least, as comfy as it can get.”

 

Yves holds onto the bag of popcorn, not as eager to eat the fluffy deformed balls of early salty death as Jungeun. It's foreign to have someone lean over so close, even if it's just so that Jungeun could reach for the food.

 

She's had jobs that required her to be physically close, but nothing's made her stomach churn more than when Jungeun's arm brushes against her sleeve.

 

Yves tries to stay away.

 

“Here,” she hands the bag over to her, knows it's the only way to keep Jungeun from getting any closer. “Looks like you need it more than me.”

 

Jungeun whines, nudging her elbow. “Hush, you.”

 

The movie barely starts when Yves already makes up her mind knowing she's not going to be interested in any of it. A hero who somehow manages to get through every obstacle without hints of a struggle? Ridiculous. But it’s perfect because that means she could rest, let her eyes draw shut and relax before the next kill scheduled for tomorrow.

 

But then there's warmth on her shoulder.

 

“I'm getting kind of sleepy, too.” Jungeun mumbles, faint and tired, like the day's finally catching up to her.

 

Yves' suddenly awake and all too aware of when the curtains finally close on Jungeun; how her breathing slows to a quiet constant, steady like last night, her hold on the bag loose enough that it's left crookedly standing in her arms.

 

Yves is careful to pluck the bag of popcorn out of her lap so it wouldn't spill, gentle so her movements don't wake her, but bothered because it shouldn't even matter to her.

 

Worse is that she can’t help but still be gentle when she shakes Jungeun awake as the credits roll an hour later, ignores the strange impulse to push strands of auburn off her eyes when Jungeun blinks up at her; drowsy and apologetic and grateful—

 

“You’re drooling,” Yves says, aware of how her heart quickens at Jungeun’s lazy smile.

 

— they’re just another pair of eyes. No big deal.

 

Jungeun’s giggles come out airy against her shoulder, sprinkling heat through her sweater.

 

“...Shut up.” She rubs at her eyes, latching onto Yves’ arm when she stands, wobbling to keep upright. Jungeun’s touch burns her elbow. “Not my fault you were comfortable.”

 

Yves slots the spark of pride stuttering in her chest away in the crooks of her mind, pretends it isn’t there so she can at least guide Jungeun’s sleepy steps out of the aisle and down the stairs.

 

“I promise I’ll make it up to you next time.” Jungeun says at her doorstep, bidding her a goodnight before she disappears behind her door, Choerry waving through the window with her babysitter.

 

When Yves receives a text from Jungeun two days later (for a second, she regrets exchanging numbers that first dinner), asking if she’s up for having lunch together, Yves hates how she doesn’t want to say no.

 

—

 

“You’re terrible at keeping promises,” Yves says.

 

Jungeun huffs.

 

“Normally I’m not this bad.” Yves quirks a brow. “Really. Don’t look at me like that. I just tend to have a lot of bad luck, okay?” Jungeun grumbles, picking at the chicken that has an odd taste to it. “I can’t believe they could even screw up chicken.”

 

“Don’t tell me you’re going to make it up to me again,”

 

Jungeun rolls her eyes. “Obviously,”

 

Yves sighs; this should’ve been dealt with a long time ago. “Seriously. It’s fine. You’ve already more than made it up to me.”

 

“By screwing up every time?”

 

“You haven’t screwed up,”

 

Jungeun counts off her fingers a list; Yves’ more impressed that it manages to reach both hands.

 

“One, movie was terrible and I fell asleep on you. Two, I didn’t know the restaurant closed that early. Three, Yerim wouldn’t stop crying about wanting to come along…”

 

Yves lets her go on, if only so she could listen to the lilt in Jungeun’s voice, how her forehead crinkles when she frowns, the sharp purse in her lips when she’s upset that things haven’t gone her way.

 

“So yes, I’m going to make it up to you. Again.”

 

When they leave the restaurant and have to cross the opposite way, it doesn’t escape Yves the gentle squeeze Jungeun gives her hand, or the longer hug before Jungeun finally lets go.

 

There’s a voice in her head nagging at her, feeding her brain that maybe, just maybe, all these promises might only be an excuse to keep this — whatever this is, up.

 

What scares her more is that she hopes it’s true.

 

—

 

She hears a farewell between mother and daughter, a concept so foreign that Yves doesn’t believe it until she sees Choerry do the one thing she thought she’d never do. Leave.

 

She didn’t think Jungeun even had the heart to let go.

 

“Bye Yerim! See you Sunday, okay?”

 

“Okay mommy!”

 

Yves raises her head, blinking slumber-haze away, the sound of thudding footsteps and Choerry’s giggles filtering through the open slit of her bedroom window.

 

Between the curtains she spots a woman dressed in blue and a white smile, Choerry skipping beside her, holding hands like they were always meant to be together.

 

But she isn’t Jungeun.

 

Yves doesn’t recall reading about a woman with a sharp jawline and dark fringe, flipping through memory films for a single moment in the letters Choerry always sends. She didn’t think a stranger that never graced between the lines Choerry loves to write would be familiar enough for Choerry to voluntarily disappear with.

 

It’s not until the blue sedan fades around the corner that Jungeun leaves her porch.

 

Wait—

 

Yves stumbles backwards, nearly falling off the edge of her bed when Jungeun starts walking towards her house instead of her own.

 

What could she possibly want?

 

She scrambles out of bed in a heap of tangled sheets looped around her ankle, kicking them off as she twists in the direction for the front door.

 

Yves skids to a stop by the living room at the sight of her bag opened and her firearms and magazines scattered about on the couch. She knew she should’ve packed them all away before heading to bed last night.

 

Knock, knock.

 

“Yves? It’s me, Jungeun.”

 

“I-I’ll be right there!”

 

Yves shoves them into the bag as fast as she can, lugging it back to her room, zooming for the closet and dumping it behind her curtain of clothes before swivelling back to the door, tripping on slippers.

 

It’s only when she opens it to a sheepish smile and auburn curled behind Jungeun’s ear that Yves loses every rational thought—and her footing.

 

Thud.

 

“Wha— are you okay?!”

 

Her back hurts and so does her pride, but having Jungeun loom over her with worry etched into her eyes has Yves scrambling back up to make sure it doesn’t stay.

 

“Yeah, yeah, just— you know, having a rough day.”

 

Jungeun’s grip around her wrist is way too warm. “...It’s only eight o’clock in the morning.”

 

Yves grimaces. “...Right. I’m just – I’m not a morning person.”

 

Yves’ flustered at how Jungeun’s laugh makes her feel: stomach tumbling, fingers trembling, heart racing.

