Four months to situate herself, get familiar with her surroundings, the house, the neighborhood, the people.

 

Three ways to go about it: play as a workaholic lawyer, depressed and lonely writer, or a single and loving mother.

 

But she only has two hours to tell them what she’s decided on and one person she could actually count on to help her out with packing away her things for her new life.

 

“This is— this is insane!” Jinsol’s flailing hands around, clearly distressed — if the strands on her head poking sideways and in all directions weren’t already giving it away. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

 

There’s a lot of things she wants to do — her job, for one. And two, relax. Hopefully the new house they’ve gotten for her is comfortable enough for that.

 

“I’m sure,”

 

“But why?”

 

“It’s a job, Jinsol.” Jungeun says, folding a red shirt before stuffing it in the corner of her luggage. “Besides, I’m the one who came up with the idea in the first place.”

 

“Which I still think is crazy, by the way.”

 

Jungeun ignores her.

 

“If it’s not me, then it’ll just end up being pushed to someone else. Might as well get the job done right the first time around with someone who’s actually good at it.”

 

“Still,” Jinsol pouts, brows furrowed in that signature curve that it should be illegal for how lethal it could make her decisions sway. “Isn’t this too dangerous?”

 

Volunteering to have herself potentially killed off for a chance at nailing an elusive crime syndicate?

 

Dangerous wouldn’t even begin to cut it.

 

“Sol,” Jungeun smiles, wistful. “Since when is our work ever not?”

 

Jinsol whines. “You know what I mean…” she sighs, plops next to her luggage on the bed. “I’m just worried about you.”

 

She gets it. It’s not every day you get a target placed on your back. And voluntarily, even. But at least she gets to earn more than anyone else sitting at the top of the pyramid.

 

That is, if she lives long enough to enjoy it.

 

“Covert operations have been my thing for years. I’ve lived through worse.” Disguising herself to be someone she’s not is a skill she’s learned to master— her life on the line one too many times makes her better than most. “Pretending to be a single mom will be a walk in the park.”

 

After all, she doesn’t know how to be anything but someone else.

 

Besides, out of all the options she has, getting to rest a little as a single mother sounds like a blessing.

 

“With a giant red bulls-eye on your back,” Jinsol quips.

 

Jungeun rolls her eyes. “I’m aware,”

 

“You won’t even know who the assassin is until it might be too late,” Jinsol shoves a pair of pajamas into Jungeun’s suitcase with a huff, “don’t you get that?”

 

Jungeun laughs, ruffling Jinsol’s hair, watches her grumble as she attempts to smooth out the strands, slapping her hands away.

 

“I’ll be fine.”

 

—

 

Her confidence was built from too many close-calls and split-second decisions that conveniently piled up in her favour for the top.

 

She’s made choices that cost people’s lives for the greater good; sacrificed a few for the many — old, traditional, questionable, morals that have shaded her vision grey that it’s foreign to see any other colour.

 

So when she follows Vivi up a flight of steps chalked-full of crayon in shades of red to purple, Jungeun wonders if they’re where they should be.

 

“What are we doing here?”

 

Vivi chuckles. “Meeting your partner,”

 

She pauses, foot teetering at the edge of a crooked rainbow.

 

“Partner? What partner?” The words tumble out of , barely registers they’ve already been said before she’s rolling out more. “Wait, why do I even need one? I’m playing a single mother—“

 

The syllables catch up to her, recognition settling in her head, the truth uncomfortable and terrifying.

 

“Exactly,” Vivi’s made it up to the top, idling by the entrance. “The point of a disguise is to be convincing, isn’t it?”

 

Dread crawls like bile up , staring up at the letters pinned just above the doors, Vivi disappearing behind them.

 

Love Cherry Magic — House for Gifted Children.

 

—

 

Second-guessing gets people killed in her line of work.

 

So Jungeun learned how to make decisions and never regret them, swallow such pills down like they were nothing: ignore the tiny voice echoing in her head, or the little prickle in her chest, tugging at her heart and trying to convince her that maybe there was a better way of handling things.

 

But the moment her choice comes dressed in purple overalls, big brown eyes, and a small smile, Jungeun feels close up.

 

This pill is harder to swallow.

 

“Here’s your partner,” Vivi says, nudging the little girl to let go of her leg, looking exasperated at how the kid latches on like she’d much rather stay where she is. “Go on, why don’t you say hi?”

 

Jungeun’s breath catches in . She attempts to down the anxiety clawing up her chest as the kid teeters on her feet, innocent eyes shifting between staring at the ground and meeting her gaze.

 

“...Hi.”

 

It doesn’t work.

 

Her voice jolts Jungeun into action, gears whirring away in her limbs, frantic.

 

“Wait, are you serious?” Jungeun reaches out, grip tightening on Vivi’s shoulders, hands trembling for the possibility of having a child’s life compromised by work. “You can’t just bring a kid in! It’s dangerous!”

 

Vivi’s gaze hardens, but she sees the way understanding swirls through her eyes, doubt flickering in pools of brown.

 

“She comes with the job, Jungeun.” She pats her arm, attempts to ease her hold. It works. “What did you think ‘single mom’ meant?”

 

“I—“ the number of ways this could all go wrong flashes through her mind, “— I never thought an actual kid would come in!”

 

“It’s convincing,”

 

“It’s stupid.” Jungeun rakes fingers through her hair, pretends she doesn’t notice the child shrinking away at her voice. “Who allowed this? This is crazy. There’s no way I’m letting this—“

 

“The director,” Vivi clears , tucks her hair back. “The director gave the green light. She knows the stakes.”

 

Fury flashes with each of her steps, moving forward.

 

“She’s betting on her life!”

 

“Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

 

“It’s not the same!” Jungeun’s seething, “I know what I’m doing, but she doesn’t—“

 

“...I do,” it’s small, quiet, but it’s enough to puncture her ears, ease the rattling in her chest.

 

Her words die on her lips, voice trickling into nothing, spotting the little girl stare up at her like she knows too much.

 

“I do.” She says again, louder this time, but just as firm. “I do know.”

 

Vivi smiles like she knows it, too.

 

“Well, there you have it.”

 

Jungeun bristles at the thought of allowing a child to go through with something as dangerous as this— even if the kid knew, herself.

 

Vivi pats her back.

 

“You’ll be fine, Jungeun.”

 

She scoffs. She’s not so sure about that.

 

—

 

When she’s done signing the adoption papers, feeling distant staring at her own name written out promising to be this kid’s mother (fake, she reminds herself), Jungeun wonders if it’s right to bring colour into a grey life.

 

It’s at the office when Yerim’s fast asleep on the sofa and Vivi’s about to leave for home that Jungeun asks about the thoughts rummaging through her head.

 

“What happens after?” She pauses, watches Vivi’s grip falter around the knob. “What happens after it’s all over?”

 

What happens to Yerim?

 

“Well, that’s up to you.” Vivi glances over her shoulder, spares her a look softer than the ones she’s given the entire day. “She knows this is just a job, if it makes you feel any better.”

 

It doesn’t.

 

The implication of letting Yerim go once all is said and done, like a tool that’s served its purpose, is unnerving — whether or not Yerim knows it, too.

 

Especially when Yerim’s eyes sparkled and a tiny smile flickered across her face the moment Jungeun signed her name to be her legal guardian, like she had forgotten it was all just pretend.

 

Jungeun remembers the ache in her chest when Vivi briefed them on their objectives, the callous reminder shattering the happiness that had just gotten used to settling on Yerim’s skin.

 

She hasn’t said a word since then.

 

Jungeun crouches in front of her, watches the way Yerim sleeps, holding onto herself, arms snug around her stomach — as if to stave of the cold.

 

She recognizes what Vivi was implying — attempting to ease the guilt that’d inevitably crawl up when it’s time to decide; whether to keep them as a family even when they’re no longer just roles in a play, or not.

 

She doesn’t know if they’ll still be together after it’s all over. She doesn’t know if Yerim would even want to continue living with her, or if she wants to even have her as a mother. Jungeun doesn’t know if she wants to even be a real mother.

 

But she does know one thing; Yerim deserves a warm bed.

 

“Hey...” her hand is gentle on Yerim’s shoulder, shaking her lightly, watching innocent eyes flutter open. “...Let’s go home.”

 

—

 

Four months.

 

That’s all they have to prepare. Form a bond convincing enough to fool anyone else into thinking they’re a loving family of two and not strangers lumped together out of necessity.

 

Jungeun isn’t looking forward to that. She should’ve chosen to be a writer instead.

 

The house is nice, at least.

 

“Ready?” Jungeun says, suitcase in hand.

 

Yerim stands quiet beside her, peering up at the house as if she’s never seen anything like it, purple backpack dangling over her shoulders, a strap having settled on the crook of her elbow.

 

There’s something in her eyes Jungeun can’t decipher; deep, almost intangible, as if she can’t believe what she’s seeing.

 

They glisten like tears are b beneath her eyelids, waiting to fall. But she blinks hard, once, shutting her eyes for a moment— one too private that Jungeun feels like she’s intruding, before it’s gone.

 

Yerim only nods.

 

Jungeun’s used to a lot of silence — most missions required reconnaissance, so the quiet was often a welcomed visitor. But this one’s crushing.

 

Her fingers fidget by her side, wondering if she should reach out, hold Yerim’s hand — make this all feel a little less out of place.

 

“Okay, let’s go.”

 

She doesn’t.

 

—

 

It takes time for Yerim to warm up to her.

 

She has an interesting set of quirks, most typical of what children are like, but a few are questionable — like her odd love for roaches.

 

Jungeun wishes she could erase her memories of that day. Seeing Yerim cradle one in her hands, give it a name; ‘Mr. Snuggly Six-Legs’, Jungeun felt her knees go weak. All she wanted to do was run.

 

She kicked the wretched monster instead.

 

Yerim was mortified.

 

“How could you?!”

 

Definitely didn’t give her any brownie points when it comes to Yerim’s trust.

 

Even if she’s just a child, she’s like any other new partner; she requires her space, comes in and mingles with short replies and stiff nods before disappearing back into her room.

 

She researched on how to handle children (it’s not like she’s had much experience), and most advise to treat them like how you treat anyone else — that they’re not as naive as most think.

 

Jungeun thought she’d have to buy toys or games, bring in some form of entertainment to keep the girl preoccupied, but Yerim’s not like other kids.

 

It should’ve been a no brainer when she came from an orphanage for gifted children that Yerim prefers items that challenge her intellect.

 

Jungeun finds her on the couch with a Rubik’s cube, hands busy twisting and turning colours until they match.

 

“Hey,” she’s not necessarily great at starting conversations, more accustomed to being approached than approaching. “You’re pretty good.”

 

Yerim hums, staring at the colours being matched together, before twisting it so it resets.

 

She’s back to solving it again.

 

Jungeun ignores the cold shoulder, settling down to sit next to her.

 

“What would you like for lunch? I’ve got some recipes in mind, but I’m not sure what you’re into.”

 

Jungeun hides a triumphant smile when Yerim finally looks up, a flicker of excitement flashing across her eyes.

 

“...Can we bake cookies after?”

 

“Of course.” She stands, dusts off lint from her jeans. “If we don’t have the ingredients, we could always go shopping.”

 

That gets Yerim to drop the Rubik’s cube, watching her hop off the couch to run for the kitchen, yelling things out as she rummages through the cupboards.

 

“We’re gonna need sprinkles, and chocolate, and whip cream, and— ooh! Can we get some shapey-thingys too?”

 

Jungeun laughs. “Shapey-thingys?”

 

“The one that makes the cookies have different shapes!” Yerim’s grin covers the bottom half of her face, her bright eyes illuminating the top. “I want a cloud one! Oh! And a rainbow one! Please?”

 

It’s cute. The way Yerim pauses, halfway through the fridge, the door large enough to swallow her in, gaze twinkling with muted hope.

 

Jungeun tries not to laugh any harder than she already is.

 

“Only if you eat your vegetables.”

 

Yerim cheers.

 

—

 

Babysitting has never been her favourite job to do.

 

Two, four, or eight hours, always felt too long. Even if half the time it’s just the kid running around finding the closest object to busy themselves with.

 

Twenty-four seven is a nightmare.

 

But not because Yerim’s zipping across the room to play with the next best thing.

 

“Yerim?”

 

It’s the fact that it feels like she’s not even here that makes it all a little unsettling.

 

She’s been through worse; it’s almost laughable how much something like this has her bothered. Doesn’t help that Yerim’s seemingly not interested in getting to know her besides being partners for the job.

 

She thought she was making progress; baking cookies every other day seemed to do wonders, bringing on a smile on Yerim’s face when nothing else would.

 

“...Yerim?”

 

Jungeun knocks on her door, peeking through to find Yerim humming to whatever song is playing in her ears, purple headphones large and comfortable over her head.

 

Relief spreads through her fingers. This isn’t so bad. Yerim’s just the quiet type. She can handle quiet.

 

She walks closer, looms over to find Yerim doodling a picture of two...people? (If stick figures counted as people) along with a letter.

 

It doesn’t hit her who they represent until Yerim’s writing names for each of them - “Choerry” and “Mommy”.

 

Something stirs in her chest.

 

Jungeun swallows hard, attempting to moisten the dryness that has somehow settled in .

 

“Who’s Choerry?” Jungeun says, feeling apologetic the moment Yerim jumps from her chair, crayons flung out of her hands to land somewhere behind her. “Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

She crouches to pick up the colours sprawled across the floor, rising just in time to see Yerim hiding the drawing and letter inside her desk.

 

“D-Did you see that?”

 

Yerim sounds like she’s about to cry - the way her eyes widen with fear has Jungeun stumbling to make sure it doesn’t stay.

 

“N-No! No, don’t worry, I didn’t see anything.” Jungeun winces, guilt piling up at how Yerim’s lips jitter with nerves. “I’m sorry, I just - I did see the name ‘Choerry’, but I promise, that was all I saw. Okay?”

