She was losing it.

 

What on Earth was she thinking? The dress was torn, and his hands had traced the blade on her hips, so dangerously close to…

 

Hell, that wasn't even the worst of it! She had let him take the freaking dress off her, and had her bet been wrong, he would've taken her to the shore and-

 

But her bet hadn't been wrong.

 

She had no idea how to feel because of that. It wasn't even a good thing. She'd counted on her judgement of the detective’s character to be true, and he was as foolishly chivalrous and honorable as she’d deduced him to be.

 

He had wanted to kill whatever man had torn that dress.

 

Then she'd let him it and take it off her.

 

Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

 

Never in her life had she come that dangerously close to a disaster.

 

She'd never felt that afraid - not on the dance floor, or while she was being chased by the dogs, or any other time.

 

What if he'd seen it? What if she hadn't managed to find the soaked dress with her hands and slip it back on before he'd swam them back to the shore?

 

But it hadn't happened just didn't cut it anymore. She had to face it - she was losing it.

 

She struggled not to start crying. What the hell was that crying stuff about last night, anyway? She hadn't cried in a long, long time.

 

Not since…

 

Now, now, be a good girl and hold those tears in for me, will ya?

 

Or at least stop making those annoying sounds. Otherwise I’m gonna have to slit that pretty throat, you know.

 

She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, shaking her head in a desperate attempt to chase those memories away. She would not go back there. She would not.

 

Yet as the warm shower water kept streaming down her face, she couldn't help herself: her hands slid to her stomach and traced it.

 

She winced.

 

Consider this a prize, rogue.

 

You have always wanted to be equal with the rest of us. Now you can finally get acknowledgement for all the dirty work you do.

 

No amount of head-shaking could chase it away. It was as if she was there again, with his voice right next to her ear, whispering those same words that were carved into her mind forever.

 

Now nobody will be able to say you've charmed your way to success.

 

On the other hand, everyone will be able to praise you for… carving it, what do ya say?

 

She couldn't help herself - she growled as her hand hit the ceramic tiles of the shower. It did nothing to prevent the diabolical laugh from ringing in her head.

 

“I hate you,” she said through gritted teeth.

 

The water kept streaming, the steam rising and making her suffocate.

 

She hit the tiles with her hand again.

 

“I hate you.”

 

Again. Again. And again. The sinister laughter continued.

 

“I hate you!” she screamed, losing her breath and letting herself fall on her knees.

 

The room turned silent. The water turned bloody.

 

Some time later, she was back on track, cleaning the M1911 and wondering what had gone wrong this time. How he had found her and whether it was a bad contact again. Damn, she needed to get a hold on herself.

 

She kept remembering the bits and pieces of last night, even though she didn't want to. Why had she let herself do any of those things?

 

Why had she made sure to remember his smell, his touch, and the little sounds he made every time she bit that spot right under the right ear-

 

The phone started ringing.

 

A trusted contact, or an emergency.

 

“We have a situation, Hella,” Minseok's cold, cut-to-the-chase voice explained from the other side of the line. “A delicate one, but it will be worth the effort.”

 

“I'm listening,” she answered matter-of-factly. Minseok was one of her most trustworthy contacts - he had gotten her through the first years, back when she'd wanted to take his place, back when she'd thought she would be different and make a change.

 

She felt sick just remembering those times. She'd wanted to play judge, murdering people on the pretense that it would be justice she would be serving instead of pointless, ruthless demise.

 

Now she was much different. She knew she was no better than the slimy politicians she’d used to love to judge and insult, labeling them as cowardly.

 

The biggest coward was the person behind the trigger. And on the other side was always a victim, no matter how sinful the person may be.

 

How was she any better than the murderers she killed?

 

She wasn't.

 

And Jongin had every right to loathe her and want to torture her and see her rot away in jail. In fact, she wished she'd end up that way, because she wanted to be punished for her sins properly someday. Someday, when she got tired of pulling the trigger. When it got too heavy.

 

Why did the thought of the detective hating her make her stomach roll, though?

 

As she ended the call without so much as a word and went back to cleaning the gun, knowing she would need to get busy again soon, the trigger felt as light as a feather. She wasn't going to retire just yet, it seemed.

 

She was going to accept this job only because this was Minseok, to whom she kind of owed a favor. She did not get involved with the gang anymore, not ever. That was a rule she always followed blindly.