 

“I can tell,” It worsens when Jungeun reaches out to her, brushing ebony hair strewn across her eyes and smoothing the creases on her shirt. Too close. She’s way too close. “You even lost a sock.”

 

Yves looks down.

 

Huh. That’s a first.

 

“I’m…” words fumble on her tongue, distracted by how Jungeun’s hands have yet to let go of her shirt, sinking heat through cotton and into Yves’ stomach. “...I’m not usually like this.”

 

Nervous wreck wasn’t part of her resume.

 

Jungeun smiles, her grip finally loose, setting Yves both free and on fire for how her warmth still lingers like a ghost on her skin.

 

“I know.” Jungeun pauses, gaze dropping to a spot on the floor, rubbing her nape. “Sorry if I startled you.”

 

“It’s fine,” besides the mini-heart attack and getting her tripping out of bed, of course. “Is there something you need?”

 

“Oh, well, um.” Jungeun fiddles with the ends of her sleeves, rambles on more than Yves’ used to. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you like to hang out today? We could go shopping or play at an arcade or I could tour you around the city—if you’re still not familiar with it, or something.”

 

Yves suspects her list of plans are linked to Choerry’s absence— that maybe Jungeun’s never had to be alone for so long, or maybe she just has time to kill and gets to finally be free to do whatever she wants without a kid to look out for.

 

Regardless, Yves wishes she didn’t mean what she said when she told Jungeun: “Okay.”

 

—

 

Yves expected Jungeun’s promise of spending the day together to be just that. A day.

 

Not the entire weekend.

 

The Sunday sun has nothing on Jungeun’s fleeting smile; shy and small and barely there that Yves only catches it because she never bothers to look anywhere else.

 

Brown locks twirled around a finger, the other hand hidden in her jean pocket, gaze never breaking away from the ground; it’s hard to miss how shy Jungeun’s being when she’s also teetering a foot on the tip of its toes.

 

Her quiet voice doesn’t help. “...Are you free today?”

 

Why it has Yves’ heart drumming against her eardrums, she doesn’t have a clue. And she’d rather never know.

 

At least she didn’t trip on the way to the door today—or fall backwards.

 

Saturday was fine. In fact, it was begrudgingly a fun experience. She didn’t think anyone could be that bad at an arcade game, especially when Jungeun boasted about knowing how to dance. But she lacked the coordination to step on the arrows and it made Yves laugh more times than there were numbers that made up her kill count.

 

“Um…”

 

Yves has no problem being the friend Jungeun keeps hoping she could be.

 

But there’s a nagging feeling in the back of her head that Jungeun’s looking for more than friendship and that’s an issue Yves’ afraid to solve.

 

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Jungeun’s stepping back, an embarrassed smile drawn across her lips and eyes. “You probably want at least one free day to yourself anyway. I get that.”

 

Yves isn’t sure if that’s what she wants.

 

She thinks about the messages Haseul left on her phone waiting to be read, about how she should get a move on, finish the job, snatch a bigger contract.

 

She thinks about how there’s nothing else except targets to track and a bed to sleep in.

 

But by the time the answer comes to her, it stays in , watching Jungeun bid goodbye like she’s used to running away before slipping behind her gate, disappearing into her home.

 

Yves knocks on her door fifteen minutes later, dressed in the clothes Jungeun chose for her yesterday (more like insisted she should have) during their shopping spree, resisting her lips from breaking into a grin she isn’t used to wearing.

 

As soon as it swings open, Yves doesn’t wait for the surprise to leave Jungeun’s eyes, irrationally determined just to make her smile again, see even a peek of white, anything—

 

“I never said I wanted the day to myself.”

 

—when it comes, pearly whites paired with a laugh too loud that’s never less charming, Yves watches Jungeun wear happiness like nothing else fits her better.

 

—

 

They’re three pop drinks and a bowl of popcorn in by the time the sun comes down, lounging in front of a screen watching the credits roll for a romantic comedy only Jungeun paid attention to.

 

Yves’ all too aware of how distracted she’s been with the woman next to her wearing a hoodie she was forced to pick out for Jungeun (a matching set, though Yves makes sure hers doesn’t leave the house).

 

“Thanks for keeping me company this weekend,” Jungeun’s on her fourth swig of sprite, blanket draped over her legs, snuggled in oversized red cotton. “You made it go by pretty fast.”

 

Yves frowns. “...How?”

 

Jungeun blinks, chuckling. “You made me forget I didn’t have Yerim around, for the most part.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“It gets a little lonely without her,” she brushes her hair back, scoffing at the ceiling. “It’s a good thing her visits don’t happen that often.”

 

Yves knows it’s an opportunity to ask, inquire about the woman that had Choerry skipping away from home, but she picks up the muffled sound of an engine running, gravel cracking under pressure before a door slams and the pitter-patter of footsteps trickle up the porch.

 

“Mommy, I’m home!”

 

Jungeun jumps for the door, blanket twisting around her waist, draping over her knees, barely hanging on.

 

As soon as it opens, Choerry’s lunging for a hug Jungeun’s too eager to give, watches her crouch to hold her tighter, their laughter bright that Yves wonders if happiness has always been this contagious.

 

She keeps the smile from bleeding across , preferring to keep within her peripheral the woman still silent by the door.

 

“Did you have lots of fun?” Jungeun pulls back, tucks purple strands behind Choerry’s ear.

 

“Yup! We went roller-skating and ate ice cream and played lots of Mario Kart!” She leans in, cups Jungeun’s ear as if to tell a secret but she’s not any quieter than before. “...Mama isn’t very good at it.”

 

Yves swallows her surprise. Mama?

 

Jungeun shares a high-five with Choerry before standing, addressing the woman who only offers an elusive smile.

 

“Thanks for bringing her home on time.”

 

The woman waves her hand, meets Yves’ gaze briefly that the only reason Yves catches it is because she never stopped watching her in the first place.

 

“Don’t mention it.”

 

Yves recognizes the question scattered across her eyes, curiosity flickering from the unsure smile she sends her way; Jungeun seems to notice it, too.

 

“Oh, right. This is Yves, the new neighbor.” Jungeun gestures to the woman, “Yves, this is Jinsol. My ex—”

 

“—Wife,” Jinsol says, bowing, polite and amiable. “It’s nice to meet you, Yves.”

 

Yves returns it, not sure of how to take the atmosphere b with smoke the moment Jinsol interjected. It’s not quite suffocating, but it’s thick enough that she doesn’t have to look for it to know an ember has already started.

 

“Likewise,”

 

Jungeun clears . “Well, it was nice seeing you Jinsol.”

 

“Making me leave already?” A frown adorns her face, eyebrows slanted that Yves’ impressed at how expressive her features could get. “Not even an offer for dinner?”