 

Yerim nods, a small smile spreading across .

 

Good. A smile is all Yerim should ever know.

 

“Choerry is my nickname!”

 

Jungeun grins. “It’s cute, I like it.”

 

She listens to Yerim ramble about how she got the name, recognizes how slowly, but surely, she’s being welcomed into her world of colours and rainbows. She’s quite the little artist, her various portraits of unicorns and the sky plastered all over her bedroom walls.

 

But not once does Yerim mention the letter and drawing hidden away in her desk.

 

—

 

“How much does she know?” Jungeun says the moment she pulls Vivi to the side after everyone else is gone from the meeting room.

 

Vivi tilts her head. “About what?”

 

“The mission,” Jungeun lowers her voice, leans in closer so Yerim can’t hear; even if they were already several feet away. “How much does she actually know?”

 

“You can just ask her.” Vivi says, amusement shaping her lips into that soft glowing smile. “She’s not a woman wearing six feet and three inches of arrogance over your head.”

 

Jungeun frowns. “That’s oddly specific.”

 

“Don’t even get me started,”

 

There’s a story there, but Jungeun will ask another time — probably when they’re three shots in chasing for comfort in drinks too expensive and company she’s learned to tolerate.

 

Jungeun looks away, watching Yerim fiddle with tiny puzzle pieces, assembling a picture together faster than she did building a house made out of LEGO.

 

Yerim’s not necessarily unapproachable. If anything, she’s more open than most — talking about everything she’d done for the day, chirping away like she wouldn’t run out of things to say.

 

But that’s the problem. She talks and talks and talks about anything else if it means keeping actual secrets — and feelings, to herself.

 

“I’ll try,”

 

—

 

It’s at dinner that Yerim reaches out first.

 

“...We’re here to catch bad people, right?”

 

Jungeun meets curious eyes, lowering her chopsticks.

 

“That’s right,”

 

Yerim picks at her food, chewing on her bottom lip.

 

“Is there something bothering you?” Jungeun says, attempts to tug whatever’s stuck in her head.

 

She watches her roll a carrot around the plate.

 

“...No,”

 

Jungeun doesn’t want to push her. It’s already impressive enough that Yerim took the initiative first.

 

“Okay,”

 

Yerim rolls the carrot around a little more, makes it bump into a broccoli before she’s speaking again.

 

“Did you always want to be a mom?”

 

There’s another question underlying Yerim’s voice, scrawled across in her eyes unsaid. Jungeun can’t read it, but she knows it’s something important - something Yerim holds to heart.

 

“I don’t know,” Jungeun refuses to lie; Yerim is sharper than most kids, and kids have always been smart. “I’ve never really thought about what to do in life besides work.”

 

She watches her poke the carrot, popping it into . Yerim chews slowly, like she’s pondering on the words that have settled in her head.

 

“...All I thought about was having a mom,” Yerim says, watching carefully; Jungeun wonders if Yerim catches her flinch - she’s always been easy to read. “Even if it was pretend. I just wanted one. Is that bad?”

 

“No!” She reels her voice back in, coughs out the aggression when Yerim jumps up, startled. “No, no, it’s not.” Jungeun reaches out, stopping halfway, realizes that maybe Yerim doesn’t want her comfort. “Sorry, I - I didn’t mean to yell.”

 

There’s this sense of guilt bubbling in her gut, trembling beneath her chest; it hurts almost as much as seeing the recognition in Yerim’s face as if this is all it’ll ever be.

 

Was that how her agency recruited her? Using a child’s hope for wanting a mother as an advantage to get the job done?

 

Yerim nods once the jitters leave her fingers, gaze lingering back on her plate.

 

“Then what makes someone bad?”

 

“They hurt people,” Jungeun fumbles for a definition that’s simple but accurate. “Sometimes make them hurt so much that they don’t wake up anymore.”

 

“So we’re the good guys?”

 

“I like to think so,”

 

Yerim goes back to poking at another vegetable.

 

“Okay.”

 

Jungeun’s heard plenty of conversations like this; that familiar tone of someone not convinced.

 

She’ll ask Vivi about it, later.

 

—

 

“She volunteered, actually.” Vivi’s voice quiets, hearing her swallow over the line, the swish of liquid flitting through.

 

“Really?”

 

Jungeun readjusts the phone on her shoulder, balancing her basket of laundry between her hands, stepping slowly down the stairs.

 

“There’s only a few kids who meet the criteria: orphaned, a loner, intelligent, and rational. We select the ones who know exactly what they’re signing up for.” There’s a glass that clinks in the background, “Yerim is one of them.”

 

“That…” Jungeun doesn’t know what to say; she‘s not surprised, but still. “...I don’t know, it just— it feels wrong.”

 

“Using your actual name to set up an assassination — even if it’s a trap, feels wrong.” Vivi is sharp when she says it, reminds Jungeun that Jinsol isn’t the only one who feels that way. “Everything about this, feels wrong. But here we are.”

 

Jungeun sighs, dumping her clothes one by one into the washing machine.

 

“Real name with a made-up profile,” she corrects, “I already told you, I want to be as convincing as possible if I’m going to be playing bait. Lacking natural reactions to just getting my name called would be a dead giveaway. At least this way, it’ll be as genuine as it gets.”

 

Vivi’s arguably as persistent as Jinsol.

 

“You can still call it off, you know. We haven’t sent in your profile yet.”

 

“I appreciate it,” Jungeun presses at the options, watching the bundles of colours start to swirl. “But I’m not going to take back two months of all our hard work.”

 

Especially Yerim’s.

 

They’re getting the hang of being together; building an actual relationship instead of just slapping a label and hoping it sticks.

 

She doesn’t want to imagine what it’d be like if she calls this operation off.

 

Yerim’s strong; she’d probably be fine with moving back to the orphanage— cut this fantasy off short, maybe dream of another chance when it doesn’t hurt to think about anymore.

 

But Jungeun’s not that strong.

 

“All right,” Vivi sounds resigned, but Jungeun could also hear her smile. “We’ll be here. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

 

Jungeun hears the line click, stuffing her phone in her pocket as soon as Yerim comes running down the stairs to show her a new drawing.

 

It’s instinctive to scold her, tell her “be careful, you might trip!” and catch her when she inevitably does, smiling when Yerim giggles, mumbling “oops” because she’s just proved her point.

 

Jungeun’s not sure she wants to ever let go of this.

 

She hopes she knows what she’s doing, too.

 

—

 

The first time Yerim calls her “Mommy,” Jungeun doesn’t know how to feel about it.

 

It comes as a surprise, with the wind knocked out of her and her back hitting the floor, sand cushioning her fall.

 

Yerim’s little hands tap at her cheeks.

 

“A-Are you okay?”

 

Jungeun learns with an aching back that the idea of Yerim jumping off the swing is a horrible one.

 

But what made her stance break and her legs go rigid was Yerim yelling “Mommy!” with a giant smile on her face, losing her footing the moment Yerim made it to her arms.

 

She didn’t expect to be catching her breath because of a new name and not because of Yerim’s weight paired down with gravity.

 

“Why are you crying…?”

 

Yerim’s tiny fingers prod her cheeks, feeling the way she wipes at her skin.

 

Jungeun attempts to blink them all away, curses in her head for the tears she shouldn’t be shedding (she’s at a playground, for God’s sake— there are kids running around), but it only makes them fall faster.

 

“I’m okay,” she sits up, holding Yerim close with one arm, erasing tear tracks with the other. “It’s nothing, just— you know, sand in my eyes.”

 

Yerim pouts.

 

“...Is it because I’m heavy?”

 

“No!” Jungeun wipes at Yerim’s jeans, sweeping dirt off her knees. “No, definitely not. I’m stronger than I look. I caught you, didn’t I?”

 

Yerim giggles; Jungeun can’t help but think her mischievous smile means she doesn’t believe it.

 

“...Is it because I called you ‘Mommy’?”

 

Jungeun tries to spout words, say anything— but her lips fumble for them, letters jumbled on her tongue.

 

“I - I, um, no? Not really?” She gazes at the swing behind Yerim, distracts herself from Yerim’s steady eyes with chains that have rusted over the years. “I mean, if you want to? I don’t mind!”

 

Jungeun winces at the shrill in her voice.

 

Yerim no doubt spotted her jitteriness, a frown lining her lips.

 

“Are you sure? Because I don’t have to if you don’t want—“

 

“Of course I’m sure! I’m sorry, I just— I’m not used to being a mom.” Jungeun tucks strands of brown behind Yerim’s ear, “I’ve never been one, until now, so...I don’t know if I’ll be any good.”

 

“That’s okay,” Yerim pokes her hand, warmth spreading across Jungeun’s knuckles. “I never thought I’d get a mom, but then you came.”

 

Jungeun feels a choked sob well up beneath , tears rising beneath her eyelids.

 

Yerim’s grinning like she knows how she’s feeling — all smug, as if she understands that she’s the reason she’s about to cry again. Eagerly waiting for it.

 

This little runt.

 

She taps Yerim’s nose, ignores the ruckus of children laughing and yelling and crying in the background.

 

“I’m going to hug the crap out of you if you keep smiling like that.”

 

—

 

The second time Yerim calls her ‘Mommy’, it’s when Yerim’s leaving for her first day of school.

 

Jungeun remembers the time when she had to take the school bus too; small and barely able to reach the first step, looking down the moment she makes it to the aisle, always settling to sit at the back. Like she’d rather disappear.

 

Yerim looks just like her.

 

“Do I have to…?”

 

Giant teary eyes gaze up at her, pleading for a chance to stay at home instead — Jungeun remembers feeling the same way.

 

She’d rather keep Yerim home, too.

 

Jungeun crouches, readjusts Yerim’s jacket, straightening out the collar.

 

“You know how you always love playing with your puzzles? Or your Rubik’s cube? Or even with your LEGO?”

 

“But I don’t like LEGO?”

 

Jungeun laughs. “Okay, forget LEGO. Think of school like — like it’s a new puzzle piece.”

 

Yerim tilts her head. “A puzzle piece?”

 

“Yeah,” the words swirl on her tongue, curling locks of hair behind Yerim’s ear. “School is just another piece of a puzzle; you’ll make new friends, see more than just your room and our front yard, and learn a lot more things.”

 

“What’s the puzzle?”

 

“You,” Jungeun chuckles at Yerim’s pout, confusion palpable along her lips. “I know this sounds a little...weird, maybe even corny, but if it helps, just - well, just think of everything in life as pieces to your own puzzle. They help shape who you are, and eventually, make up a clearer picture of you. Does that make sense?”

 

Yerim nods, giggling when Jungeun ruffles her hair, standing up.

 

“Now shoo, go on. You wouldn’t want to miss out on meeting new friends, do you?”

 

“Okay,”

 

She watches her climb up the steps, tiny hands grasping at the railings.

 

The sight makes her chest stir, like it hurts to watch her go. Which feels ridiculous because it’s not like Yerim’s going anywhere far away — it’s just school.

 

Was this how her parents felt, too?

 

Jungeun doesn’t think Yerim would look back until she’s already inside, but she’s only halfway up the steps when Yerim spins around, jumping off, running back to her.

 

Emotions grow rampant in Jungeun’s chest, b with fire the moment Yerim lunged for a hug, crouching to catch her, swallowing the little girl in her arms.

 

Odd how this moment makes her realize how tiny Yerim is; she fits snug against her, comfortable like she doesn’t fit anywhere else.

 

Her feelings get sprawled across a spectrum, from happiness that Yerim doesn’t seem to want to let go, and sadness because Jungeun feels the same way.

 

She knows what that means — this growing attachment worming into her heart doesn’t bode well for anyone.

 

Still. Maybe homeschool is the better option.

 

“Yerim?”

 

Jungeun’s stunned to silence the moment a chaste kiss presses against her cheek, clumsy and innocent.

 

Yerim’s already sprinting back to the bus, scrambling up to reach the railings, laughter following after each step as if she hadn’t just petrified her with a sloppy kiss.

 

Jungeun’s still frozen in time, arms grasping nothing but air, blinking the memory haze away of Yerim’s cheeky smile when Yerim yells for her attention just before the doors close.

 

“Bye mommy! I love you!”

 

She can’t even muster up a wave - gaping as Yerim fades into the distance, disappearing around the corner. Her words still echo in Jungeun’s ears; lacing her with a joy that’s indescribable, an elation so euphoric that it makes her tremble.

 

God, she’s so happy she could cry.

 

It doesn’t matter if she’s going to be late for work (it’s the fake nine-to-five office job for her camouflage anyway, nothing she cares about), she’s not in a hurry to go pretend she likes a boring day job.

 

Jungeun stays where she is, hands coming up to grasp her face, squeezing her eyelids shut so that maybe the tears won’t fall as much as before, and does just that.

 

She cries.

 

—

 

Jungeun’s not a stranger when it comes to anger.

 

She’s felt it when Jiwoo’s off drinking away because she’s broken up with another girlfriend of the week, when Jinsol’s gotten injured because her teammates weren’t watching the cameras to spot a guard coming her way.

 

Yerim hiding beneath her blankets attempting to muffle the sobs that tremor across her limbs has fury blazing through Jungeun.

 

“Yerim? What’s wrong?”

 

She’s met with resistance, watching Yerim hide further into purple sheets, whimpers still spilling through.

 

She almost grabs the blankets to yank them away, furious at the thought that someone might have hurt her little girl.

 

(Jungeun doesn’t dwell about giving Yerim a new name — it’s safe in her own head, anyway. She’ll worry about the growing attachment, later.)

 

Yerim appeared fine on the trip back home, albeit, quieter than usual. Jungeun chalked it up to it being a long day — it didn’t help that her own nine-to-five office job had her on her feet zipping around to meet deadlines, too.

 

So when Yerim hurried up the staircase to her bedroom without a word, Jungeun figured she wanted to rest and be alone.

 

But not like this.

 

“Yerim…?”

