What the is going on, is the first thing that crosses his mind as a pain he hasn’t felt for a long time rips through him. He feels himself being thrown backwards, his lithe frame slamming against the closed door of a smooth white cupboard.

He lets out a hiss, drawing his dagger back; it drips with blood that isn’t his, but as he regains his bearings and stares straight at the target who sits on his bed unmoving but unscathed, he realises - with more than just mild annoyance - that the one he impacted wasn’t his target.

There’s the faint sound of metal cutting through air; he twists his body out of the way as a dagger slams into the cupboard behind him. The shadows twine around him, once so succouring, now so suffocating.

A fair share of curses run through his mind as he swerves away from the dangerous glisten of the blade once more, barely brushing the target as he skillfully avoids, feeling the man tremble in fear at his touch.

“What the do you want?” he snarls lowly, his fingers flying to the handle of his own dagger. There’s the sound of metal impacting metal, and he cringes at the sound. He hates this aspect of his job - dealing with other people. He only likes killing them silently, instead of actually fighting them.

“The same thing as you do,” the person responds swiftly, advancing forward.

He allows a grin to spread for a moment, though; these kind of things haven’t happened in a while.

It happens in a flurry of slashes and swipes and angry lashing outs with pointed blades; he feels the tip of a dagger graze his forearm, tearing through his black sleeve, leaving behind a thin trail of red.

He rips his arm away before the dagger digs any deeper; it’s a blur to him, the world spinning around him as he lunges forward, both bodies moving through the darkness like ballet dancers dancing to a song of death.

He feels his dagger dig into human flesh, he feels a familiar thick liquid splash in small drops onto his hand; and then there’s a choked gasp, a weight thrashing on the tip of a dagger, as if an impala were trying to flee from the jaws of a lion.

And then, it ends.

He yanks his dagger out harsher than necessary, hearing a pained groan from the receiving end. There’s a thud, the sound of knees hitting the floor.

“You should have known,” his tone is cold, colder than the breezes that blow in the dead of winter, “Who you were dealing with.”

There’s a soft noise behind him, the shuffling of limbs and bedsheets. He switches his gaze over to the hunched, cowering figure sitting helpless on the bed - in the dark, he can pick out the widening of eyes, the curve of the lips forming a silent ‘oh’, the sheer terror and confusion in the unsteady orbs.

For a moment, they remain motionless - the killer, the victim, and the one who stains a satisfying crimson against expensive, once-clean carpets.

The quietude, surprisingly, is broken by a quiet voice.

“Are you going to kill me?”

He lets an exhalation escape his lips, stepping closer to the target, who can’t hide - or doesn’t bother to hide - the tremble that shivers through his spine. “Well, you’re blunt, aren’t you?”

“The man you just-” He takes an unsteady breath, as if disbelieving, “-Killed, he told me you were coming for me so he lay in wait.”

The words register in his mind, and he scoffs down at the body lying flat on the ground - did he think that he stood a chance? - before he pauses, glancing over at the target again. “Are you an idiot?”

“What?”

“Why the hell would you let a killer into your room?” he hisses, “And stay there waiting to kill someone?”

The target shrugs. His voice is a little steadier now. “He had a dagger, he would have killed me if I protested anyway.”

“Would’ve saved me the trouble of getting cut in the arm,” he mutters under his breath, “Wouldn’t have mattered to me if he killed you or not, since he’s after me and I just need you dead.”

“Oh. Thanks for the comforting statement,” the target says, “What’s your name? I’m Jungsoo.”

“I know your name,” he says coldly, and his tone is tinged with the faintest bit of irritation now, because who the hell introduces himself to the guy he’s going to get killed by? “You don’t need to know mine.”

“It’s pretty cool to kill for a living,” Jungsoo states, “You know, clobbering people and being violent and spilling blood everywhere and not being scared. I’ve always wondered how murderers feel on the inside.”

“I’m an assassin,” he snaps exasperatedly, “Not a murderer. They’re different.”

“How so?”

He can’t believe the guy is daft enough to ask that.

“I’ll show you.”

He can hear the intake of breath, so sharp and piercing in the air, accompanied only by the dull whirring of the overhead fan as it turns in its monotonously continuous pattern.

The second hand ticks by, and both of them listen to the faint rhythm, almost as if it were a final countdown, a march to death’s doors.

2.45am, ticking on to 46 minutes past 2 in the grievous m