 

Yves glimpses at Choerry rubbing her eyes, yawning and blinking sleep away behind Jungeun, attempting to keep her head up but she’s already starting to nod off.

 

“I should get going, actually.” Yves says, pulling her jacket off the coat rack. Besides, she’d rather not stick around with someone who’s part of a much larger piece of Jungeun’s life. “It was nice meeting you, Jinsol.” 

 

“Already?” Jungeun says, shifting to turn to her.

 

Yves moves to catch the blanket dripping past her waist before it falls.

 

She realizes her mistake the moment Jungeun breathes out her name, her breath fluttering against her skin.

 

“...Yves?”

 

She blinks, arms pausing halfway around Jungeun to tie it back before she hesitates, recognizes the breath tickling her neck. To think she’s already practically hugging her— what was she thinking?

 

Yves recalls the woman by the door; The Ex? The Wife? Before finally pulling away, glares down at her own feet because how dare they move on their own, ignoring Jungeun’s gaze burrowing a hole through her forehead.

 

Jinsol’s eyes are just as scathing on her cheek.

 

“Here,” she loops it over Choerry’s shoulders instead, hears the child mumble thank you Eevee, before she latches tighter onto Jungeun’s leg.

 

When she finally lifts her head, Jungeun has a look Yves can’t decipher; it’s nothing like the stares Jungeun would do when she thinks she hasn’t noticed, or the brief glances that tend to linger longer than they should.

 

Yves would know. She does the same thing.

 

Words seem to culminate behind Jungeun’s lips, mouth moving as if to speak, like she’s finally found the letters to define whatever this is, before Jungeun pauses as if to catch herself, gaze flitting between her and Jinsol.

 

She bites her lip.

 

“You know what? You’re right, it’s getting late.” Jungeun grips Yves’ elbow before she gets to leave, halting her. “...Thanks again for keeping me company, by the way.”

 

Jungeun squeezes her arm, whispers goodnight too close to her ear that it breezes into her eardrums, tickles the skin there to a stand; Yves hates how it makes her shiver.

 

Jinsol arches a brow, pouting. “That’s too bad. I was hoping we could all have dinner together.”

 

Yves just smiles. If any of the exchanges irked Jinsol at all, she doesn’t show it.

 

She doesn’t know why Jinsol’s presence bothers her. Maybe it’s the fact that she doesn’t know her at all— foreign and different and someone so close to Jungeun and Choerry that she’s annoyed she doesn’t know a thing about her.

 

Why hasn’t Choerry mentioned her in any of her letters?

 

“Hey, wait up!”

 

Yves’ on the sidewalk by the time Jinsol catches up, a breathless laugh escaping Jinsol’s throat when she’s close enough to count the creases between her brows.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Which one’s your house?” She pauses, waving her hands, frantically shaking her head. “Oops, sorry, I mean, I’m not going to stalk you or anything. Just wondering if it’s a bit of a walk because I could drive you there.”

 

Yves points at the house next door.

 

Jinsol rubs her neck. “Oh,”

 

She shrugs. “Thanks for the offer though.”

 

Jinsol nods, about to turn to her car before she pauses mid-step, brows furrowed and lips curled into a pout; Yves would’ve considered the combination to be cute, if it weren’t for the question that left her lips.

 

“Did Mr. Park move out?”

 

How curious.

 

Lies pile up easily on her tongue. “I would think so, considering I moved in.”

 

“Right,” Jinsol hums, tilting her head. “Was it for sale?”

 

Yves knows when she’s being interrogated. If Jinsol keeps this up, Jungeun won’t be the only one on her hit list (but Jinsol would definitely be the first to go).

 

“A friend told me about the house,” she shrugs. “Don’t know more than that.”

 

It isn’t really a lie. Haseul is the one who showed her the house.

 

Jinsol keeps her gaze for a little longer, scrutinizing, how her lips curl downwards and flutter for a moment – as if there were words waiting to fall out, before finally turning away, waving over her shoulder.

 

“All right, well, goodnight! Maybe next time we could have dinner together.”

 

Yves watches her go. She dials the number that’s been in her memory long since she first learned how to kill.

 

The line clicks open.

 

“Sooyoung? What is it?”

 

Jinsol’s eyes hadn’t been anything special; nothing deep like Jungeun’s or bright like Choerry’s. But they were different – and unsettling. Like a pair of eyes that knew too much.

 

“Haseul, I need you to look into something for me.”

 

—

 

Mornings aren’t spent waiting for the school bus to come by. But Yves chooses to try for once, courtesy of her motor function overriding any logic her mind can come up with in favor of a woman who should be dead by now— and her little girl.

 

“Sorry about last night,” Jungeun says, shy beside Choerry, scratching at her neck as they wait for the school bus to come by.

 

Yves spares a few minutes with them, feet inclined to keep her closer to the two even when her mind’s been nagging her to do the opposite. Haseul would kill her if she knew.

 

“What are you apologizing for?” Yves didn’t think Jungeun was the type to spout apologies so often.

 

Jungeun kicks at a piece of gravel. “I don’t know. The awkwardness? With Jinsol, I mean. Just— everything.”

 

Yves doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not like it isn’t true. But she’s not going to blame Jungeun for the trouble that Jinsol voluntarily offers.

 

“Missed you, Eevee.” Choerry’s fingers slither their way into her hand, sandwiches herself between her and Jungeun. “Did you miss me too?”

 

Yves chuckles; this is different – to be this open, but it doesn’t feel out of place.

 

“Not even a little bit.”

 

Choerry whines. “Eevee!”

 

Their arms swing as they wait for the bus. Yves pretends she doesn’t feel the stares when it rolls to a stop in front of them, the driver putting on a pleasant smile as the door opens.

 

The kids peering through the windows aren’t as subtle, their not-so-hushed murmurs echoing into her ears, tiny fingers pointing in their direction.

 

“Ready to go?” Jungeun doesn’t appear fazed by it, tugging Choerry forward.

 

Yves attempts to let go but Choerry squeezes their grip, swinging their arms as she skips to the steps, bubbly like it isn’t seven-thirty in the morning.

 

“Bye mommy! Bye Eevee!”

 

It’s the first time she watches Choerry go – properly, like she’s a part of this; the image of her fading into the distance tugs at her chest.

 

Is this how Jungeun feels whenever she watches Choerry leave?

 

“Come by for dinner tonight,” Jungeun nudges her arm, playful smile painting across her lips. “I was going to offer that yesterday too, but, well.” She shrugs, as if saying Jinsol’s name more than once is taboo. “Anyway, Yerim would love it if you could make it. She wasn’t kidding when she said she missed you.”