 

Jungeun hesitates, pulling her hand back; it wouldn’t be appreciated if she were to yank the covers away, settling on the space beside Yerim on the bed instead.

 

Muffled whimpers greet her back.

 

It’s painful to hear — but even worse is that it feels like she can’t do anything about it.

 

“I’m here, you know?” Jungeun reaches out, hand tentative on Yerim’s shoulder. “You can talk to me. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay too.”

 

She rubs her arm, gentle over the blanket, feeling the way Yerim trembles under her hand; it hurts seeing her this way — so vulnerable. She feels small.

 

Yerim sniffles.

 

“...I said I wanted purple hair and they said I’d ruin the colour because I’m—I’m ugly...”

 

The anger that shoots up her spine, her stomach, , is volcanic — it’s frightening how petrifying her fury is as soon as the words sink in, that all she can do is curl her fingers into fists.

 

Jungeun could choke on the frustration of it all and it’s overwhelming how intense she feels, how quick it triggers her to think up of plans to put them in their place — whoever they are.

 

“...Who?” She says, manages to croak it out between seething anger and blistering contempt.

 

Breathe in. Out. In. Out.

 

“...Some kids a year older than me.”

 

Stupid kids.

 

Yerim’s head slides out of the covers, spots the redness in her eyes, the tear tracks on her cheeks.

 

“...Are you mad, mommy?”

 

“Mad?” Jungeun would laugh if she wasn’t so pissed. “...I think I’m way past being mad.”

 

Warmth circles her wrist, Yerim’s tiny fingers barely looped around her skin; her touch soothes the smoke behind her eyes, the fire dissipating on her tongue.

 

“...I’m okay,” Yerim sits up, tapping Jungeun’s nose. “See?”

 

The fact that Yerim’s attempting to make her feel better is heartbreaking.

 

Stupid kids.

 

“You’re beautiful, Yerim.” Jungeun ignores the anger in favour of focusing on what truly matters — Yerim. “Purple hair, or not. You’re beautiful, and I’m not just saying that because I’m your mom.”

 

Yerim doesn’t look convinced, the wry smile colouring her lips giving her away.

 

“...How do you know?”

 

She tucks Yerim’s hair back, curls it behind her ear, watches brown strands flutter under her touch.

 

Jungeun grins. “Want to go get your hair done?”

 

—

 

She’s done enough research to know that dyeing a child’s hair has more cons than benefits.

 

Which is why she goes for the safer option: one without the requirement of bleach on the scalp. Costly but worth it. And for Yerim? She’d do anything for her.

 

Frightening how much has changed since three months ago.

 

Yerim twirls around. “What do you think?”

 

Purple streaks colour Yerim’s hair, weaving seamlessly between natural brown strands.

 

“I was right,” Jungeun smiles, bends to hold Yerim up, keep her close, brushing locks of hair from twinkling eyes. “You’re beautiful, Yerim. And everyone’s going to finally see it, too.”

 

The next day, when the bell rings and Jungeun’s waiting for Yerim at the parking lot, she spots her walking with a group of kids, laughing and grinning.

 

Pride swells in her chest, recognizes the way happiness bleeds from Yerim’s eyes, to her lips, to the way she skips with every step.

 

“I’m guessing you had fun?” Jungeun says as soon as Yerim’s close enough to hug, “You’re all smiley today.”

 

“I had lots of fun! You wouldn’t believe it, mommy, they love my hair!” Yerim gushes, jumping up and down like there’s too much energy to contain. “They said I look really pretty! They even said they were wrong — they actually said sorry. Isn’t that amazing?”

 

Jungeun laughs, pressing a soft kiss on her forehead. At least they know how to own up and apologize. Still.

 

Stupid kids.

 

“It really is.”

 

—

 

It’s by accident that Jungeun finds Yerim’s diary as she sweeps her room.

 

She has the day off, and since Yerim’s still at school, Jungeun figured she could just busy herself with doing chores, clean up the house because she hasn’t done so in a while.

 

Her broom bumps into something sturdy under Yerim’s bed, crouching to spot a notebook, sees Yerim’s name scrawled in with purple crayon.

 

A slip of paper peeks between the pages, curiosity getting the better of her.

 

It’s a letter.

 

(Dear me,

 

It was a great day today. I made lots of new friends. They said my hair was pretty and that I was pretty too. But I told them mommy was the one who got me to colour it. They said she sounds cool. They’re not wrong.

 

Mommy is cool.

 

Is it weird that I hope we’re not pretending anymore? I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like we’re pretending. I know I’m not. Would she be mad at me if she knew?

 

When this is all over and I’m all alone again, at least I’ll have you to look back to.

 

Be strong, me.

—Your Penpal,

:D Choerry.)

 

There’s a drawing taped to the letter; the one Jungeun found Yerim sketching a long time ago — when they still tip-toed around each other as strangers.

 

She doesn’t know what to say.

 

“Mommy?”

 

Jungeun jumps, almost drops the journal before slipping the letter back, closing it shut and shoving it back beneath the bed as tiny steps creak up the stairs.

 

She’s back to sweeping just as the door swings open, concern written across Yerim’s face.

 

“Yerim! You’re home already?” Jungeun hopes her voice doesn’t give away anything, nerves crawling up . “How did you get back? And how did you get in?”

 

“It’s half day today, remember?” Shoot, that was today? “And my friend said I could get a ride with her, so her parents dropped me off.” Yerim walks closer, worry etched on her lips. “You left the door open. I thought something bad happened to you…”

 

Apologies spill as soon as Yerim’s close enough to hold, hugs her tight and mutters as many sorry’s as it takes so Yerim isn’t teary-eyed anymore.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.” Jungeun says, feeling Yerim nod, her small hands coming up to grip her back. “I’ll make it up to you with dinner, okay? Anything you want.”

 

She tries to stay immersed in the moment she spends with Yerim; in the kitchen helping bake cookies, splatter junk food instead of vegetables for tonight— but it’s hard to erase the images of Yerim’s letter and drawing from her mind’s eye.

 

“Mommy, look — it’s a butterfly!”

 

Yerim sprinkles whip cream in the shape of what might look like a butterfly — with one wing much larger than the other.

 

How she calls her sounds so seamless, now. Almost natural. Jungeun’s hyper aware of how much she’s gotten used to hearing her new name, too. Responding back like it’s always been the truth.

 

It’s terrifying.

 

Were they still pretending?

 

“I wonder if I can make this purple…” Yerim says, mumbling under her sleeve.

 

Jungeun slots away the nagging complication of what it’ll mean if they aren’t, for later.

 

—

 

At times, Jungeun wonders if Jiwoo would appreciate being used as an accessory for her second life.

 

Childhood friends, surviving elementary school and all the way up to college together — they share more than a handful of secrets in this lifetime.

 

Just not about the reason why she decided to become a single mother.

 

“She’s so cute! Not that I couldn’t already figure that out.” Jiwoo says between flipping through pictures of Yerim the orphanage compiled over the years she’d been there. “I can’t believe it, Jungie; you’re literally a mom.”

 

Jungeun doesn’t have the heart to correct her that it’s all technically just pretend.

 

Noting how Yerim continues to shuffle her LEGO pieces as if she hasn’t already been scrambling them up for a few minutes now clearly shows she doesn’t want to correct her, either.

 

“Yeah…” Jungeun clears , thankful that Jiwoo’s too distracted with the pictures to notice their stiffness. “...Surprise?”

 

“Definitely didn’t see this one coming,” Jiwoo leans back, still cooing at images where Yerim only knows how to crawl. “What made you decide?”

 

Jungeun glances back in hopes to gauge Yerim’s expression, only to find her gone, the floor empty of LEGO like she was never there in the first place.

 

She wonders if it’s okay that she doesn’t feel like telling Jiwoo the truth.

 

“...I just wanted to.”

 

—

 

It was inevitable they’d have fights.

 

The first few weren’t all that bad. Short bursts sprouting from simple things, arguing over candy wrappers littering the floor, to leaving the television on the entire night.

 

Living with someone else twenty-four seven for every day of the week takes its toll on you. A mixture of discomfort and a need for space tends to boil over until someone snaps.

 

Turns out Yerim’s short temper could rival her own.

 

“...You don’t know anything.” Yerim says under her breath.

 

Jungeun winces at that.

 

They weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary; they were just putting together pieces to a puzzle — laughing and eating popcorn while the scenes played out to Frozen in the background.

 

She thought they were doing good; that they were closer than they could ever get — nestled in that comfortable space where they didn’t have to worry about tip-toeing around each other anymore.

 

“Maybe next week we could do something really exciting — like an amusement park?” Jungeun had said a few minutes ago while looking for a piece to connect with Yerim’s, “Jiwoo’s been pestering me to take you there because she said the rides are fun. What do you think?”

 

Yerim became eerily quiet afterwards, no longer assembling the pieces as eagerly as she was, before.

 

Was it because of that?

 

“What’s wrong? Was it something I said?”

 

“...No.”

 

“Then what is it?”

 

Yerim shakes her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

 

Jungeun’s fingers squeeze her eyelids, breathing deep so the frustration doesn’t rise any higher than her chest. She doesn’t want it to reach .

 

Yerim turns away.

 

“...Don’t worry about it.” She starts walking, the gap between them growing larger. “You won’t get it.”

 

Maybe it’s the defeat in her tone, the way there’s no hope in her voice — a lack of expectations implying that there’s no point in even trying with her, that tips Jungeun over the edge.

 

“Then why won’t you just tell me?” Jungeun’s trying to keep her words steady, hearing the way her voice shakes. “I can’t read minds, Yerim. How could I understand anything if you won’t tell me what the problem is?”

 

Yerim pauses, but she doesn’t give anything away. Except the way her shoulders begin to shake.

 

Jungeun lowers her voice, more quieter, softer— and unsure.

 

“...Did I do something wrong?”

 

She doesn’t know what sets Yerim off, but something does, watching her spin with fury blazing across her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks.

 

“It’s what you’re going to do!” Yerim screams as if it’s all her lungs care to do, watches her huff with frustration burning on her tongue. “You’re going to leave like everyone else when it’s all over! I don’t want to get used to having a mommy just to end up losing one, again!”

 

That’s all she says before she’s stomping up the stairs, hearing her door slam shut, leaving Jungeun to wallow in the silence that inevitably comes.

 

—

 

Jungeun attempts to make it up to her in fractions: an extra piece of dessert, an additional hour to stay awake before bed, less vegetables on Yerim’s plate — in hopes that maybe Yerim would spare her a moment of time, a minute, or even just for a second.

 

It helps. A little.

 

Fractions of a smile here and there, a quick look to acknowledge she exists before returning to reading the next page on her third book, even a stiff nod is enough to make Jungeun elated.

 

It was something.

 

But it’s not until Yerim catches the flu that Jungeun gets more than just a passing glance.

 

“...Mommy?”

 

Jungeun’s heart leaps to at the sound — croaky and hoarse, like it’s hard just to speak.

 

Yerim’s at her bedroom door at half past midnight, holding onto her pillow, exhaustion looming over her eyes.

 

She leaps out of bed, kneels to see better, a hand to Yerim’s forehead. It’s way too hot.

 

How did she not notice sooner?

 

“You’re burning up,” Jungeun attempts to guide her back to her room, feels her tug back. “Yerim? You need to rest; I’ll go get a —“

 

“...Can I sleep here with you?” Yerim’s voice is muffled against her pillow, but the words ring clear. “I don’t— I don’t want to be alone…”

 

Jungeun swallows down her heart when it jumps up again, almost makes her choke on emotions she’s not used to feeling.

 

She leads her to the bed, chest tight at the way Yerim’s fingers coil around her pinky.

 

“Okay,”

 

Yerim lays under the covers, exhaustion splayed out in how she sinks into the mattress without another word, eyes shut as soon as her head hits the pillow.

 

“...I’m sorry,” Yerim mumbles as soon as Jungeun places a wet washcloth on her forehead.

 

Jungeun stiffens from surprise, but she recovers just as quickly, brushing away purple strands from Yerim’s eyes.

 

The lamp on her nightstand provides just enough lighting to spot the weak smile on Yerim’s lips.

 

“I’m sorry, too.” Jungeun knows what topic they’re dancing around on, unsure if she’s even ready for this conversation yet. “Just, go to sleep now. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. It’s late.”

 

Yerim grips Jungeun’s hand, steers it away from her forehead to hold.

 

“Whatever you decide to do…” she pauses, squeezing her hand. “...I’ll understand. So don’t worry about me. Okay?”

 

It’s when Yerim dozes off afterwards like she didn’t just pound her lungs with the inevitable, a choice she’d been trying to run from and pretend doesn’t exist, that Jungeun wonders if she even deserves Yerim in the first place.

 

—

 

Four months have passed as fast as the nightlights that flit by when Jungeun’s driving over the speed limit.

 

Always with the same passenger on board; the thought that if things go wrong — if the assassination ends up successful, Yerim will end up alone.

 

“It’s done,” Vivi says, meeting her gaze; there’s guilt and regret pooling beneath, feeling several eyes do the same, but Jungeun’s not here for pity. “I suggest you get ready for anything.”

 

“We’ve been ready for four months,” Jungeun grips Yerim’s hand, feeling her squeeze it back under the table. “Right?”

 

“Right! I’ll protect you.” Yerim says, her grin wide.

 

She doesn’t know if she’ll be any good — if she’s going to even do well as a mother, or if Yerim might be better off without her, but Yerim’s her little girl and Jungeun’s not about to let go of her little girl.

 

Yerim won’t be alone anymore.

 

“As soon as this is all over,” Jungeun pulls Yerim next to her, lifts her pinky finger when everyone else has left the briefing room. “We’ll be a real family, okay? I promise.”

 

Yerim giggles, her tiny pinky curling around Jungeun’s.

 

“I thought we already are?”

 

She knows from the cheeky smile Yerim gives her that it’s a joke, but Jungeun yanks her in for a hug anyway, tighter and closer until her tears soak into Yerim’s sweater— feeling Yerim’s smile melt into her shoulder.