 

She would have to make an exception this time, though, because of that alluring offer of money - this would let her enjoy some peace and get some time to train and heal while the dust of her previous endeavors settled - and because she kind of wouldn't be breaking rules by doing what Minseok had ordered. The rule was not to let it get personal, and this kind of wasn't, even though it was her former gang.

 

She just needed to murder multiple people. At once.

 

That was something not in her job description: an assassin operated quietly, from a distance, following a single target and making sure not to cause a scene. An assassin didn't eradicate gangs. That was done by henchmen, lowly classes of people who were expendable and replaceable.

 

Those two attributes were not her thing.

 

And what would he think about her after this? Why in the world would it even matter?

 

Why, oh why, did she still feel his velvet touch on her hips? Why couldn't she shake the feel of his hand on her stomach, only the thin fabric of the dress between them?

 

She scratched the wound on her leg roughly. It seemed like it was already in the final stage of healing. She would not need to conceal it with makeup for much longer. Good.

 

She went to sleep, but the bed felt cold. Empty. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't slip under the spell of dreamless sleep. Her body was too busy remembering his touches, and her mind was too busy reliving old episodes that left her feeling so out of her mind that she wanted to scream.

 

She needed to stay sane and get her mind out of that freaking place already.

 

After a cigarette and a breath of fresh air on the balcony, overlooking the sleeping town of San Francisco that had no idea what it was going to witness the next day, she finally managed to chase the shadows of the past away and drift off to sleep.

 

The last image before her mind was not that of her teacher, though.

 

It was of the detective, and for some reason, he was smiling.

 

A couple of days later, she found herself standing on the same balcony, again with a cigarette in hand, again in the middle of the night, with the wind ruffling her hair as she overlooked the distance.

 

This time, no thoughts were bothering her. It was all just empty, hollow noise, just like the sounds of the city down below her. The tires of the cars screeching, some people shouting, footsteps echoing, an advertisement loudly announcing the newest herbal makeup product on a billboard far away - all of it was just a pointless, never-ending chaos.

 

Just like herself.

 

Her whole attire was bloody.

 

Black shirt, black leather coat, black leather pants. Black boots. Black gun. Black blade. All coated in blood, just like her very soul. All invisible, yet at the same time, she couldn’t see anything but the blood that was not there, that was washed by the water, turning the sink into the color of red that would always stay behind her eyelids.

 

This time, she had killed people she had cared about back in the day. It was a long time ago, but still… Hadn't she learned how to let the past go?

 

“Hella?” she said through laughter, attempting to hide a grin with her palm but failing badly. Her stomach was rolling, but not in an entirely gruesome way. She just felt uncomfortable, not threatened. “What kind of a name is that even?”

 

“Yeah, when'd you start reading books, and about the Nordic mythology at that? I had no idea you even knew how to read,” her other friend added, waving a glass filled with apple juice at her as if it was beer.

 

“Hella sounds like a hell of a good name, if you ask me,” the fourth musketeer piped up, his face concealed by the strange-looking hat with two large feathers on it, per usual.

 

They were a strange troupe, the four of them. But their looks and silly names weren’t what was strange about them. Worse than that, the fact that had brought them together was that they were pretty much messed up forever, all of them.

 

Sasha was a cold-blooded murderer specialised in knives. She did all her kills in a special, almost personal way. Jack preferred guns, because he swore he'd get his revenge using the same weapon his family was murdered with.

 

And Eliott, the feather guy… well, he was just a lunatic, but considering the large scar from a flesh burn on his face that he never spoke about, it wasn't that hard to understand why he always carried that damned hat with him.

 

Tonight she had killed Sasha and Jack.

 

But the fact that she'd killed them wasn't the reason why she was still clutching the gun tightly in her hand. It was something entirely else.

 

She was feeling regretful because of it.

 

She was not a woman of many rules. Not feeling regret after a kill was one of the essential ones, though.

 

Not feeling, period.

 

Yet she wrapped the leather coat that still smelled of their blood around her and headed back into town.

 

She didn't like having to come to San Francisco. Yes, that was where the gang was situated, and she didn't end up building a career and earning a lot of money for herself out here.

 

But it reminded her of him… of what they could've been, if only…

 

Her feet took her through Chinatown, where the city was still going on with its life as if it wasn't well past midnight. Some shops were seemingly still open, and she remembered that she knew how some indeed were, because she had seen it all for herself.