 

Yves raises a brow. “What about you?”

 

Jungeun shoves her, scoffing and turning away as if it’d hide the red colouring her ears any better.

 

“...Do I even have to say it?”

 

Yves laughs. She has a point.

 

—

 

“Nothing?”

 

“Completely clean. Or empty. Whatever.” Haseul hums, papers shuffling in the background. “All I’ve got is that Kim Jungeun is a single-mother who adopted a nine year old kid. Besides the fact that she’s wanted dead, nothing in her file mentions a wife. Or ex.”

 

How annoying. It’s not like Jungeun would go out of her way to make it all up, and Jinsol didn’t seem to be joking when she said it herself, either.

 

“Then who’s Jinsol?”

 

“No one,” Haseul pauses, “for now.”

 

Yves knows that tone.

 

Haseul only ever uses it when she’s hit a dead end, her mind whirring for the next step, the cogs in her head no doubt running on curiosity and the inability to accept that there’s nothing on someone who clearly exists.

 

Her voice hints that she’ll make sure it doesn’t stay that way.

 

“I’ll let you know when I find something.”

 

—

 

Mornings don’t normally get her jolting out the door.

 

Panic squirms through her limbs, jumpstarts her heart the moment she hears a scream erupt next door, shrill and piercing that Yves scrambles from her desk scattered with ammunition and disassembled gun parts to check up on a pair of troublemakers that have somehow managed to make a home in her head.

 

She finds the front door open, another shattering cry bursting into her eardrums as soon as she steps in. Yves sprints down the hall, hears Jungeun’s frantic whimpers of “Nonononono!” from above that it has her thinking of nothing else but her safety and Choerry’s.

 

Dashing up the stairs two steps at a time, fingers desperately gripping on the railings to help launch herself up quicker because Yves’ heart is lodged in and she can’t yell Jungeun’s name— let her know that she’s here.

 

Yves barrels through a closed door, ignores how it falls under her weight, thudding hard against the wooden floor, feet skidding to a stop the moment her eyes land on Jungeun and Choerry.

 

She blinks. Then rubs her eyes, blinking hard to make sure she’s seeing right. She isn’t sure what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t Choerry carrying a—

 

Jungeun screams, ear-shattering and shrill. “G-Get that thing away from me!”

 

— a cockroach.

 

Jungeun swats at empty air, eyes shut tight, petrified and crouched in the corner between her bed and closet, Choerry cackling with happy laughter at her mother’s expense. 

 

Yves doesn’t know where to look. Or how to feel.

 

“But he’s so cute!” Choerry coos at the insect cradled in her hands, spins without warning to show Yves that it has her jolting back, a yelp squeezing through , nearly tripping backwards over the fallen door. “Isn’t Mr. Snuggly Six-Legs cute, Eevee?”

 

First, what an obnoxious name. Even if it’s the second time she’s heard it, it doesn’t sound any less unpleasant. Second, wrong person to ask, since she’d rather jump into mud and get dirt on her face than spare the roach— and all of its six legs, a glance.

 

Yves swallows down her disgust, glaring at tiny beady eyes. “...Sure,”

 

She really dropped everything and came running for this?

 

Jungeun squeaks when the offending creature returns to staring back at her, Choerry’s gaze horrifyingly devilish and scheming for a nine year old.

 

“See?”

 

The cockroach’s antennas twitch.

 

Jungeun shrieks. “No!”

 

Yves turns to leave, still in disbelief that she’d been worried over nothing. Even worse, that she felt relieved that they were safe, before Jungeun’s yelling at her to help— “Or else!”

 

It takes a promise for lunch at Jungeun’s favorite restaurant and the monster being set several feet away bundled in Choerry’s socks before Jungeun considers placing a step out of the corner.

 

She’s convinced out of her spot when Yves promises three more lunch dates and a fixed door, with Choerry pinky swearing to keep Mr. Snuggly Six-Legs out of the house (but secretly stashed away in her room, she tells Yves on the way out to the front yard when Jungeun disappears in the bathroom).

 

—

 

She made sure to repair the broken door, embarrassed because her panic wasn’t necessary and bitter because she shouldn’t have panicked in the first place.

 

“So,” Jungeun’s in a lighter mood, all smiles with teeth and quiet giggles. “You came rushing in, huh. Even broke my door down.”

 

Heat blazes Yves’ cheeks; she hates that she can’t help it.

 

“...I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be,” Jungeun pats her knee, fingers lingering longer than Yves knows is necessary; she distracts herself with tightening the screws on the latches. “It’s sweet of you. Even if it wasn’t really anything to worry about.”

 

“Like a true Pokemon!” Choerry squeals beside her, fiddling with the remaining nails that haven’t been hammered in. “You came in here so fast— like a quick attack!”

 

Jungeun laughs. “Seriously though, thanks. It’s comforting to know that someone would come in like that in case of, well.” She shrugs. “You know.”

 

Yves nods, coaxes Choerry to pass the nails before hammering them in, wonders for a moment if her will to complete her objective is as fragile as a door that falls the second momentum hits.

 

It’s at their porch that Yves finds out it’s even worse than that, Jungeun’s lips swift and chaste against her cheek, murmuring “Thanks again” before she’s being pushed, stumbling down the stairs and Choerry’s “Bye Eevee!” gets muffled behind a closed door.

 

Yves doesn’t know what else to do but head for home feeling dizzy wearing Jungeun’s kiss.

 

—

 

Yves’ made her fair share of mistakes.

 

Missing a clean killing blow to the head, leaving behind a clue that hints a death might not have actually been suicide— she’s made plenty of errors before.

 

“Wait, Choerry!” But agreeing to babysit Choerry while Jungeun went off to do a last-minute errand run to the office— “You can’t go in there,”

 

A pout. “Why not?”

 

—is the worst mistake she’s made to date.

 

Yves huffs, gestures towards the stairs. “It’s dangerous,”

 

“But you’re a Pokemon!” Choerry says it like it’s a fact, a triumphant smile and a pair of tiny hands settled on her hips, chest puffed as if anything coming out of is the truth. “I know you’ll protect me so I’m not scared.”

 

If only she knew.

 

Yves masks her grimace with a laugh. “You’re more of a protector than I am, trust me.”

 

Choerry tilts her head, confusion swirling in her eyes but Yves waves it off, offering her hand instead because she doesn’t expect Choerry to remember that night she had saved her mother at gunpoint.

 

“Just hold on and be careful, the steps are a little wonky, okay?”

 

It’s inevitable that Choerry finds joy in the trinkets and knick knacks stashed away in the attic: a broken slinky, jack in the box, dusty bulbs, and a music box.