 

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” She hiccups, joy bursting in her chest at the sound of Yerim’s laughter. “Always.”

 

She feels Yerim grip her back.

 

“...You sure cry a lot, mommy.”

 

Laughter bursts from . She isn’t wrong. No one’s ever made her cry as much as Yerim does.

 

“That’s because you’re my little baby girl,”

 

Jungeun grins at Yerim’s look of disgust, sees her shrivel up at the nickname.

 

Yerim pouts against her neck, warmth breezing across Jungeun’s skin. It’s comforting.

 

“I’m nine, not three…”

 

When they arrive home, staring up at the house they’ve learned to live in together the past four months, Jungeun would’ve never guessed they’d turn out the way they did.

 

She wouldn’t change it for the world.

 

“Ready?” Jungeun says.

 

This time, she doesn’t hesitate taking Yerim’s hand.

 

Yerim nods, smiling. “Ready.”

 

—

 

Nothing out of the ordinary happens for a week.

 

Jungeun thought there’d be something different by now, but she’s going through her routine like it’s any other day: help Yerim get ready for school, make breakfast, and watch her go before leaving for work, herself.

 

She almost forgets that she’s on the job and not living a normal life when she’s inches away from turning on the ignition, spotting a flicker of dark hair disappearing behind the house next door.

 

Odd.

 

She didn’t know there was a woman living there, too.

 

Jungeun shelves the information for later.

 

—

 

With Yerim’s hand warm in hers, Jungeun never forgets to mind the silhouette in the window next door, nodding and humming all the while to Yerim’s storytelling of the day at school.

 

She embeds as much as she can of the woman’s appearance in the few steps it takes to climb up her front porch.

 

The woman isn’t looking at her, gaze busy flicking through the papers in her hands.

 

With the little time Jungeun has to memorize her picture, she sketches a rough portrait into her head: short hair, slim, tall (taller than herself, at least), and lean — catching a glimpse of the slopes of muscle on her stomach peeking between her open dress shirt.

 

Jungeun turns away, mind whirring into overdrive.

 

The old man next door hasn’t come out in two weeks.

 

“Mommy?”

 

Yerim’s tugging her hand, pulling her into the house. Her brows are wrinkled into that look Jungeun knows all too well.

 

She ruffles her hair.

 

Jungeun trusts her gut; nothing really confirms that the woman next door is the hitman — hitwoman, but it wouldn’t surprise her if she is.

 

“I think she’s here,” Jungeun kneels to meet Yerim eye-to-eye, smiles at the way she looks back, ever attentive. “Will you be okay?”

 

“Will you?” She quips, like the question wasn’t meant for her at all.

 

She laughs, kissing Yerim’s cheek.

 

“Always.” Jungeun squeezes her hand. “I mean, I have you, don’t I?”

 

Yerim links their pinky fingers together, a smile painting her lips.

 

“Always.”

 

—

 

Scoping out a potential target isn’t always this passive — or boring.

 

She’s pretty to look at, at least.

 

“Pretty?” Yerim says, cocking her head.

 

Jungeun jerks back, flipping the curtains down just as the woman turns her way.

 

“What?”

 

“Pretty,” Yerim parrots, a Cheshire smile tracing her lips. “You said she’s pretty.”

 

Jungeun groans. Definitely didn’t mean to say that out loud.

 

Yerim pats her back. “It’s okay. I think she’s pretty, too.”

 

It sounds almost ominous, the way Yerim grins like she’s got a plan, slithering away back into her room.

 

Jungeun hopes it’s just nothing.

 

—

 

Turns out it isn’t just nothing.

 

“You wrote her a letter?!”

 

Yerim fiddles with her fingers. “...Yeah.”

 

Jungeun pinches the skin between her brows, feels frustration and worry bloom in her chest.

 

“That’s dangerous,”

 

Yerim pouts. “But I’m bored and you said you’d say hi and bring her blueberry muffins.”

 

Jungeun sighs, exasperated. Yerim isn’t wrong; she did mention wanting to bring a gift for their “new” neighbour, but not when she’s barely gathered any information about her.

 

“What does that have to do with anything?”

 

“You didn’t say hi,” Yerim tilts her head, “so I said hi for you.”

 

“That’s—”

 

There’s a truckload of complaints piling up on her tongue, but there’s no point in spewing them when Yerim’s already skipping away, humming and asking about dinner for tonight.

 

Jungeun can’t help the concern that seeps in her chest, hopes that any innocent mishap Yerim clearly wants to partake in won’t jeopardize what they have — and Yerim’s life.

 

—

 

Yerim’s not at all subtle about sending the neighbor letters.

 

Jungeun catches her sprinting down the stairs all too often, constantly reminding her to be careful - before Yerim’s leaping out the front porch, padding down the sidewalk, and yanking the mailbox open.

 

She’d call it cute if she wasn’t so terrified every time.

 

She tries to see the pros of it - and there’s plenty, especially since Yerim’s essentially building a rapport with the potential assassin; if the smile on the woman’s face each time she plucked Yerim’s letter out of the pile was any indication.

 

“Did you see, mommy?! She smiled at me!”

 

“I did,” Jungeun says, ruffles Yerim’s hair and ushers her to the kitchen. “You’re doing a much better job at this than I am. Now go eat, the bus is coming soon.”

 

—

 

Sometimes she’s at work — the fake one, the one she’s stuck at with uptight superiors and coworkers too nosy for gossip about the latest news; eager to get their minds whirring away on anything but the excel spreadsheets they’re supposed to be filling.

 

Jungeun supposes an ordinary nine-to-five office job will do that to you.

 

It doesn’t bother her as much.

 

Keeping up appearances is easy, and the simple calm of being alone in a cubicle with nothing else to do but look at reports all day is a nice break from the ‘death-will-come-if-you’re-not-careful’ type of field work she’s used to.

 

“Did you hear? The ambassador’s son is arriving tonight.”

 

Jungeun perks up, thankful the walls are thinner than they look.

 

“How do you even know this?”

 

“The internet, duh.” It’s a woman, voice lowering to a whisper that Jungeun strains to hear the rest. “Word has it he’s ing the president’s daughter.”

 

“Wait, does the president know?!”

 

Someone laughs, papers shuffling.

 

“Honey, there’s no way he doesn’t know, now. Look,”

 

Jungeun frowns, hearing chairs squeak before something plays, the soft timber of an audio recording fluttering through.

 

Her eyes widen at the moans spilling into her ears.

 

“He’s a piece of ,” the woman says, “she’s definitely going to have his head for this, if her dad doesn’t get it first.”

 

Jungeun doesn’t really think much of it. Drama is everywhere — at least the gossip columns will have something new to talk about.

 

—

 

Some days, Jungeun forgets that this had started out as just pretend.

 

She goes through the motions on autopilot, absorbed in the tranquility of a quiet life with a child she’s learned to love, appreciating the silent moments when they’re just living for two.

 

Sometimes they’re tending the flowers, a spectrum of colours just as bright as Yerim’s purple hair, or baking cookies in the kitchen, impatiently waiting for the timer to sound when the smell wafts through the room.

 

Jungeun even learned how to let time slip by on the couch in front of the television for a cartoon they both happen to enjoy instead of burying herself in case files that leave her stomach churned and heart coiled with dread.

 

She wouldn’t mind spending the rest of her lifetime like this.

 

But phone calls from Vivi and Jinsol about the latest sudden deaths of officials are cruel realities that make her realize the woman next door might never let her have this.

 

Jungeun recognizes the man; the ambassador’s son - made to look like a suicide by hanging.

 

Guess it wasn’t pointless gossip.

 

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence that your ‘neighbor’ just so happens to be a few meters within the vicinity,” Jinsol says, reporting the latest death in a series of too many within a single week over the line. “I mean, sure, we haven’t caught her near any of the others’ but still. The counts are increasing and with how recent these are to coincide with her moving in, I don’t know. It’s fishy.”

 

Jungeun stares a little longer at the pictures, focused on how clean it is - no visible struggle, his suit still pressed down like it had just gotten out of the dry cleaner’s.

 

“Jungeun? You with me?”

 

She blinks at that, shakes off the images from her eyes, closing the tab.

 

“Right, sorry.”

 

Jinsol’s voice quiets. “Something’s bothering you. I could tell. What is it?”

 

It’s frightening to think that she could just as easily be found on the other side of that photo - be the one dead, effortlessly made to look like she’d done it on her own to the public eye. The reminder is haunting.

 

“Nothing,”

 

—

 

“I don’t like pretending…” Yerim says, fiddling with her Rubik’s cube.

 

Jungeun understands. Yerim shouldn’t be dealing with something like this — she shouldn’t be responsible for anything else but her homework and what she should wear for the next day.

 

“I know,” she crouches, tucks purple hair behind Yerim’s ear. “But just for a little longer, okay?”

 

Little by little her team’s been gathering intel; half of them tracing the neighbor’s steps, the other surveying the house. Cameras aren’t present on the outside, but inside, Jungeun’s sure there would be several; hitmen would make sure their home wasn’t compromised.

 

She wonders if she should take that chance now; offer up blueberry muffins as a gift she hasn’t done yet for a peek on the inside.

 

“Okay,” Yerim says, but she still looks sullen when she settles to sit at the front porch, resting against the railing.

 

Jungeun’s about to turn away to gather the rest of her things before she hears a soft clink, spotting their neighbour returning home.

 

She watches the way she eyes Yerim, gaze hazy with emotions Jungeun can’t discern, before the neighbor settles for a “good morning”.

 

There’s a gentleness in her voice, much softer than she looks. Jungeun wonders if deceit comes as easy as breathing, for her.

 

Jungeun smiles when she sees Yerim’s head rise up, her shoulders no longer low like the world weighed her down.

 

—

 

Jungeun didn’t expect her neighbor to be the one giving out blueberry muffins.

 

Finding Yerim at the door talking to a stranger ignited a sense of urgency that all Jungeun thought about was keeping her safe. But she didn’t expect to face the assassin so soon - and so close.

 

“Hi, I’m the new neighbor. Yves.” Her mind whirs at the realization, attempts to absorb as much information as possible - the lilt in her voice, the ease in which she carries herself, the name she’d just provided. “I just thought I should say hello.”

 

When Yerim goes on a tangent about the name, Jungeun appreciates the brief reprieve she gives her, relief settling into her bones for the chance to just breathe.

 

She needs to play her part.

 

Meaningless apologies spill from her lips to make up for the short exchange they had a few days ago, recalling that spilling coffee on the assassin - Yves, wasn’t part of the plan. A momentary lapse of judgment as soon as she realized the distance between them was shorter than five feet apart.

 

“Just— sorry. Again.” It comes easier the more she says it, reminds herself that she isn’t alone in this. “I’m Jungeun. Kim Jungeun.”

 

“And I’m Choerry!”

 

Yves smiles. “Nice to meet you.”

 

Maybe it’s the rush of adrenaline pumping in her veins, or the sense of security that comes with knowing she had bugged her own house for opportunities like this, that Jungeun jumps head first - finally sets it all in motion.

 

She steps aside, plasters on a smile of her own.

 

“Would you like to come in? I’ve made dinner enough for all of us.”

 

—

 

Yves’ excuses are sound.

 

Her life story is likely rehearsed, made to be convincing that no one would bother to think twice. And Jungeun would’ve fallen for it like anyone else.

 

Except Yves’ only here because Jungeun volunteered to be her target.

 

“Her background checks in,” Jinsol says, her voice clear through the earpiece. “Whoever is backing her is good.”

 

“We wouldn’t be here if they weren’t,” Jungeun flips through what little files they have on Yves — which barely makes up a single page. “Looks like she’s on her ninth name.”

 

“We’re not sure if she’s the same person who’s responsible for those deaths in Marrakesh two months ago,” Jinsol pauses, “some of the aliases I’ve found are ‘Eden’, ‘Nine’, ‘Burgundy’, and ‘Olivia’. But the only thing they have in common is that they’re women.”

 

“And killers,”

 

She swears she could feel Jinsol’s eyes roll.

 

“Obviously.”

 

Jungeun feels a tug on her leg, finding Yerim gazing up at her, purple pillow cradled close to her chest.

 

“It’s bedtime, mommy.”

 

“Wow, she has to remind you to go to sleep? Never thought I’d see the day.”

 

“Goodnight, Jinsol.”

 

Jungeun clicks the line off just as Jinsol starts to speak again, tucking away her earpiece to carry Yerim to bed.

 

“More work stuff?” Yerim asks as she settles under the covers.

 

Jungeun follows after her, loves how natural it feels to be with Yerim; like it should’ve been this way from the start.

 

“Yeah, just the usual evening updates.”

 

Yerim snuggles closer, warmth spreading across Jungeun’s chest.

 

“...Eevee seems nice,”

 

Jungeun chuckles; how innocent and naive.

 

“They always are.”

 

“I hope we can be friends…”

 

She hears how Yerim’s voice tapers at the end, feels her breaths steady, the curtains falling over her eyes.

 

Jungeun lifts the blankets so it nestles just beneath Yerim’s chin, and watches until her own eyelids fall shut.

 

She doesn’t have the heart to tell Yerim they probably will never be.

 

—

 

A slap to the face early in the morning was not what she ordered at her favourite cafe to start the day.

 

Even when it’s been five hours since the exchange, Jungeun’s still stunned. And a little miffed.

 

“You didn’t think to let me know beforehand?” She cups her cheek out of reflex, recalls how much it stung the moment it registered in her head that yes, that just happened. “And why did you even slap me?”

 

Her colleague shrugs like it meant nothing the moment she walks up to his desk, the arch of his brow and sly smile giving him away.

 

“Vivi said to make you look vulnerable. Like you need protection. Get ‘Miss Lady Killer’ to start being friendly with you.” She scoffs. Really? That tired cliche? She deserves better. “That was just to make it more convincing.”

 

Jungeun huffs. “It still hurts.”