 

A million years ago… back when she had still believed in peace… And love…

 

Against her will, she remembered a time when she was still a young girl who did not understand how the world worked. She had cut one side of her hair, leaving her with a crazy-looking mess of red curls that attributed to her state of mind. She didn't want anyone to approach her, yet at the same time, all she wanted was to not feel utterly alone.

 

Her feet stopped, again against her will. She did not want to be here, in this bloody coat that still smelled like her friends. That reminded her of the sight of Sasha's eyes widening upon seeing the black blade.

 

She had not thought it would ever come to this. She had not thought it would be so cold, so detached, so meaningless.

 

It was nothing but a job, a regular one, a favor to be returned to a close friend, a riot to be silenced. The gang needed to survive, and it would crumble to pieces if the rebels kept filling the members’ heads with all kinds of ideas about peace and freedom and the ugly stuff.

 

She used to be one of those rebels. A million years ago.

 

“Why did you do that to your head?” a voice sounded behind her, warm and fuzzy and almost as young as her own. “I mean, why on Earth would you shave only half of it?”

 

She raised her eyebrows, not quite believing that it was already happening. She had chosen the prettiest-looking store, sat on a high stool outside and ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. Thankfully, the Asian guy managed to understand her and now she was having the time of her life, trying not to break her teeth on what looked like cooked sea shells.

 

It hadn't been even 24 hours since she'd left. Already she was going to make a friend at this strange place while eating her first sea shells.

 

So this was what living felt like.

 

“The question shouldn’t be, Why did I do this,” she answered calmly, putting on her best poker face before turning to the guy swiftly. “It should be, Why the hell not?”

 

The guy was much taller, and, if her judgement was correct, just a couple of years older than her.

 

She fell in love with him the moment his mouth turned up into a smirk.

 

She stood in front of the store, unable to tear her eyes from the sight in front of her.

 

Yes, it had been a long time. Over a decade. But she would've expected this place to have evolved, or at least survived.

 

In front of her stood nothing but ruins, traces of a fire and a pile of regret. Had he burned this place down? She wouldn’t be surprised if she found out someday that he’d come to this place and torn it to pieces, because it reminded him of a life he’d ruined.

 

She snorted. Yeah, right. As if he had any remorse in him. He would’ve come here to celebrate his murders, his projects, his experiments. He’d enjoy remembering the twisted things he did regularly.

 

If only she'd gone to a different store… if only she'd ignored him and eaten her damned seashells in peace…

 

As her feet shuffled away, taking her back towards the everyday life, towards the white noise and the meaninglessness of normalcy, she couldn't help but glance back to look at the incinerated place of her birth once again.

 

He was standing next to her, smiling.

 

“It’s Taemin, but a pretty girl like yourself can call me Tae,” he sang. His eyes were the color of the widest ocean, and his smile held the promise of paradise.

 

Oh, how she wanted to say Yes. But she needed to be patient and wait for him to ask first.

 

“Now, what do you say we get outta this hellhole and to a warmer place? Unless you have somewhere you need to be, of course.”

 

She blushed, taking his offered hand and getting up from the stool. His hand was uncharacteristically cold, but she tried not to pay any attention to it. His eyes were warm, and his intentions obviously honest, and that was the only thing that mattered.

 

“Oh, I…” she muttered, not quite wanting to say the truth. “I kinda don't have anywhere to go, if you know what I mean.”

 

Those words were the key that opened some exciting door to a new world, it seemed. His grin immediately got wider, and his eyes flashed in some strange satisfaction.

 

“Is that so?” He pushed her towards himself with some force, and then they began walking away from the store. Nobody paid for the seashells, and she expected the Asian guy to start shouting at them to come back, but nothing happened.

 

The street was deserted. But wasn't it supposed to be full of people? Where had they all gone to? Was she perhaps just dreaming?

 

“From now on, you can call my home your own. We will have so much fun, you'll see…”

 

She shuddered. She was taught not to have regrets, but Jack's pleads were still ringing in her head, even as she quickly made her way out of Chinatown and towards her next destination. Why, why, Hella you know us, we are your friends, we are your comrades.

 

How could you do this, you traitor, at least spare her, she is pregnant, spare her, kill me instead.

 

It was just another job. Just another day. She was able to pull this off without so much the blink of an eye. She did not hesitate, or even stop to think about any of his words.

 

But why was she thinking about it now? Why couldn't she just bury it and forget about it, like she always did?