 

All Yves sees are antiques and mementos that don’t belong to her.

 

“Isn’t this beautiful, Eevee? Does it still work?”

 

She can’t comment. She wouldn’t know when the true owner of the lamp colored in dusty purple and yellow stars is six feet underground rotting in the backyard.

 

Yves guides her to the nearest power outlet. “Let’s find out.”

 

When Choerry flicks the switch, the lamp lights up and so does her eyes, like a cacophony of stars and curiosity. Choerry lunges at her for a hug too small and too tight, how she squeals “Amazing!” like it was one of the seven wonders of the world.

 

Yves hates it.

 

Later, with Choerry in tow holding onto the lamp they’ve cleaned up and polished for her to take home, Yves turns down Jungeun’s offer for dinner as a thank you.

 

She needs to stay away. Babysitting Choerry was her worst mistake. But playing house and knowing it won’t last makes her feel sick – as if her world’s been its head and she’s forgotten what it’s like to be herself.

 

Yves calls Haseul for more contracts, drowns herself in extra kills for days – ones that are significantly easier than the mark on Jungeun’s head; relishes in the feel of crushing a spine, piercing a heart, twisting a neck – crack.

 

She swims in the adrenaline rush; the blood pumping in her ears when she’s on the verge of getting caught makes her world spin again. So she waits; she waits until her kills get easier to do, methods becoming swifter, cleaner – polished and unbridled in preparation for the mark next door.

 

After all, Jungeun deserves the best.

 

—

 

Yves doesn’t need the bravery that could be found at the bottom of a bottle she can’t pronounce.

 

She’s gotten enough courage from the scoreboard of lives she’s taken to be proud of, carries them like a belt that no one else gets to see until it’s too late.

 

Choerry probably found hers because her mother hasn’t come back yet.

 

“Will you help me find mommy?”

 

Yves had jolted midway through untying her tie when Choerry came knocking at her door alone at 7 PM on a school night. It didn’t take much to convince her when she was already stepping outside the moment she saw Choerry through the peephole.

 

This is the first time they’ve spoken to each other in weeks, other than reading Choerry’s one-sided letters; Yves made sure she’d be out of the house before they’d be awake, and back home long after night falls.

 

Normally on nights like these when she’s back earlier than usual, she’d ignore Choerry’s obnoxious knocking or doorbells, ignore Jungeun’s hopeful “Maybe she’s really busy. We can try again next time, okay?” and Choerry’s sullen “Okay…”

 

But tonight isn’t the same; Jungeun’s voice didn’t come in to remind Choerry that there’s always next time – even if her voice would grow quieter and more doubtful each time.

 

“Did she leave you alone?”

 

Choerry fidgets, picking at the ends of her hair.

 

“No, my babysitter's at home. But she’s been trying to call mommy because she was supposed to come back a while ago.”

 

Definitely not something Jungeun would do; she loves Choerry too much to leave her alone for too long.

 

Yves crouches, their eyes levelled; Choerry’s gaze is glistening and wide-eyed and scared. She pretends her chest isn’t aching to hold her, reassure her that it’ll be okay.

 

Funny how weeks of learning how to not feel anything else but the rush of a kill comes crumbling to nothing with just a single, teary look.

 

“Did she tell you where she was going?”

 

“Something about work. Like, a party?” Choerry bites her lip, obvious by how trembles that she’s trying not to cry. “Maybe my babysitter knows more?”

 

Yves does just that, taking her hand and guiding Choerry back home to ask for more that might help. She squeezes tiny fingers when she feels them tremor even in the safety of her house.

 

Jiwoo’s a lot more soft spoken than Jungeun.

 

“She said there’s a work party,” Jiwoo hoists Choerry up into her arms, concern palpable by the curves of her brows. “It’s at a bar downtown. I can give you the address.”

 

“Thanks,” Yves turns to leave, but not without Jiwoo’s concern laced with a hint of panic slithering into her ears, tugging at her chest.

 

“She’s never missed a call, and she’s never been late to come back.”

 

She isn’t deaf to hear Jiwoo’s warning, too cautious and thick with be careful that Yves starts to feel worried, too.

 

—

 

Yves finds Jungeun in the middle of a party with too much smoke and pulsing bright lights.

 

Jungeun’s beaming like a neon sign at the bar in a wine-red dress with a glass half empty and head lolling forward attempting to ask for more.

 

Yves slips in beside her, places a hand on top of her cup, leaning in close to her ear so that she could hear her over the obnoxious sound of noise they call music.

 

“Shouldn’t you be heading home?”

 

Jungeun blinks up at her, gaze blurred with too much to drink. She highly doubts that Jungeun would voluntarily get herself this far out of her own head.

 

“...You’re here...” she hiccups, “...I-I was just thinking about you— I can't believe you're actually here...”

 

“Right, well, here I am.” Yves ignores that slip-up of being part of her thoughts (a can of worms and feelings she’d rather not open any time soon), scanning every face that glances their way, notes how two seem too preoccupied with watching them to be considered partying. “And I’m getting you out of here.”

 

“But why?” Jungeun’s wobbling off the stool, clutching Yves’ arm. “It’s—it’s fun, getting free drinks. I’m getting promoted, did you know?”

 

Yves ignores the heat coiled around her chest when Jungeun shifts closer, pressing against her. Yves has to hold her up so she doesn’t fall.

 

She’s more troubled with the two strangers that seem tired of waiting, catching them move closer, slipping through gaggles of people too drunk to notice anything.

 

It’s only when scatters of light from the disco ball bounces off a pistol in one of their hands that Yves knows she’s just interrupted their plans for an easy kill.

 

“We’re leaving. Now.”

 

Jungeun’s grip on her tightens.

 

“But I like this...” Yves trembles at the breath pressing against her neck, jerking back when lips graze her skin, fleeting. “...Just stay like this.”

 

Yves yanks Jungeun’s hands off her, grasping her face and makes sure Jungeun’s looking at her. It’s the closest they’ve ever been, the most she’s ever touched her – it’s driving her mad for how her fingers quake to keep her just like this.

 

“We have to go.” Jungeun whines, gaze hazy. “Stay with me. Okay?”

 

She slumps against Yves’ shoulder, nodding off as if sleep’s about to take her.

 

“...Okay...”

 

Yves holds her tight, maneuvering through the crowd, ears thrumming from the bass bleeding out of the speakers and straining to hear footsteps that attempt to follow them.

 

When she makes it outside, she rounds a corner, hides behind a garbage bin to lower Jungeun next to. Jungeun’s already dead weight, how her eyes barely stay open; Yves can’t move with two pursuers like this. Especially when Jungeun’s persistent to still cling on.