 

He rolls his eyes, shoves her off his desk when she attempts to sit.

 

“Hey, I was the one who nearly got his wrist broken, okay. That was not fun.”

 

Jungeun scoffs. “I almost gave us away out of shock.”

 

“We knew you wouldn’t, or else you wouldn’t have lasted this long working here.” Vivi comes in dressed in aviators and a smug smile. “At least we know a little more; she clearly knows how to incapacitate.”

 

“She did say she had lessons,”

 

Jungeun recalls the way Yves had cared for her afterwards. It felt out of line, a brief showcase of emotion — like it wasn’t supposed to happen.

 

“She would,” Vivi hums. “That goes for any trained killer.”

 

Jungeun rolls her eyes.

 

Vivi pats her shoulder. “But good thinking on your part offering her dinner. How long do you think you could keep her busy tonight?”

 

Jungeun shrugs.

 

“Ten, fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes. She doesn’t seem to eat much.” She pauses, remembers the way Yves listens whenever Yerim speaks. “Yerim is usually the one keeping her preoccupied.”

 

Vivi looks thoughtful. “It’s always the little kids, huh.”

 

Jungeun wouldn’t blame her. Innocence always seems fascinating to those who don’t have it— scarred by a reality where it no longer exists.

 

Yerim breathes colour in people’s lives as bright as her hair.

 

Jinsol pops in with a box of pizza, jabs one in Jungeun’s direction, words spilling between her obnoxious chewing.

 

“We’ll let you know how the set up goes, but for now,” she swallows, hears it go down . “Hurry up and eat or else I’m finishing it all.”

 

—

 

With each successful invitation Jungeun offers to get Yves out of her house, she buys her team a bit of time to get through the security system, sneak into the cameras Yves had set up on the inside.

 

It’s almost terrifying how easy it is when the predator has no idea you’re not exactly prey.

 

But it’s moments like these that hit her like a speeding truck of just how quick it could turn around.

 

Jinsol is furious.

 

“She could’ve killed you!” She’s pacing, ebony strands swishing and swirling with every rigid turn. “She was going to kill you!”

 

“I can see that,” Jungeun rubs her temples, she can’t think with how frazzled and jittery Jinsol’s steps are, the sound oozing like poison and spilling into her skin. “But she didn’t.”

 

Jinsol’s pulling at her scalp, black hair taut between her fingers, a frustrated scream squeezing between gritted teeth.

 

Jungeun winces as if it were her own head.

 

“Sol, we both knew it was going to happen.”

 

“That’s exactly the problem!” Jinsol’s shrill, panic drawing over her eyes. “Does that not bother you?!”

 

She can’t say it doesn’t have her heart racing in her chest, a chill quaking across her bones; facing her mortality through a screen is a shocking reminder of just how short life could be.

 

She’d rather not tell Jinsol that, though. She’s already panicking enough as it is.

 

Thank god she had those tiny cameras installed in her bedroom. Not that it could’ve done anything to protect her, but it made damning evidence that Yves is indeed what they all thought she was.

 

Still. To move with ease, so silent, and she never once heard her? Impressive. And dangerous.

 

Jungeun’s survived numerous close calls as frightening as last night, but it never gets any easier to experience.

 

“I told you Yerim would protect you,”

 

Vivi comes in like a dump of cold water, icing her nerves and cooling off the fumes in Jinsol’s legs, halting her pacing.

 

Jinsol’s still breathing as if smoke is spilling between her teeth, fire hot on her tongue.

 

“That was just luck,” Jinsol says.

 

“So is the fact that Jungeun’s still alive,” Vivi quips, arms folding over her chest. “She could have just as easily killed her earlier. Like at the cafe, or on the front porch. Or at every dinner they’ve already had. But she didn’t.”

 

Jinsol sighs.

 

Vivi clicks her tongue.

 

“Luck isn’t easy to come by, but when it does with a killer who happens to have a soft spot for children, then we better make the most of it.” Vivi pauses, lets the silence weigh in. “Yerim’s buying us time that we probably wouldn’t have had if Jungeun chose any other role to play.”

 

“Why can’t we just take her in now?” Jinsol gestures to the footage, video paused at the moment Yves was about to pull the trigger— and never does. “We have more than enough proof. Clearly.”

 

“And lose our only lead?” Vivi shakes her head, uncrossing her arms. “The moment we do, she’s considered a loose end the ICA won’t hesitate to tie up. We’re here for their head — not their finger. Besides, we’ve already tried that once before, and look how that turned out.”

 

Jungeun remembers that case — the trail had gone cold, but just when they were about to get Kim Hyunjin to talk, she no longer could.

 

All she had left behind was a blood-stained letter written for J.H. Whoever that is.

 

“Fine!” Jinsol throws her hands up, stalking back to her office. “Whatever. See if I care.”

 

Jungeun gets it, the concern Jinsol can’t shake off. It’s natural.

 

The only reason she thinks this could work is because she’s seeing it work. Jungeun can’t count the number of opportunities Yves didn’t take to have her head— there’s too many.

 

Yves could have easily killed her off the moment she arrived next door; she didn’t have to settle in, bother with moving and playing the friendly neighbor.

 

Maybe she’s the type who likes to wait, play a long game before she gets sick of it and move on to the next best thing. Jungeun will count her blessings, whatever the reason is.

 

She hopes Yves’ growing friendship (if she could even call it that) with Yerim stays for a little while longer.

 

—

 

Jungeun doesn’t know how to feel about the warmth in her chest when Yves looks at her that way.

 

She’s familiar with certain gazes, recognizes which is a threat, and which isn’t. Categorize them in terms of romantic, or eerie. There’s a spectrum of looks people tend to give, eyes revealing what lips usually don’t until they’re already established — had a date, or two, or three.

 

Jungeun’s not sure if she’s reading it right, or if Yves’ a brilliant actress who can manipulate even the emotions in her eyes.

 

“You’re drooling,” Yves says, her gaze carrying more than Jungeun is used to.

 

Banter comes easy.

 

“...Shut up.” Closing the distance, gripping Yves for support as she wobbles out of her seat. She knew the movie was boring, but it was longer than most and she knew her team would appreciate it. “Not my fault you were comfortable.”

 

She knows better than to let her guard down, take a quick nap next to the woman assigned to get rid of her.

 

But she took a chance on Yves’ continuous mercy because her eyes have been coloured with hesitation rather than killer intent and that brewed curiosity.

 

She couldn’t resist testing out how far she could get away with knowing Yves’ been letting her live.

 

“Did you buy us more time?” Jinsol says, like she always does with every evening update before bed.

 

Jungeun slides into her desk chair, props open her laptop for restaurants that are distant enough to give them extra amount of time without needing to worry about coming up with conversations of her own to make up for it.

 

Being alone with Yves and surviving it is making her bolder to find longer trips.

 

“I asked her to lunch,” she scrolls through the menu of one, eyes the specials for the week. “Will have it happen sometime this week. How far have you guys gotten?”

 

“Just need to bug it for audio, now.” There’s paper rustling in the background, crackling through the earpiece. “Made a backdoor through her security system; she won’t notice we have access unless she knows to look for it.”

 

As long as she never raises suspicion, plays her part as a single-mother with a daughter looking to make new friends, Yves will never know.

 

“How long do you need?”

 

“A few hours, tops.”

 

She finds several restaurants to try out, knows Yves hasn’t once declined any of her invites. As for why, Jungeun wonders if it’s because she’s looking for the right moment to do her job — or if she’s the type of predator who enjoys the thrill of making a chase last.

 

Either way, Jungeun knows who’s really prey.

 

“Consider it done.”

 

—

 

Sometimes, she forgets she’s out with Yves as a job and not because she enjoys her company.

 

It doesn’t help that she’s no longer worried about Yerim scampering off every morning to send her letters; knows Yves will never hurt her (why she even has this confidence is preposterous— but it’s there).

 

Yerim’s munching on cereal, words spilling between her teeth.

 

“Has Eevee ever tried to hurt you?”

 

Jungeun’s spoon pauses halfway to , lowers it so she could see Yerim’s curious expression.

 

She tells the truth.

 

“No,”

 

“Why not?”

 

Jungeun gives her a look — one Yerim returns easily.

 

Good question. Her team thinks it’s luck, and maybe it was, initially.

 

But now?

 

Jungeun lifts her spoon. “I don’t know,”

 

“Maybe it’s because she likes you,”

 

She chokes on her food, feels it get stuck in , coughing as Yerim passes her tissues like she already expected it.

 

Jungeun pounds her chest. “W-What?!”

 

“What?”

 

“What makes you think that?”

 

“Because she’s my friend,”

 

Yerim goes back to eating her cereal, like she didn’t just make her choke on surprise.

 

“She told you that?”

 

“No,” Yerim pauses, swallowing. “She spends time with us. Doesn’t that mean she likes us?”

 

Jungeun should’ve known it’s not what she thought it’d be — which is a relief, of course. She already has too many things to worry about.

 

“Right,”

 

“She’s coming over by the way,” Yerim says, a smile on her lips. “She’s gonna help me build the one thousand puzzle piece my teacher got me.”

 

Jungeun reels back, bewildered that Yerim didn’t let her know in advance — worse, that she’s invited Yves on her own.

 

“You have to be careful,” she reaches for Yerim’s free hand, encourages her to look up. “She’s not — she’s not really a friend.”

 

Yerim frowns. “But she is,”

 

“Yerim,”

 

“You said she never hurt you,”

 

Jungeun sighs. “That doesn’t mean she won’t,”

 

“And it doesn’t mean she will,”

 

It’s naive and childish; a stark reminder that Yerim’s still just a kid.

 

“Yerim—“

 

There’s a knock on the door, halts the rest of the words from escaping her lips.

 

“Hello? It’s me, Yves.”

 

Yerim yanks her hand away, a bristling chill crawling up Jungeun’s arm as she watches Yerim stomp up the stairs without sparing a glance.

 

Jungeun shuffles to the door.

 

“Hi,”

 

A shy smile graces Yves’ lips.

 

“Hi,” Yves lifts a box of donuts, “I wasn’t sure what to get, but I figured anything sweet would make up for it.”

 

Jungeun ignores the twinge in her chest, pretends the instinctive want to smile is because she has to put up a front and not because Yves makes her lips curl upwards.

 

“Thanks, you really didn’t have to.”

 

She’s hyper aware of her hands, avoids touching Yves’ in fear that the tremor in her knees will get worse if she does.

 

“I wanted to,”

 

Yves makes it hard to look away.

 

“Thanks, um,” Jungeun curls her hair behind her ear, looks back to check if maybe Yerim had come down to join them. She hasn’t. “Yerim’s just getting her puzzle. I’ll go get her so you can wait in the living room, okay?”

 

“Okay,”

 

—

 

Yerim’s curled up in bed, shielded beneath her blankets.

 

Jungeun settles beside her, rests a hand on her shoulder, this scene all too familiar.

 

“Yerim?”

 

“...Go away,”

 

Jungeun sighs. “I know you think she’s your friend,”

 

“Our friend,” Yerim quips.

 

Jungeun isn’t sure about that.

 

“Maybe,” she pauses, lets the syllables roll on her tongue. “But it doesn’t hurt to be careful. Some people are really good at pretending,”

 

“Like us?”

 

Jungeun flinches, thankful Yerim’s back is turned to her.

 

“...Yes, like us.” She says, low like a whisper. “And I don’t want you to get hurt.”

 

She can hear the pout in Yerim’s voice. “Eevee won’t hurt me,”

 

“How can you be so sure?”

 

“Because why would she?”

 

Jungeun rubs her shoulder, attempts to soothe the stiffness she feels lining Yerim’s body.

 

“Maybe to hurt me,”

 

Yerim turns over, gaze sharp in protest, gripping her hand.

 

“I told you, remember?” She feels her squeeze, “I’ll protect you.”

 

It’s corny to hear it from anyone else, but it’s Yerim, and Yerim isn’t just anyone else.

 

Jungeun squeezes back.

 

She knows Yerim means it; she already did, once — that night Yves had crept into her room, inches away from pulling the trigger.

 

But how long will it take before Yerim’s luck no longer includes her?

 

“She’s waiting for you downstairs,” she smiles, nods her head towards the door. “Go get your puzzle.”

 

Yerim springs from the bed, an excited squeal piercing Jungeun’s ears, tiny arms looping around her neck, a sloppy kiss pressing against her cheek.

 

“Thank you!” She lets go to rummage through her drawer, pulls out a box half her size, scurrying back to tug her wrist. “Come build it with us!”

 

Jungeun isn’t sure she has a place in the little friendship bubble Yerim shares with Yves, but with Yerim’s toothy grin and Yves’ timid smile, she squeezes between them and tries.

 

She spends half the time observing the way they interact; recognizes the sun on Yerim’s face and the soft edges on Yves’ lips.

 

She wonders if Yves even notices she’s dropped her guard.

 

The puzzle pieces clicking together sound quiet and light compared to the ruckus her heart makes, drumming against her eardrums— growing louder whenever she bumps her fingers against Yves’.

 

It doesn’t help when Yves’ “Sorry,” is just as gentle as her eyes, her heat lingering like a ghost on her skin.

 

Jungeun pretends it doesn’t make butterflies stir in her stomach.

 

—

 

When Jungeun gets to HQ, Jinsol’s scurrying up to her, grabbing her shoulders — frantic, fear smouldering her eyes.

 

“Jungeun, help me!”

 

Jungeun yelps, jerks back because ow, what a grip she has.

 

“With what?”

 

“Vivi wants me to play bait!” Jinsol shakes her, the vigorous motion making her dizzy. “Why can’t I just stay here?! Please, convince her to let me stay!”

 

Confusion looms in her head, catching Vivi approach them from her office, an amused smile adorning her lips.

 

Jungeun yanks Jinsol’s grip off her.

 

“What is she talking about?” She says, rolls her eyes when Jinsol slumps against her, whining in her arms. “And Sol, just—“ Her palm presses flat against Jinsol’s face, attempts to shove her away. “— will you please just let go— hey! Watch where you’re grabbing!”

