"Your hand is shaking," the man remarks. By the time the girl registers his voice and turns around, it is too late; he has tugged the gun out of her grip. "How do you hope to hit that target when all you do is squint at it?"

"I know what I'm doing, Father," the girl answers; a dangerously brusque reply, borderline disrespectful, to match the callous tones of the orders dictating her movement. Unlike most others, she doesn't care about the consequences of insubordination, so her chin remains high and steady. "Besides," she continues boldly, "you told me the most important thing was to use my eyes as knives to pin and hold down my target."

The girl's father grunts. "I said it was one of the most important things, not the most important thing," he mutters, beginning a slow circle around her. "Ultimately, there are no real bullets in stares. You have to do more than just stare at someone to shoot them; to kill. So the question here is− do you know what to do?"

She takes this as an insult to her ability, her lips flattening themselves into a thin, puckered line, made white by the strains of compressed blood vessels. "Of course I know what to do," she says, and though her voice is calm, it would take barely more than a blind man to detect the hostility in her voice, born from the urge to prove herself.

In one swift move, she wrenches the gun out of his hand, and a second later, the barrel is kissing her father's Adam's apple. "I just have to pull the trigger," she whispers, true calm washing over her.

In this moment, the man really ought to be disturbed by the effect that having a weapon in her hands has on his daughter, but instead, he just laughs− and he doesn't stop there. Unfazed by the possibility that he could have his brains blown out, he begins to applaud.

***

The drive to the airport is nothing short of a tense affair.

Initially, Max had moved to sit in the back seat of the car, but Gyuri had narrowed her eyes and insisted he sit in the passenger, where she could keep an eye on him; she may have saved his life, but with his life, she had also saved his secrets. Trust, they both understand, is something you should lock away as carefully as your own soul.

Now, silence is all that accompanies the space between them. Outside, the docks of the Seine melt away, transforming into the cream canyons of Parisian architecture, the many-windowed brick buildings flying past at a much faster pace than what is probably legal. Max's gaze alternates restlessly between his hands, the scuffed knees of his black pants, and Gyuri's rigid posture; unlike him, her eyes are staring straight ahead, every fibre of her body tightly corded. He feels a pinch of guilt when he sees that her skin is riddled with scrapes; no doubt the result of trying to move through that fence and around the warehouse as quietly as possible. She could have avoided getting them in the first place; could have just walked away and let him die.

But she didn't.

Finally, after some time, Max can't hold his silence. "I'm sorry," he blurts, the scarlet of her scratches still jumping out at him like the headlights of a police car in his rear-view mirrors.

At first, Gyuri doesn't say anything. In fact, she stays silent for so long that eventually, he thinks she plans on ignoring him completely. But just as the car takes the exit towards Paris-Centre, she mutters, "What's the point?"

Max frowns. "What?"

Gyuri sighs, jaw tensing visibly as she grips the steering wheel with taut knuckles. "I don't see the point in why you're bothering to apologise−and for what, exactly? What did you honestly think it'd achieve?" Her eyes flit in his direction for the briefest of moments, as if daring him to interrupt her; he doesn't. "In any case, you won't be seeing me again, so saying 'sorry' is pointless. It's a word for the weak-willed."

Max purses his lips, biting back the protest already forming in his mind about how apologising does not necessarily make you weak, how he's always thought that someone's willingness to say sorry is one of the best indicators of their strength. In the end, though, he concedes her thought with a slight nod. "You're right. 'Sorry' is just another word, but it's the only thing I have to give."

"The only thing you have to give?" Gyuri repeats incredulously. "Why do you feel that you have to give me anything? You don't owe me anything for saving your life, because I have what I want." Her eyes dart toward the black velvet bag which sits at her feet, the drawstring of it dangling over the brakes. "If this is about−" she cuts herself off, looking away. In a lower voice, she says, "Don't think that apologising will make you understand me, because whatever understanding you think you have of me is just pity. And I don't want your pity."

"I heard your life story," Max replies mildly, standing his ground. "And I'm not going to even try to begin understanding you because believe me, I know that hearing about someone's life sure as hell isn't close to the same thing as living it. But don't think that I pity you. That's not why I said sorry."

There's more he wants to say, but just as he opens his mouth, he finds that the atmosphere is no longer one that is ideal for discussion− they've reached the airport now, and as Gyuri drives them through the entrance, Max closes his mouth and watches her in silence, wondering if she'd taken in any of what he just said.

I don't think you get it, he thinks, his gaze still lingering on her. I said sorry because I really am sorry. I'm sorry T.O.P gutted your past and I heard things that I wasn't supposed to hear. I'm sorry I can't give you justice or let you see into my past, because what use would the latter be to you? It would be more pointless than an apology, and you wouldn't want to hear it. With a sigh, he drops his gaze, biting his lip. At least this way, you know that I'm sorry, even if you don't understand why.

Some moments later, the realisation that the car has come to a complete standstill breaks into his consciousness. Max looks up to see that Gyuri is staring at him. "What?"

"I asked you a question," she huffs, rolling her eyes. "I asked you why you apologised. If it's not because you pity me, then it must be because you want something. Or you want to work your way towards a position that will give you the right to ask for something."

Max shakes his head, a wry smile curving his lips because she just doesn't get it− and she probably never will. This whole belief that the world is based on quid pro quo... He supposes all people like her eventually start to expect the world to ask for something from them when it doesn't seem to be torturing them with the need to smother any opportunities for pity to come flying at them.

Maybe at some point in his life, he was like her, too.

But unlike her, the world didn't ask for things from Max− it just took. It took the life he was born with, his privacy, his identity, and eventually, when all he had wa his job, he lost that, too. Unlike Gyuri, choice was not responsible for the twisted cards that fate dealt him, because he'd had no choices. The two of them were, and still are, two contrasts that were never meant to collide. But yet, here they are, both alive, and sitting next to each other; still here.

Max realises Gyuri is still waiting for an answer− and with surprising patience, too. He considers his answer carefully. "I said it because it'll be the last thing you remember of me." It's not a lie, but it's not the whole truth, either. "You said you didn't want to see me again, didn't you?" He pauses, but she doesn't interrupt. Max shrugs. "I think that would have been the outcome even if you didn't plan it to be. We should never have met."

At this, the corner of Gyuri's mouth twitches, as if there's something she wants to say. But in the end, she chooses to stay quiet. Max waits, but she maintains her silence; eventually, she turns away and fixes her eyes on a point in the horizon. He follows her gaze, but when he sees nothing interesting in her line of sight, he realises that she's avoiding eye contact. Max glances at the clock, which tells him that if the plane isn't delayed, then he has just under two hours until departure. With a sigh, he begins gathering his bags, accepting that his efforts to reach through to Gyuri have reached the end of their limit.

Just as Max puts a hand on the door handle, something occurs to him. He turns back; Gyuri is still frozen in her position, as if she plans t