 

Yves peels Jungeun’s grip off her now-wrinkled tie, squeezing her hand so Jungeun would look at her, watching her blink slowly, gaze fixated on her lips.

 

“Just sleep, I’ll be right back.”

 

It’s almost amusing how fast Jungeun listens.

 

She slips off her jacket to cover Jungeun, provide both warmth and a momentary shield to hide behind. Yves loosens her tie, wrapping both ends around her hands and stretches so it grows taut.

 

Footsteps click closer, calculated and careful. Yves crouches right beside the corner, pressed up against the wall, waiting for the moment the end of a gun peeks past the brick wall before seizing their wrist and twists.

 

She drags him with her makeshift fiber wire, hears him yelp before she kicks his knee off balance, crouching to have his body shield her when she catches his partner raise her gun.

 

Yves circles her arms around his head until she’s got his neck caged in her tie, yanking hard so all she hears is him choking for air.

 

“You —!”

 

She shoves his body forward the moment his partner shoots, hears the bullet tear through his chest, forces the shooter to sidestep his flailing but Yves’ quicker, freeing her hands to lock onto the woman’s wrist, yanks and twists so the gun falls before she elbows .

 

Yves wraps her arms around her neck, listens to her gasp for air.

 

“Who ordered this?”

 

The woman grunts, scratching at Yves’ arms, nails scarring through her skin but Yves has felt worse.

 

Yves squeezes harder.

 

“D-Doing your job!”

 

It doesn’t surprise her. It really shouldn’t. But here she is, feeling like reality has just kicked her in the chest, cracking her ribs to have her bones puncture her lungs, leaving her breathless. 

 

“…Tell them she’s mine,” Yves loosens a bit, lets oxygen finally fill the assassin, hears her sharp intake of air. “And I’ll let you live.”

 

She feels her frantic nod, letting go and watching her scamper off, her partner left behind on the sidewalk.

 

Yves drags him to the dumpster, removing her tie from his neck and feeling thankful that there’s already enough garbage bags to silence his fall, shifting them around so he’s at least hidden away for a little longer.

 

She pockets her tie to dispose of later before crouching in front of Jungeun, amused to find her still fast asleep, snuggled in her blazer.

 

Yves carries her into her car, makes sure she's comfortable in the backseat before she plucks out a spare button-down in the trunk to replace the one she has on, thankful that none of the blood stained Jungeun.

 

She heads for home, pretending she doesn’t hear Jungeun call her name even in her sleep.

 

—

 

Choerry's understandably teary-eyed when she makes it to their door, watches how grown-up she's already gotten when she leads Yves to Jungeun's bedroom, Jiwoo not far behind.

 

“Be careful, okay?” Choerry says when Yves' about to place Jungeun on the bed, her steady breaths tickling Yves’ neck. “Mommy wakes up if you move too much, and she can't sleep well when she's cold.”

 

Choerry’s gripping the end of the bed, staring up at her with eyes that know far more than Yves could possibly understand.

 

“Okay,”

 

Yves’ careful when laying her down, tugs at her jacket to get it back only to have Jungeun turn over and engulf half of it.

 

Jiwoo chuckles. “Guess you'll just have to wait for tomorrow.”

 

She has mixed feelings about that. Yves’ relieved she made it in time, but it’s concerning to know that she’s no longer the only one that’s assigned to kill her. She’d rather not have to worry about anyone else.

 

Hopefully that rookie assassin’s convincing enough to give her a few more days.

 

“Thank you, again.” Jiwoo has on a grateful smile across her lips. “She probably wouldn’t have been able to make it home without you. Though I’m surprised she’d drink enough to pass out.”

 

Yves doesn’t correct her on how it likely wasn’t Jungeun’s choice.

 

“Will you be staying for the night?” Yves says instead, gaze flickering between memorizing the slopes on Jungeun’s face and Choerry’s – worry deeply engraved on the little girl’s skin.

 

“Yeah,” Jiwoo says, rubbing her arm. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving Yerim on her own. Even if Jungeun’s technically already home.”

 

Yves nods. Good.

 

“Eevee?” There’s a tug on her fingers, “Are you hurt?”

 

“What?”

 

“There,” Choerry points at the space just above her wrists, jagged streaks of nails running across her skin in pink. “You look hurt.”

 

Yves’ quick to hide them behind her back, shakes her head at Jiwoo’s face drawing concern again.

 

“It’s nothing,” her voice comes out clipped, backing away, hurrying to turn the knob so she could leave; the room feels like it’s shrinking; she’s suffocating again, how tightens, lips going dry. It’s too foreign. There's no control. “I’ll be heading out now. Goodnight.”

 

She ignores the fact that what she’s doing is running away, that scurrying off all because she’s afraid of an innocent question is better than facing worried eyes and talking about the truth.

 

In the warmth of her house, Yves tends to the scratch marks that have marred her skin, hisses when it stings to pour antiseptic over them.

 

None of this would’ve happened if she had already just killed—

 

(“...You’re here… I-I was just thinking about you— I can’t believe you’re actually here...”)

 

— stop.

 

When she’s finally done and they’re secured in bandage wraps, Yves slumps into her bed, waiting for sleep that doesn’t come until the sun’s already awake.

 

—

 

Time slips past her, just as elusive as the feelings that won’t leave her alone; it makes her care too much, think too much, worry too much — all for things that aren’t supposed to last.

 

Yves doesn’t get up when the doorbell rings.

 

Not even when she can hear Choerry yell through her closed window, “Rise and shineee!” And Jungeun’s frantic “Shh! Yerim, she might still be sleeping!”

 

Yves doesn’t want to deal with the noisy pair of trouble next door that have somehow wormed their way into her heart. Wasn’t plaguing her thoughts 24/7 more than enough for them already?

 

But Yves does get up when her cellphone rings.

 

“Odd. You don’t sound awake,”

 

She scoffs, lays back into her pillows.

 

“Good morning to you too, Haseul.”

 

“It’s afternoon, actually. But thanks. You too.” She pauses, hears shuffling of paper and a pen scratching against the surface. “Got another job for Saturday. Just need your scope. Easy.”

 

Yves shuts her eyes, rests an arm over her face; she wonders if she’s allowed to ask.

 

“Why Jungeun?”

 

“First name basis now, are we.”

 

“You know what I mean,”

 

Haseul hums to a song Yves doesn't know.

 

“Well, besides the fact that we were paid? Not a clue.” Haseul stops, clicking sounds like a keyboard clacking away in the background. “The client’s pissed, by the way. Wondering what’s taking so long.”  

 

Typical.

 

“Don’t you want to know?”

 

“Not really,” Haseul pauses, “and you shouldn’t want to, either.”