 

Vivi chuckles. “She’s going on the field with you for a bit,”

 

Jungeun scoffs, igniting Jinsol’s whine.

 

“What for?”

 

“It’s like she said; to play bait.” She crosses her arms, tilts her head. “Yves has clearly warmed up to you. As much as possible, she’s trying to delay the fact that she’s here to kill you— for whatever reason. But I don’t care why, I just want to make sure she doesn’t run out of those excuses. So what better way than to distract her with a new target to pick on?”

 

Jinsol’s whining grows louder. “See?!”

 

Jungeun pretends she can’t hear her.

 

“Wouldn’t that just lead her to you? To us?”

 

“We already have a fake profile ready for her,” Vivi says, calm. “It’ll lead to a dead end, and even then, just getting there is time consuming. But it’s long enough for us to go digging through her hard drives.”

 

“But what if she just decides to kill me?!” Jinsol groans, slumping against Jungeun. “You’re all insane!”

 

“She’s not going to kill you,” Vivi smirks, arching a brow. “She’ll be too busy wallowing at the fact that you’re Jungeun’s ‘Ex-Wife’.”

 

“Ex-cuse me?!”

 

Jungeun can’t tell which of them said it first — just that they both did.

 

“You heard me. In fact, Jungeun’s already done half of the work for us.” Vivi shoots her a wink, “You were the one who mentioned an ex, remember?” She spins on her heel, waving over her shoulder, walking off back in the direction of her office. “Now go. Jinsol, you have a heart to break and Jungeun, keep doing what you’re doing and mend it.”

 

Jungeun doesn’t know what to think — doesn’t know what to feel.

 

Jinsol’s seething, jabbing a finger against Jungeun’s forehead.

 

“This is your fault?!”

 

Jungeun swats it away. “Hey, I had to come up with an excuse on the spot! You guys should’ve told me I was going to get slapped!”

 

—

 

Jinsol standing at her doorstep, looking deader than the corpses Yves leaves behind, almost has her falling over, laughter eager to spill from her lips.

 

“This is suicide,”

 

Jungeun just snorts.

 

“...Do I have to call you mama?” Yerim looks unimpressed, her tone matching her complete disinterest. “You look scary.”

 

Jinsol doesn’t bat an eye. “Trust me, kid. I don’t want to be here, either.”

 

Jungeun snickers, crouching to fix that collar of Yerim’s sweater.

 

“It’ll only be for a little while, so be good, okay?” Jungeun smiles, cups Yerim’s ear as if to whisper, though her voice isn’t any lower. “Just say the word, and she’ll do it for you. You’re the boss.”

 

Yerim gasps out of glee; Jinsol’s sounds mortified.

 

“I’m the boss?!”

 

“Woah— hey, what the, we did not agree to this—!“

 

Yerim cheers. “I’m the boss!”

 

Jungeun watches Yerim drag Jinsol away with a hop to each step, laughter raucous and bright, a stark contrast to Jinsol’s more quiet, rapid-fire stammering.

 

She tries not to think too hard about the fact that she’ll be spending the entire weekend alone with Yves — that is, if she says yes.

 

Why the thought makes her nervous — and not in the typical ‘I’m-going-to-get-killed’ type of jitters, is another problem entirely.

 

She pinches her arm. “Get yourself together,”

 

Jungeun breathes in deep, hopes it’s enough to soothe her racing heart, and marches off towards Yves’ house.

 

—

 

She said yes.

 

Once the initial shock wore off, Jungeun scrambled for something they could do together — shopping came first.

 

Jungeun holds up the sweater against Yves, hums in approval, pushes to have her carry it.

 

“That’ll be yours,”

 

Yves’ gaze flutters between the sweater she’s now holding, and the one still in Jungeun’s hand.

 

“...You sure like to make things match,”

 

“Yup,” Jungeun arches a brow, “is that a problem?”

 

Yves grows sheepish, scratching her neck, ears glowing pink. Her gaze meets the floor.

 

“...No, I guess not.”

 

Jungeun hates that the first thing that comes to mind is how cute Yves looks. She didn’t think anyone could still ooze charm by being embarrassed.

 

She clears .

 

“Well, now it’s your turn.” Jungeun grins at the startled look painting across Yves’ eyes. “Choose something for us to wear.”

 

“And still match?”

 

Chuckles escape easily. “Yes,”

 

Yves makes checking clothes look like they’re going to war. The way she surveys the colours as if it were a layout of the land, expression hard, like battle tactics were stumbling around in her head.

 

Jungeun’s well aware of how her heart rate quickens, hears it pump in her ears, glee thrumming her veins. She feels lightheaded.

 

Out of all the methods Yves uses to take out her targets, Jungeun isn’t sure she’d want her friends to know she could get killed with this one.

 

“Will these two work?”

 

Jungeun blinks, finds Yves lift two hoodies, the childish image warming Yves’ cheeks — like she knows this isn’t what she’s supposed to be doing.

 

Jungeun can feel her own ears heat up, too.

 

“They’re perfect,”

 

—

 

It feels like a date.

 

Jungeun didn’t mean to make it that way. There just isn’t much else to do when you’re only two people and no one else is present to help fill in the silence.

 

She can’t tell if her awkwardness comes because she’s now aware of it.

 

“Let’s try those out,” Jungeun’s desperate for a distraction, eager to erase the quiet that has become all too comfortable. “I bet I’ll win all of them.“

 

“Are you sure?” A playful smile spreads across Yves’ face.

 

Jungeun turns away before she stares any longer than necessary.

 

“Watch me.”

 

She doesn’t know why she’s being competitive; maybe it’s because she’s trying to fight against the obvious tremor in her chest, refuses to acknowledge what it means because she already knows the answer — and it shouldn’t be.

 

“...’Dance Dance Revolution’?” Yves peers at the menu screen, “You know how to dance?”

 

Jungeun climbs onto the platform, steps on the arrows, grinning.

 

“You’ll see,”

 

It takes her back to high school, when she had too much free time and Jiwoo had too much energy — they didn’t know where else to spend it.

 

The steps come easy, motions fluid like it’s a part of her. Left, right, up, down— she should do this more often.

 

“You weren’t kidding,” Yves’ significantly closer, feels her gaze’s weight now that she remembers she’s not alone, scarring her cheek. “You certainly don’t have two left feet.”

 

Jungeun hates that that’s all it takes for her to lose her rhythm, chasing after arrows she misses by seconds.

 

Yves’ laughter blooms through.

 

“...I guess I spoke too soon?”

 

Jungeun rolls her eyes, a lopsided smile catching her lips.

 

“Shut up,”

 

The rest of the game goes fine, score lower than she’d like, the ‘Game Over’ screen blinking back at her.

 

Embarrassing, and she certainly didn’t mean to lose her momentum, but if it makes Yves loosen up enough to laugh, Jungeun finds herself realizing she wouldn’t mind repeating it.

 

“Good job, Happy Feet.” Yves says, grinning ear to ear. “You managed to at least finish the game.”

 

Jungeun stumbles off the platform, wobbling from tired knees and a nickname— which Yves seems too pleased to have come up with, her gaze twinkling with mischief.

 

Happy Feet? Did she just—

 

“Woah, there. You okay?”

 

Yves’ breathing feels too close, registers her arms around her, comfortable and snug. The thought of how she doesn’t want to move is suffocating.

 

Jungeun jerks back, makes sure the gap is twice as big.

 

“‘Happy Feet’? Really?”

 

Yves’ laughter makes her warm. “It’s cute, isn’t it?”

 

Jungeun turns away in hopes that Yves can’t see her go pink.

 

—

 

Jungeun doesn’t know when the mission went from catching a killer to catching feelings.

 

She has enough self-awareness to know what the signs mean: a nervous tongue, jittery fingers, weak knees, blushing cheeks — it feels like she’s spent the whole weekend with an old-school valentine crush.

 

Jinsol would kill her if she knew.

 

“...I think I just lost ten years of my life.”

 

Jinsol’s voice shakes, breathing out like she’d been holding everything in — her nerves come out in a sigh, relief washing over her limbs, her shoulders dropping from their rigid stupor.

 

It’s hard to stifle the laugh from bursting out of , but she swallows it down; they’ve come too far just for her to give it all away, now.

 

“You were so stiff,” Jungeun half-whispers, half-shouts; Jinsol improved with her acting, no doubt. But if she had cracked any earlier, well. She’d rather not know what would’ve happened next. “She better not have caught on.”

 

“It’s not my fault a trained killer was literally two steps away from me. Thank god she wanted to leave.” Jinsol’s furrowed brows and frantic eyes are telling of the jitters on her fingers, “To think you can even keep this up for weeks now— you’re insane.”

 

She would’ve thought the same: several weeks, months, earlier. Hell, she’d even say it’s because she’s just used to playing mind games — building endurance over the years.

 

But then Yves has somehow slithered her way into her chest, lingering even in her head when the sun is up and staying when night falls, that sometimes it just comes easy. Jungeun can’t remember when the lines started to blend together.

 

It doesn’t feel like a game anymore. Or at least, she’s not playing the same one everyone else is.

 

She probably has gone insane.

 

“Whatever.” Jungeun nudges her forward, “Just go and do your job.”

 

“I don’t want to,” Jinsol whines, but she’s moving towards the door, dragging her feet, shoulders slouched. “Why can’t I play the babysitter instead of a false lead?”

 

“Because Jiwoo’s already got that covered,” she pushes her back, peers over to see Yves already on the sidewalk. “Now shoo, hurry up and make her be suspicious of you.”

 

“Haven’t I already done that as your wife?”

 

“Ex-Wife,” Jungeun clicks her tongue, shoves her out the door. “And no, you just made her think I was unavailable.”

 

“Since when did you even want to be avail—“

 

Jungeun shuts the door. Jinsol should just do her job — not question her authority.

 

She lifts Yerim into her arms, smiles when she feels her yawn and snuggle closer.

 

“Now let’s get you to bed.”

 

—

 

“We need you back at HQ,”

 

Her cup pauses halfway to , coffee swirling to stop.

 

“Why? What happened?”

 

“It’s important and no, not over the phone.” Vivi’s voice sounds grim, curt replies sending chills down her spine. “Just get here quickly. And don’t bring Yerim.”

 

Jungeun frowns. “I’m not going to just leave her—“

 

“Have your friend babysit her,”

 

“Vivi—“

 

The line ends, a dull dial tone left in her wake.

 

Jungeun slumps back into her seat, watches the kettle whistle, Yerim’s favourite show playing in the background with Yerim singing along to the theme song.

 

She dials the first person that comes to mind.

 

“Sorry Jungeunie,” Jiwoo says, distracted. “I’m actually at work right now.”

 

“Oh, right. Thanks anyway.”

 

Jungeun stares at her list of contacts — if she could even call it that, consisting of just the important few. But the ones she could trust are already either waiting for her at work, or Jiwoo.

 

Her thumb hovers over a name she’s spent months preparing for with a new life — and hesitates.

 

Ironic that the most dangerous happens to also be the safest. Especially for Yerim.

 

The line clicks open.

 

“Jungeun?”

 

She curls her hair back, eyes the way Yerim is engrossed with the television.

 

“Hi, Yves. I know this is such short notice, but I was wondering if I could ask you for a favour…”

 

“Of course,” it’s almost heartbreaking how accommodating Yves is, makes the guilt grow larger than it already has. “What do you need?”

 

—

 

Jungeun’s gotten used to her new life — quiet, normal, and mundane; shared with two people she’s learned to cherish.

 

One who never stops running after butterflies and cockroaches and the other — silent but always present, often lingering in her head.

 

So it feels like she’d stepped on a land mine as soon as she’s within earshot of a meeting already going on without her.

 

“We’re taking her in,”

 

There’s a chill in the room, several gazes meeting hers across the large oval table — with Vivi at the head.

 

Jungeun frowns. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Someone’s hacked into our system, deleted most of the files. Replaced it all with pictures of birds— like it’s a joke.” Jinsol says, seated by the door. “Turns out our Lovely Lady Killer’s got a backdoor of her own.”

 

“How do you know it was her?”

 

“We don’t,” Vivi rubs her temples, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. “In fact, I’m almost positive it isn’t.”

 

“Then why take her in?”

 

“So whoever it is can get the message that we’re not to be taken lightly.”

 

Jungeun crosses her arms, head whirring for possibilities — none of them look good.

 

“Didn’t you say it wasn’t worth the risk? That it’d end up like Kim Hyunjin?”

 

Vivi frowns. “Then what do you propose?”

 

That’s the problem; she doesn’t have an idea, either. But she knows at least one thing: she’s not about to shatter the little world Yerim and Yves shares.

 

At least, not yet.

 

Her team doesn’t need to know that Yves isn’t the only one trying to come up with excuses to delay the inevitable.

 

Jungeun surveys the wall of photos, articles, and timelines, her team has conjured up over the years on the International Contract Agency — various streaks of red connecting to too many high-profile events and not enough culprits.

 

“Give me time,” Jungeun says, eyes the picture of Yves snapped from a footage showing where the ambassador was killed. “I’ll think of something.”

 

“And you want us to just sit around while you play house with a killer?” Jinsol’s brows furrow, bottom lip jutted out, concern wrinkling her skin.

 

Jungeun rubs her head, messes up her hair for everyone to see, ignoring Jinsol’s whine and swatting hands.

 

“Do what you always do; keep your eyes and ears on her. Something’s bound to come up.”

 

—

 

Jungeun didn’t think she’d be right about that.

 

She doesn’t know what happened between Yerim and Yves — it was just babysitting. Even when Yerim came back with a new purple lamp, she looked happy.

 

The change must’ve felt like whiplash.

 

“Is Eevee avoiding me, mommy?”

 

Jungeun remembers frowning, crouching to brush away purple strands from Yerim’s eyes, spotted tears left unshed.