 

San Francisco was a beautiful city. She had always dreamed of seeing its lights, of fleeing the countryside with its boring cows and villages and the everyday routine. She wanted to dress fancy and put makeup on. She wanted to be a superstar and always have the lights shining onto her with the world admiring her beauty and elegance.

 

Now she remembered how black she was, how similar to a shadow, as she overlooked those same lights she had seen for the first time when she was 15. For a second, she believed she was still that girl, making her way to town with her ideals and beliefs and hope that her dreams would come true someday.

 

Now, she found nothing but the water staring back at her as she leaned over the fence of the Golden Gate bridge. The cars were roaring behind her, a stray passerby appeared every now and then, and the endless void kept staring at her no matter which way she looked in the distance.

 

Why don't you just throw yourself off the bridge now, you useless crybaby.

 

You couldn't even kill that guy properly. He owed me money, but as soon as he told you it wasn't true, you believed him.

 

But you know what, sweetheart?

 

Don't think I don't know why you did it. I know it has nothing to do with morale. I know you don't truly believe his words, that you are not that easy to convince.

 

No.

 

You chose to believe him because you were a coward. You’d do anything to get an excuse not to pull that trigger.

 

So why don't you do us all a favor and just end your pitiful life right now?

 

Perhaps he had been right that day. Perhaps it was time to end it. After all, she had severed all her ties to her past, she had accomplished all her goals and fulfilled all her dreams, hadn't she?

 

She was a superstar. Her face was all over the news, though it was a messed-up sketch with wrong hair color. Everybody knew her name. People either feared her or would do anything to see her. Wasn’t that the definition of fame?

 

She put a hand on the railing, about to climb over it and think some more about everything.

 

A hand planted itself above her own.

 

Tae's hands were always so cold.

 

This hand was warm, incredibly so. It made her start shivering, because somehow, even without turning, she knew whom it belonged to, and for some reason, that made her start breaking.

 

How could she start breaking, when she was empty?

What was there to break?

 

She didn't want him to be here, but at the same time, she desperately needed him to hold her, too.

 

“Hella,” he whispered, as his hand started moving up her arm, stopping only upon reaching her shoulder. She leaned her head on it, still shivering from some unexplainable cold she was fighting.

 

Hella, straight out of hell. Suits you well. After all, it will be easy to memorize, once you finally go to hell, like you deserve.

 

“Detective,” she whispered back, still needing to climb over the railing and think. He was the only thing holding her in place, for some reason. How he had become the glue that was keeping her together, she did not know.

 

“What is going on in that head of yours?” He was whispering to her gently, his mouth close to her ear, a breath of hot air all around her, making her feel dizzy. “What secrets are you keeping, what schemes planning, what murders planning?”

 

The detective was her worst enemy, of course. But there was one thing she liked about him that she knew she could never have with anyone else: she did not have to pretend.

 

She was the devil, and he knew that well. She did not have to put masks and shiny dresses on for him. She did not have to pretend she was not a ruined soul, a cold-blooded killer, a person without remorse or compassion or love.

 

He knew it all, yet he was still not moving away from her. It was mere nights ago when he had kissed her, for God's sake! But how and why? Why was he letting all of these chances to capture her while she was vulnerable slip by?

 

You are worth nothing. I could throw you off this bridge now and nobody would care.

 

Would he? Would he feel relieved that the case he'd spent so many years on is finally solved?

 

“Talk to me, Hella.”

 

She closed her eyes and shivered again.

 

“I don't want to talk, detective,” she said as she closed her eyes, turning towards him now. He did not move an inch as she did so. “I just want to die.”

 

“And you will, soon enough,” he said matter-of-factly, as if they were talking about the weather. She loved how he respected her enough not to pretend. His hand was on her chin now - he obviously wanted her to look at him, but she refused to open her eyes.

 

“But not tonight,” he whispered, his mouth now on her cheek, planting a small kiss there. “And not by your own hand.”

 

A moment later, his hands were secured around her legs, and somehow, she was in his arms.

 

And he was carrying her somewhere.

 

He must've seen and smelled the blood all over her. He must've known all about what had happened the previous day, mere hours ago.

 

Yet he clutched her frame closely to himself and carried her away and away from the murky water that held all the answers to her questions. She would find peace there, she knew.

 

Someday, she thought for herself. Someday I will come back here to finish what I've started.

 

Just stay patient, my friend. My time has still not come.