 

Yves’ far gone from wanting to know nothing.

 

Maybe it’s her silence that gives it away, hears Haseul sigh over the phone. She can imagine her rubbing her temple, as if a headache has come on.

 

“Just. Don’t worry about it. All that matters is getting things done. There are plenty of places to see after this, so don’t sweat it.”

 

—

 

Stepping out for fresh June air that evening has never felt so freeing. The dark sky and night lights always manages to soothe the nerves still latched onto her limbs, odd jitters that torment her when she sleeps, playing dream sequences of a white-picket fence with the neighbors next door.

 

“Eevee!”

 

Yves’ thankful she chose to wear a long-sleeved shirt; she doesn’t need Choerry probing about her arms again.

 

“Hey,”

 

Choerry runs up to her with a new letter, but there’s something different in the way she looks at her; Yves can’t place it.

 

“Please read this when you can.”

 

Yves arches a brow, nodding, unnerved by the lack of happiness lines crinkling her eyes when she smiles. Almost like it takes too much energy to muster.

 

“Hey!” Jungeun’s coming up to her, her arms cradling the blazer Yves had covered her in just last night. “Um, here. I had it dry cleaned for you.”

 

They must've been keeping watch to catch her this quickly.

 

Yves tries to avoid touching Jungeun’s fingers when she takes it, hoping she doesn’t notice her shiver when she fails; the brief brush of her skin makes her fingers simmer.

 

“You didn’t have to,”

 

Jungeun shakes her head.

 

“I don’t remember much from last night, but Jiwoo and Yerim told me you brought me home.” Jungeun shuffles her feet, head bowed, auburn masking her face. “So, thanks. I’m sorry I’ve been such a handful.”

 

It’s technically Yves’ fault. If she had already gotten rid of Jungeun the first few days she’d just moved in, none of this would’ve happened. But she was never the type to rush for a kill – and now she’s paying the price for it – with an aching heart and a pounding head every time she considers getting it done.

 

Yves can’t look at her. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

Maybe it’s Choerry’s fault. Her and her stupid letters.

 

“Eevee!” Yves feels her tug at her sleeve, “Will you come by Saturday? We’re having a party!”

 

“A party?”

 

Yves would think Jungeun was done with parties.

 

“It’s her birthday on Saturday,” Jungeun says, ruffling Choerry’s hair. “Go on. Tell her how old you’re going to be.”

 

Tiny fingers make up ten.

 

“Will you be there?” Giant eyes and a hopeful smile etch into her brain.

 

Yves knows she shouldn’t. She already has another kill assigned the same day. But it’s never been easy to say no to Choerry or Jungeun.

 

“Of course.”

 

She holds Choerry tight when she smothers her for a hug.

 

—

 

Her mind wanders often now, but not for illusions with a fantasy home and a family to live with.

 

“Hey, you seem…” Jungeun fiddles with the end of her sleeve, “...distant. Did I do something wrong?”

 

Yves' surprised at how quick Jungeun is to notice; even more so to actually ask. But Choerry's latest letter had been concerning.

 

(Hello, Miss Eevee!

 

I think it's not bad to stare if it's just a little bit, but is it okay to be everywhere too? I always see someone watching mommy whenever we go shopping or play in the yard. I know mommy wouldn't mind if it's you, but it's not.

 

Can you watch over mommy when I'm not there?

 

Thank you!

 

– Your Penpal,

:) Choerry.

 

PS. Mommy said money helps sometimes, so I saved up!)

 

To think she'd get hired for guard duty. $20.17 isn't anything compared to the six to nine figures she'd easily earn from contracts. Or Jungeun's head.

 

“No, you didn't.” Yves pats the space beside her on her front steps. “I've just been busy.”

 

Jungeun chooses to sit a lot closer than she expected; she’s not being very subtle (then again, when has she ever been?)

 

“Oh, okay.” Jungeun laughs a little, more jittery than Yves' used to. “I was worried, you know. I like you.” She halts, sees how her ears flare pink, stuttering. “I-I mean, having you.” Yves arches a brow, recognizes the flush growing on Jungeun's cheeks; a savory hue more softer than the shirt she wears. “…Just— having you around.”

 

Yves wonders if Jungeun's skin is as warm to touch as it looks.

 

She saves her from further embarrassment, choosing not to address the obvious nerves on Jungeun’s tongue, fiddling with the wrinkled change Choerry gave her, in her pocket.

 

“Is Choerry at school?”

 

“Yeah,” Jungeun rests her elbows on her knees, cradles her face with hands that barely cover the soft hue still painting her cheeks. “And it's my day off so I've just been cleaning around the house. What about you?”

 

Yves spots a figure from the corner of her eye, grateful that there's at least one good thing to come out of Jungeun's need to be closer. She's easier to watch.

 

She turns a little, facing her, makes sure Jungeun's warmth is close enough to feel, hand settled on the cement step just behind Jungeun.

 

“Same here. Just relaxing.”

 

Jungeun's still pink, though she isn't sure if it's because she's still embarrassed about her stuttering or if it's because of their proximity.

 

“I know about the letters, by the way.”

 

Yves stiffens, wonders just how much Jungeun actually knows.

 

“Never read any of them, but I knew she was writing to you. Yerim's not as slick as she thinks, scrambling off next door as if the house has no windows.” Jungeun chuckles, drawing invisible circles with her finger on the porch in the little space that’s left between them. “I trust she writes good things though. Does she?”

 

“Yeah,” Yves ponders on the weight of her next words, figures it's something Jungeun deserves to hear. “She really loves you.”

 

Jungeun picks at the ends of her jeans, her smile quiet and small and easy to miss, but it's all Yves cares to focus on.

 

“I love her, too.” Jungeun says.

 

Yves watches from the corner of her eyes how there’s still someone else – too far to make out well, but close enough to notice their presence.

 

Jungeun's head rests on her shoulder. It's familiar.

 

“Thanks for keeping Yerim company,”

 

There's a lump in ; too warm, too soft, too much. Doesn't help that her fingers itch to hold Jungeun, balling them into a fist so they can't reach out.

 

“...She wrote that you think I'm pretty.” Yves says, anything to get rid of it – this feeling.

 

Jungeun yelps, slaps her arm as if it'd erase a face that's a deeper shade than Yves' favorite pair of shoes.

 

Yves spares her from any more stumbling syllables with a nudge of her leg, laughing when Jungeun hides behind her hands, peeking between her fingers.

 

“For the record,” she reaches out, tucks strands of auburn away from Jungeun’s face; it doesn’t matter if they’re being watched – they should know Jungeun is hers. “I think you're pretty, too.”