 

She never knows what to say whenever she asks; hates how Yerim’s the one Yves is hurting when it should’ve just been her, alone.

 

“I don’t know, baby.”

 

It’s been two weeks since they’ve last spoken to Yves.

 

Yerim still writes her letters, and she’s confirmed with every visit to the mailbox that they’ve been taken (it’s always empty the next time she goes to drop one off), but somehow they never really see her.

 

Jungeun still does; when she’s at work with Jinsol beside her, watching through the cameras installed in her house.

 

Situated between the hinges of a curtain’s rod, blending with the steel; high enough to get a bit of view of the living room, kitchen, and the hall leading to the front door.

 

“She’s been busier, lately.”

 

“You mean she’s been killing a lot, lately.” Jinsol says, chips crunching between her teeth. “I thought you were making progress?”

 

They watch Yves sort out equipment in the living room, sliding on a holster.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You know, less killing and more…” Jinsol pauses, swallowing down a mouthful, a wink thrown her way. “...family friendly.”

 

Jungeun yanks the bag of chips, ignores her pout.

 

“...Shut up.”

 

Jinsol snickers, shoving fingers back into the bag and grabbing a handful despite Jungeun’s protests.

 

“Well, whatever it is, she’s been set off, somehow. She’s been calling for more jobs, like she’s purposely looking for more things to do.” Jinsol turns to her, Cheshire smile curling up her lips. “Besides the obvious.”

 

Jungeun slaps her shoulder, ignores the warmth seeping up her neck, spreading across her ears.

 

Yves goes over to her jacket, slipping her arms through the sleeves.

 

Vivi’s voice rings through the open door.

 

“I call that progress,” she gestures with a flick of her wrist, waves in Jungeun’s direction. “You’re still here, after all.”

 

Having her mortality said out loud so casually sends a shiver up her spine.

 

“...Thanks, I guess.”

 

Jungeun watches the way Yves stares at the letter Yerim had written for her that morning, how she lingers as if to engrave the words in her head.

 

Anger and frustration boil in her stomach.

 

She wants to yell at her, have her voice pierce through the screen for making Yerim sad — for never writing her back, that maybe if she did, just once, Yerim wouldn’t be coming home like her heart was always broken.

 

Let her know that even when Yerim feels miserable, she still goes out of her way to write another letter, hopeful that there’ll be one day where she can just see her friend, again.

 

Ignoring her is one thing; she can handle a broken heart — she’s lived through high school and college learning how, but ignoring Yerim too?

 

No, she doesn’t get to do that.

 

But no matter how much she wants to teach Yves a lesson, she can’t. Because isn’t this for the better?

 

Yerim won’t feel as hurt anymore when it’s time to put Yves away.

 

She watches Yves tuck the letter back into the envelope, setting it neatly on the countertop before leaving.

 

This is for the better.

 

—

 

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?” Jungeun says as she rummages through her purse:

 

House keys, check. Cellphone, check. Wallet, check.

 

Jiwoo scoffs, waves her hand.

 

“Please, I know I don’t have a kid of my own, but I know at least a thing or two about taking care of one.” Jiwoo pats Yerim’s head, grinning. “So don’t worry about us.”

 

“Yeah, mommy. Don’t worry about us!”

 

Jungeun jumps at the sound of honking, giving Yerim and Jiwoo one last hug before looping the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

 

“All right, I’ll be back soon. Call me if you need anything.”

 

Jiwoo laughs, shoving her forward.

 

“Okay, okay. Now go have fun!”

 

So she does just that, carpooling with colleagues from her boring nine-to-five office job because she’s getting promoted and they all wanted to celebrate.

 

She has to admit though; she’s surprised, and a little impressed. She didn’t think Vivi would bother with giving her a better position at a job that’s just for show — it’s kind of sweet.

 

She appreciates it.

 

The bar is filled with smoky dim lights and drunkards jumping around on the dance floor.

 

She wouldn’t go so far as to be that relaxed, but she’d like to be loose enough to drown the persistent worries that haunt her even in her sleep.

 

Jungeun knows there’s no point denying the obvious — upset that Yves hasn’t reached out to her in weeks, with Yerim running on little hope every morning she knocks on her door and gets no answer.

 

It’s stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. And yet she still can’t help but feel for more than what she’s supposed to for the woman next door.

 

So she lets herself get distracted by drinks that people offer her in the name of celebration, losing count several minutes later and wondering if it’s okay that her head is already spinning.

 

But it doesn’t erase the thoughts of Yves like she’d hoped.

 

Her phone lighting up and jittering on the counter takes Jungeun’s eyes away from another drink.

 

“...Hello?” Her voice comes out groggy, sluggish, like she has no sense of control anymore.

 

“What the hell are you doing, Jungeun?!”

 

Weird. She never thought she’d ever hear Vivi sound like that. Panicked, like she’s high-strung on nerves and cold-sweat jitters.

 

Jungeun fumbles to hold the phone closer, attempts to pay attention to the sound of her boss’ voice instead of the pounding bass line to a bad song.

 

“Just—“ she groans, slumping forward, head pounding with a headache. “— the work party. Obviously. Which, by the way, I should thank you for.”

 

“There is no work party, Jungeun!”

 

Jungeun frowns, pulls away to blink hard at the screen, squinting. No work party? So does that mean no promotion?

 

“Wait,” she hiccups, gripping the counter; the room’s spinning. “What do you mean there’s no—“

 

Another glass slides over to her. The bartender shrugs when she stares up at him in confusion, nodding his head towards her left.

 

“You can thank the lady over there,”

 

Jungeun turns her head, spots a woman with short hair, medium-length — but it’s not Yves.

 

There’s a glint in her eyes, like she knows too much.

 

Jungeun watches her slide onto the stool next to her.

 

“Hello, Jungeun.”

 

She’s sober enough to know she never said her name.

 

“Hello?! Jungeun? Jungeun—!“

 

Jungeun ends the call.

 

“They sounded awfully worried,” the woman points at her phone, nods her head. “Why didn’t you answer that?”

 

She’d rather not have Vivi let anything slip for the stranger to hear. Besides, she needs to pay attention; there’s something off about this woman. And unnerving.

 

“...Who are you?”

 

“Haseul,” she’s tracing a finger along the rim of her cup, “just figured you’d like a free drink, or two. You looked like you needed one.”

 

Jungeun slides it to the side. “I don’t.”

 

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Haseul leans in a little closer, but not enough to feel her breathe. “I’m not the one hired to do the dirty work, but I’m sure you know who is.”

 

Jungeun stiffens.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Just to get to know you, see what’s so different this time.” It’s ambiguous and makes Jungeun’s head spin with questions— besides the drinks she’s already had. “Also, to let you and your friends know that you’re all doing a horrible job of playing catch. Tell me, how did your friends like the bird pictures?”

 

She grips the counter, steadies the room spinning in her head.

 

“...You set this up,”

 

Haseul smiles.

 

“I told you, I want to get to know you.” She raises a hand, urges Jungeun not to throw a punch — though Jungeun’s seconds away from doing just that. “And so far, I’m not all that impressed.”

 

Jungeun grits her teeth, hates how dizzying she’s gotten — she knows she doesn’t get like this when she drinks.

 

Haseul takes a sip from her cup.

 

“At least you catch on quick,”

 

“So you’re her partner,”

 

“Her Handler, actually. But yes, I guess you could say I am.” Haseul swirls the glass, watches the ice cubes bump against the walls. Clink. “Every contract goes through me, so imagine my surprise when yours came in.”

 

Jungeun’s gaze gardens. She wonders if Haseul can hear how shallow her breaths have gotten over the obnoxious music she doesn’t recognize.

 

“It was odd how someone wanted a person like you dead. So normal and bland — and unimportant.” Haseul turns to her, “They should’ve made your profile a little more colourful. Sprinkle a bit of crime, misfortune, and a bad track record, and maybe then I wouldn’t have questioned it enough to do some digging. An expensive price tag on your head doesn’t mean ignoring the obvious.”

 

Her heart thrums in her ears, racing, fear crawling up her chest — she knows.

 

Jungeun bites her lip.

 

— does Yves know too?

 

Is that why she’s been so adamant in avoiding them?

 

“Don’t worry, she doesn’t.” The chair creaks beside her, watching Haseul stand, speaks like she knows the thoughts rampaging in her head. “It’d be interesting to see what would happen if she did, though. Wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Jungeun’s eyes follow her out, feels her heart sink, too many thoughts rolling around to assemble any of it.

 

God, she needs to drink this all away.

 

—

 

“Shouldn’t you be heading home?”

 

Jungeun catches herself nod, heart jumping at a voice she hears even in her sleep.

 

She doesn’t know. Probably. Maybe. If she could find her co-worker and hitch a ride with her again. But she hasn’t thought about that.

 

Her mind’s been preoccupied with a lot. Fleeting, most times. But always there.

 

Images of Yves disappear like a lightbulb flickering on and off — as if she hasn’t already been plaguing her thoughts twenty-four seven.

 

But right now, she’s in front of her. All flesh and bones and just— here. As if she’s gotten tired of living in her head.

 

Her avoidance has stripped Jungeun down to a shameful need to be closer— closer and closer and closer.

 

Now if she could just make Yves stay.

 

“...I-I can’t believe you’re actually here…”

 

So she touches her every chance she gets, reaches for someone she shouldn’t want and certainly can’t have, latches onto every hitched breath Yves takes when she gets too close.

 

There are many things she wants to say: scream at her, tell her she’s hurt Yerim one too many times, that she’s made them come to enjoy her presence, and all the moments they’ve shared together.

 

“We’re leaving. Now.”

 

Maybe it’s the alcohol in her system that’s jostling all reason out the window, the urgency in Yves’ voice dismissed in favour of leaning in, catch a speck of Yves’ warmth — perhaps even a little taste.

 

“But I like this…” Jungeun nestles against the space between jaw and shoulder, mesmerized at the way Yves’ neck moves when she swallows. “...Just stay like this.”

 

She feels calloused hands grasp her face.

 

“We have to go.” Jungeun blinks, vision blurry, groaning. “Stay with me. Okay?”

 

Huh. That sounds easy. Where else would she rather be?

 

Jungeun slumps against her, craves the warmth emitting from Yves’ skin.

 

“...Okay…”

 

Her vision comes and goes, feels Yves carry her elsewhere, her feet dragging along to each hurried step.

 

She doesn’t know where they’re going, and that should’ve been enough cause to panic, trigger a fight-or-flight response, but Jungeun doesn’t feel anything else except safe.

 

Her body slumps on something cold, feels Yves cover her with something warm; it smells of her, comforting enough to make her head stop spinning, focus on that one scent.

 

Her voice sounds like a lullaby.

 

“Just sleep, I’ll be right back.”

 

Jungeun doesn’t resist.

 

—

 

Waking up to Jiwoo’s face is a nightmare.

 

Or maybe it’s because she has a pounding headache and she wants nothing more than to punch the pain away — with Jiwoo being the closest thing for her fist to hit.

 

“Woah, woah, hey, is that how you treat your best friend?” Jiwoo chuckles, standing upright, pressing down her fist and gesturing to her nightstand. “Take those for the headache. And drink that water. You look like hell.”

 

Jungeun groans. “...Thanks,”

 

She shifts, sheets rustling beneath her, but there’s a scent she recognizes too well — and one that shouldn’t be in her bed.

 

Fingers lift a blazer she knows she doesn’t own.

 

“You held onto it for dear life; we figured it’d be best to just leave it with you.” Jiwoo’s voice ring into her ears, bounces off the walls as if her words weren’t already ricocheting between her ribs. “Your poor neighbor looked so lost without it.”

 

Jungeun feels her neck grow hot, her ears ablaze.

 

“...Oh.”

 

Jiwoo snickers, nudges her shoulder like she’s excited to share a secret.

 

“What, that’s it? Come on, you wouldn’t be blushing if there was really nothing.” She plops onto the bed, feels the mattress sink under her weight. “She’s cute, I know that much. I also know you have eyes.”

 

Jungeun groans, lays back into the comfort of her pillows — ignores the prickling want in her fingers to hold Yves’ jacket tighter.

 

She pushes it away, far enough that she’d have to lean over to grip it, swift like it burns to touch.

 

If Jiwoo noticed, she doesn’t mention it.

 

“It’s really nothing, Jiwoo.”

 

“I didn’t know ‘nothing’ gets you special treatment,” Jiwoo snorts, brushes her hair back. “Getting carried up the stairs — come on, you know that takes a lot of effort.”

 

Jungeun frowns.

 

“She carried me?”

 

“She went all the way to find you and take you home,” Jiwoo says, gesturing wildly. “That’s definitely not ‘nothing’.”

 

“How did she—“ Jungeun pauses, sitting up. “— how did she even know? Where I was? Just— everything?”

 

Because last time she checked, all she’d get from Yves is a closed door no matter how many times she and Yerim knocked.

 

“Yerim asked her,” Jiwoo shrugged, a proud smile on her lips. “She was really worried about you. They both were. I mean, I was too, but,” she chuckles, patting Jungeun’s knee. “I’m used to you causing trouble.”

 

Jungeun slaps her hand away, ignores Jiwoo’s raucous giggles and stares at the doorway.

 

Jiwoo nudges her leg.

 

“Go let Yerim know you’re okay. I think she’d really appreciate it.”

 

—

 

Yves doesn’t answer the door, seemingly keen on being the ghost she’s been the past few weeks; as if last night never happened.

 

Jungeun doesn’t care, though. She wants to see her. And so does Yerim.

 

She’ll make it happen, one way or another.

 

“Good morning to you too, Haseul.”

 

After work.

 

Jungeun stiffens at the name, recognizes it from all the fog and spinning lights still left in her head, a pulsing headache demanding attention.

 

Yves’ on the bed, phone to her ear, staring mindlessly at the ceiling.

 

“You look like you saw a ghost,” Jinsol says, nudging her elbow. “You’re all stiff. What’s up?”

 

Vivi had fussed over her the moment she walked into the office, scolded her for the scare — that she was lucky Yves went to find her and not utilize it for what it was— an opportunity.

 

She didn’t know her team had followed her, too. That they kept their distance because Yves showed up, afraid to blow their cover.

 

Jungeun didn’t have the heart to tell them it was already too late.

 

She could tell they didn’t know anything else — that they don’t know she had met the woman on the other side of Yves’ call.

 

“Why Jungeun?”

 

Her voice is clear, so sure — the way her name rolls off her tongue makes Jungeun’s chest tighten.

 

“Stop shooting heart eyes at the screen,” Jinsol bumps her arm again, “or else I’m gluing you to it.”

 

Jungeun scowls, nudges her back. God, Jinsol’s annoying — and not at all subtle about her wiggling eyebrows.

 

It’s not a secret that Yves feels something for her. Everyone on her team would about it, make light jabs about how she managed to reel in a killer by being boring.

 

She wonders if they’d still make kissing faces and jokes about matching couple shirts if they knew it wasn’t unrequited.

 

She watches Yves hang up, throw her phone across the bed, squeezing her eyes shut with her fingers as if it’d help erase whatever’s taking up her vision.

 

“Damn it,” Yves slumps further into the bed, rests an arm over her eyes, a heavy sigh leaving . “Why am I like this?”

 

Jungeun turns away, distracts herself with pictures on the wall of cases they’ve yet to solve, attempts to ease the nervous jitters tumbling in her stomach.

 

That’s a question she’d like to have answered for herself, too.

 

—

 

Someone’s watching them.

 

At first she thought she was just being paranoid, but Jungeun learned throughout the years that it could save a life.

 

On several occasions she’d spot a silhouette trailing after her: to work, to the cafe, tending the garden — but never do more than look.

 

She’s not the only one who noticed.

 

“Will you be okay?” Yerim looks worried.

 

Jungeun rubs her thumb across Yerim’s cheek, erases dirt and soil off her skin, tucking a fallen flower in Yerim’s hair.

 

“Of course,” She knows Yerim’s not convinced, but she hopes her faux confidence is enough to quell Yerim from doing anything rash. “Besides, if anything happens, you’ll always have Jiwoo. Or Vivi.”

 

Yerim frowns. “But I don’t want anyone else.”

 

“Not even Jinsol? You called her ‘mama’.”

 

“Because we were pretending,” her smile is small and shy, “but I’m not pretending with you.”

 

Yerim fidgets, gaze downwards to stare at her shoes. She looks embarrassed with her admission, but Jungeun’s heart swells at the truth, crouching to smother Yerim in a hug she’s gotten used to giving.

 

“I won’t let anything happen,” Jungeun says, feeling Yerim’s hands grip the back of her jacket. “I promise.”

 

—

 

Nothing on screen comes close to seeing the real thing.

 

It feels too long since she’s last seen Yves.

 

Last night doesn’t count. She’d much rather pretend that evening doesn’t exist, ignore all the Pandora boxes she’d opened without inhibitions, and delude herself into thinking this is the first time she’s seen her, since.

 

Streetlights don’t do her justice.

 

“Hey!” She spots Yerim already there, standing next to Yves like it’s natural, notes a letter in her hand. “Um, here. I had it dry cleaned for you.”

 

Yves looks hesitant, the way her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, shy and muted.

 

“You didn’t have to,”

 

But I wanted to, Jungeun doesn’t say.

 

She shakes her head, scuffs the bottom of her shoe, wonders how much of the truth she should tell Yves.

 

“I don’t remember much from last night, but Jiwoo and Yerim told me you brought me home.” She thinks about how vivid the confrontation was with Haseul, her words haunting like a nightmare come true. “So, thanks. I’m sorry I’ve been such a handful.”

 

She searches for any sign that Yves knows more, but there’s nothing to find except the look Jungeun’s gotten used to receiving, recognizes it instantly because she’s seen it too often in the mirror at home — longing.

 

Yves turns away like it hurts to look any longer.

 

“Don’t worry about it.”

 

Jungeun feels a smile crawl across her lips. Assassins should know how to lie. Has Yves always been this easy to read?

 

“Eevee! Will you come by Saturday? We’re having a party!”

 

“A party?”

 

Jungeun laughs. There’s no way Yves will say no to this; not when it comes to Yerim.

 

“It’s her birthday on Saturday,” Jungeun reaches out, ruffles purple hair. “Go on. Tell her how old you’re going to be.”

 

She watches the emotions colour Yves’ eyes, that softness she seems to reserve for Yerim returning.

 

“Will you be there?”

 

Yerim’s voice is sweet and irresistible. It’s no surprise when Yves says yes.

 

Jungeun and Yerim high-five before Yerim’s lunging for a hug Yves isn’t prepared for — but seems to appreciate all the same.

 

—

 

Jungeun was hoping that shopping together to find Yerim a gift would help distract Yves from whatever was plaguing her mind.

 

“Yves?”

 

It doesn’t.

 

Yves’ skin is soft beneath her fingers, urging her to turn, look her way instead of the images that keep Yves’ eyes off her.

 

“Yes?”

 

Courage comes easier, now. Makes her limbs move on their own, reach out to touch her — ease the craving of wanting to feel her skin.

 

“Is something bothering you?” Jungeun says, ignores the itch to lean up closer.

 

It’s odd, the way she doesn’t seem to fear the consequences of touching Yves like this; almost as if she doesn’t care. And maybe she really doesn’t.

 

Or maybe she’s reassured by the fact that Yves hangs her feelings across her eyes, makes it easy for Jungeun to see she’s not the only one who feels this way.

 

Jungeun just never thought she’d be the type of person to choose her heart over her head— throw caution out the window, keep her team in the dark.

 

She wonders if Yves could ever bring herself to decide.

 

When Yves turns, lips kissing the palm of her hand, Jungeun didn’t think she’d actually get to see her make the same choice.

 

“Y-Yves?”

 

“Sooyoung,” Yves — Sooyoung, says, voice lowered to a whisper, as if breathless. “You can call me Sooyoung.”

 

Hearing a new name; her actual name is all the more frightening. It makes this real, solidifying what Jungeun’s been afraid of acknowledging; that whatever this is, it could happen.

 

She just has to let it happen.

 

Jungeun wishes she never said her real name— wishes she never gave the key to her life. She hates that Sooyoung trusts her enough to keep such a secret.

 

For a killer, Sooyoung sure likes to follow her heart.

 

Jungeun leans up, presses her lips against the corner of , plays with the name “Sooyoung,” on her tongue; she hopes Sooyoung can feel her promise to keep it close.

 

But with the way Sooyoung seals the gap between their breaths, tasting her smile, Jungeun laughs at how quickly she doesn’t need that hope anymore.

 

She goes home holding her hand until they’re at her doorstep, letting go in exchange for another one of Sooyoung’s kisses that lingers long after she’s already gone.

 

—

 

It’s Yerim’s birthday today.

 

She gets the day off to help set up the party, buy decorations and a cake Yerim chooses for herself because she wants to assist in designing it.

 

It’s always fun to see Yerim so happy, zipping around the house and thinking of all the games she could play with her friends, sprawling them across the carpet to rank them out of ten based off of fun factor.

 

“Relax, Yerim. You’ve got time,”

 

“But there’s just so many games to play! I don’t know which one we should play first!”

 

Jungeun laughs, resting on the couch to watch Yerim solve her biggest conundrum, allows her body to relax after having everything finally ready.

 

But her limbs stay tense even when the party has already started, offering curt smiles and short responses to guests she doesn’t care about because the one person she wants isn’t here.

 

Thankfully Yerim’s surrounded by kids who enjoy her company and games that offer plenty of distractions to not notice she’s still missing one more person on her guest list.

 

Jungeun scrolls through her contact list, looks for a name that’s been tattooed into her head, and wonders if she should call or text her instead.

 

Her phone rings before she could decide, a private number displayed on the screen.

 

Jungeun taps it open.

 

“Hello?”

 

“It’s nice to hear from you again, Jungeun.”

 

A chill slithers through her spine, jolts her to a stand, find a place where it’s quietest.

 

The sound of laughing children and Jenga blocks thudding the carpet floor gets muffled behind her bedroom door.

 

“...What do you want?”

 

“Your cooperation,”

 

Jungeun grits her teeth. “And why would I do that?”

 

Out of all the things she could say, Jungeun isn’t prepared for the one Haseul settles for.

 

“Because Yves won’t be attending your little party if you don’t.”

 

Haseul’s voice is quiet, calculative— and menacing.

 

Jungeun paces around her room, worry settling into her head.

 

Quiet anger seeps behind her lips.

 

“...Where is she?”

 

Jungeun’s furious at a lot of things: at Haseul’s callousness, Sooyoung’s questionable safety— she’s always two steps behind.

 

“I’ll tell you once you get there,” Haseul’s firm, but there’s a hint of concern underlying her voice. “And no, I’m not asking.”

 

By the time Jungeun’s rushing out the door in clothes she’s ordered to wear, Jiwoo’s chasing after her.

 

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Her hand is warm around her wrist, “I mean, I’ll handle things here, but Jungeun…”

 

Jungeun grips Jiwoo’s hand, squeezing gently.

 

“I’ll be fine,”

 

“This isn’t one of your missions, is it?” Jiwoo frowns, brows furrowed. “I thought you were done with all that?”

 

Jungeun eases the fingers around her skin, musters up a smile before turning away to pull open her car door.

 

“Tell Yerim I’ll be right back,” she’s halfway in, gazes up at eyes that never seem to stop worrying about her. “I’ll be fine, Jiwoo. So stop pouting, okay?”

 

Jiwoo chuckles. “Fine. Just — be careful.”

 

Jungeun nods.

 

“Always.”

 

—

 

Haseul’s instructions had been ambiguous at best.

 

The only specifics given were the instructions on what colour to wear and the room number (why her clothes even mattered was beyond her— but at least she could still hide away a gun on her leg).

 

There’s a nagging thought knocking at the back of her head that this is all a set up — an elaborate plot to get her exactly where Haseul wants her to be, get rid of her once and for all.

 

But she tends to run on slivers of hope — take a chance that it might be the truth. Just in case.

 

For Sooyoung.

 

When she finds the door, it opens to an oval table filled with men and women she doesn’t recognize donned in similar formal attire, as if dressed to impress.

 

“Hi, I’m…” Jungeun settles into the only empty seat and pauses, considers faking a name, but the way they look at her feels like they’d know the instant she lies. “...I’m Jungeun.”

 

They’re polite enough. Makes small talk and light conversations about the weather — but none of it helps ease the discomfort plaguing Jungeun’s skin.

 

It feels plastic — like they all have something to hide.

 

What’s the point of this? Why is she here? And what are they all waiting for?

 

“Looks like it’s up to us,” a woman says, her gaze locked with a man across from her.

 

He glances at his wristwatch, a sigh escaping his lips.

 

“Looks like it.”

 

Jungeun can tell there’s another conversation happening that she’s not a part of, simmering beneath the surface, peeking out between his lopsided smile and the woman’s amused eyes.

 

It’s not until he stands and raises his hand that Jungeun realizes she’s truly been set up. Again.

 

It’s been awhile since she last faced the barrel of a loaded gun.

 

There’s no time to react, reach for her own hidden on the side of her leg, frozen at the sight of his finger curling to squeeze the trigger.

 

She thinks of Yerim and Sooyoung and—

 

Bang.

 

Her saviour comes in the form of a bullet tearing through his head, blood splattering like a bomb had gone off.

 

Jungeun recognizes a second chance when she sees one.

 

She shoots before the assassin across the room can lift her hand, watches her drop before Jungeun twists around, makes a dash for the door just as another bullet zooms through the shattered window, bursting open another hitman’s head.

 

There’s a nagging suspicion bubbling in her mind of who her saving grace may be.

 

Jungeun skids around the corner, misses the bullets that crash against the wall instead of her open back.

 

Her phone rings loud and clear — no doubt giving her away.

 

“Damn it,”

 

She stumbles to open her purse, hurrying to shut it off, answers as soon as she sees Sooyoung’s name.

 

“Jungeun! Are you okay?! Are you hurt?!”

 

Jungeun ditches her heels for speed and stability, charging for the staircase. The fact that Sooyoung’s even aware at all almost confirms it – she must’ve been the one who took that shot first.

 

“Y-Yeah, no, I’m—“

 

She yelps at a bullet grazing her shoulder, hears rapid footsteps inching closer, the thunder of each step bouncing against the walls.

 

Jungeun tries not to stumble off the stairs, taking aim and firing whenever she can spare a glance.

 

“I’m coming, just hold o—!“

 

Her phone is shot out of her hand, drops down the flight of stairs she still has to get through, hears the crash echo into her ears.

 

Jungeun has no time to think when another shot is fired, the bullet grazing her cheek, feels warmth bleed down her skin.

 

She doesn’t know why she’s seeing flashes of Yerim and Sooyoung, memories flitting through her mind’s eye — as if to remind her of what she could lose.

 

(“Bye mommy! I love you!”)

 

(“Sooyoung. You can call me Sooyoung.”)

 

Jungeun pushes through double doors, gravel and cement poking beneath her feet, attempts to catch a second to just breathe—

 

The sound of footsteps has gotten louder.

 

She curses, forces her legs to move despite how much they ache, lungs burning for oxygen. She needs to get away and just run.

 

Run.

 

Run.

 

Run.

 

When her mind numbs, focuses on the most basic of instincts, with survival as the only objective, Jungeun thinks about how this all started.

 

It’s almost funny; she started this knowing there wasn’t much to lose.

 

But now there’s too much.

 

(“As soon as this is all over, we’ll be a real family, okay? I promise.”)

 

She remembers the way Yerim giggled, how she sealed their vow with a pinky finger and a smile.

 

(“I thought we already are?”)

 

Jungeun pushes forward. She can’t die. Not yet.

 

She still has a promise to keep.