 

—

 

Eyes follow Jungeun, but it's all they settle to do. Yves wonders if it's because they're just waiting for her to pull through.

 

“Do you think Yerim would like this?”

 

Jungeun's busy fluttering through stacks of purple; from shirts to sweaters, headbands and earrings. She doesn't notice anything else, not even when the same woman that's been tailing her the past few days enter the store.

 

Yves knows she won't do anything, not when she stares at her like a reminder before she walks past, slips a piece of paper in Yves' hand and disappears out the door.

 

“She'd like anything from you,” Yves says, distracted.

 

Jungeun chuckles. “How convenient.”

 

Yves reads the one-sentence note when Jungeun's not looking.

 

(You have two days.)

 

“Yves?”

 

Jungeun's gotten bolder, or maybe Yves' gotten less sharp, how Jungeun’s hand cups her cheek, guides Yves to look at her.

 

Yves swallows the lump in . “Yes?”

 

She crumples the note in her pocket.

 

“Is something bothering you?”

 

She's tired. She doesn’t need to be reminded of what to do, but her agency doesn’t seem to care bout wasting resources on babysitting her.

 

Even worse, she doesn't want to think about doing anything to Jungeun, doesn't want to think about the fact that it's either her, or someone else who'll finish the job, if they get impatient enough. She doesn't want to think about how Choerry will get left behind.

 

Yves turns her head, lips pressing against the palm of Jungeun's hand.

 

“Y-Yves?” Jungeun jumps, startled, but she doesn’t pull away.

 

“Sooyoung,” Yves mumbles against soft skin, knows it wouldn't matter if Jungeun knew her real name when she'd be gone in two days. “You can call me Sooyoung.”

 

The truth is more intimate than any kiss she could give, but Jungeun leans up anyway, lips hot against the corner of Yves' mouth.

 

She doesn't really know where Jungeun got her courage from, but Yves finds hers when Jungeun mumbles “Sooyoung,” as if to test it out on her tongue. It sounds sinfully divine – makes her dizzy with an urge to just hold her closer, chasing for the taste of her name on Jungeun’s lips.

 

Jungeun mumbles her name like she's found peace, listening to her soft sighs and quiet giggles. She’ll make sure her last breath will feel just as sweet.

 

—

 

“You sound like you're in a hurry,”

 

“I am,” Yves huffs, readjusting her scope, tightens the suppressor. “Now will you just tell me which one to shoot?”

 

Haseul chuckles, which she does often, Yves realizes, when she's far too amused to focus on anything else but the current subject of her glee.

 

“It's not like you've got anything else to look forward to.” She dreads the quiet that comes after, a sign that Haseul's probably already thinking about every possibility. “...Tell me, what's got you so worked up that you want to finish a task that you'd normally take your time with?”

 

It’s Choerry’s birthday today and she’s already missing half of it.

 

“It’s nothing,”

 

A snort rings through her earpiece. “Right,”

 

“Really,” Yves readjusts her hold, makes sure her M21 sits snug against her shoulder. “It’s nothing.”

 

“Okay then. Well.” It sounds like she’s rummaging through a drawer or filing cabinet, hearing the screech of metal and a sharp clang. “It’s the lady in red.”

 

Haseul’s humming eases little tension that’s coiled around her fingers, hates how she’s dragging this longer than necessary.

 

Through her scope she watches people come in dressed in Burberry and Valentino, filling in cushioned seats around an oval desk; city lights a backdrop to marble floors and chandeliers.

 

Tonight won't be difficult; it won’t take much effort when the weather's calm and wind isn't an issue, even if she’s five hundred meters away.

 

She knows how to keep a steady grip as long as she isn’t distracted – which is why Haseul’s probing curiosity has irritation simmering in her head.

 

“...I don’t know why you’re still there.” Haseul pauses, the sound of papers shuffling through. “I’ve already booked you a flight to Paris in advance, which, by the way, you should be on next Friday considering we never pulled through with Costa Rica.”

 

That startles her, unsteadies her aim.

 

“What?”

 

It’s not really a surprise. Shouldn’t be, anyway. It's imperative that she move often, considering there's now more than just murmurs about the sudden assassinations of high-ranked officials in a single city, courtesy of her, of course.

 

Her kill counts have increased, rumors getting louder, so it's only a matter of time before she's forced to leave.

 

“You heard me.” There’s that annoying humming again, a sign that Haseul’s mind is whirring with too many ideas and not enough care for the task at hand. “You keep taking up jobs that frankly mean nothing to us. So why is the one person who does matter in our grand scheme of things, not, you know, dead?”

 

“You know me,” Yves shakes off the nerves from her hands, settling her vision back through her scope for a woman in red. “It's like you've said. I like to take my time.”

 

She watches the door open, spots a woman donned in heels and a backless dress painted in that one color she's been assigned to get rid of for the night. She waits for the target to settle into the last open seat, finger closing in on the trigger.

 

Yves freezes the moment she swivels around.

 

She still has one more day.

 

“Personally, I think you've had plenty of time.” Haseul says casually, so off-handed it feels like whiplash for how much it weighs Yves down. “She thinks this is just another last-minute meeting and not an open feast with several hitmen in the same room. That is, if you don't take the shot first.”

 

Yves can't speak. Her grip tremors.

 

Haseul continues on like she can't hear how her breaths come out faster, shorter— but Yves knows better.

 

“I'm surprised she came by since it's her daughter's birthday today, which I'm sure you knew about already.” She pauses, humming that annoying song Yves could never put a name to. “Maybe it's because I told her you'd be there. I mentioned a made-up conference with her company and yours – which you never worked for, of course. I just didn’t think she’d actually listen. Much less believe it.”

 

Her hands go numb, heart thudding against her rib cage, throat going parched. She watches through the scope how Jungeun’s eyes flit around, as if searching, the small pout on her lips carving her face when she doesn’t seem to find whatever it is she’s looking for.

 

There’s nothing but a thrumming buzz swirling in her head, blocking out every noise.

 

If Haseul’s saying something now, Yves can’t hear it.

 

All she sees is the moment she’s supposed to use, a minute too long before someone else at the table gives up waiting, standing and reaching for his gun.

 

Her nerves fade into focus and steady breaths, still hands and a quiet mind, prioritizing the life swirling in Jungeun's eyes.

 

She won’t miss. After all, Choerry did hire the best.

 

Yves takes aim, and fires.

 

-

 

Couldn't stay away from Lipves. So What era provided so much content that it still surprises me that there doesn't seem to be much love for them. Or maybe I've been looking in the wrong places. Maybe Lipves shippers are just shy. I don't know. But what I do know is that Choerry is adorable. 

I hope you've enjoyed this update. Until next time.