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Chapter 1: Kira Rojas

The city is pushing me away, and I don't resist. After what I've done, maybe I deserve the cold winds and judgmental skyline. It's trying to push me off the rooftop of the tall building I'm sitting on and I can't blame it either.

I don't deserve to be alive. I've just killed five people without any hesitation. The worst part is I don't feel sorry—I've long gone past that stage. I've trained to take life without hesitation, without question. But if I feel anything at all, it's disgust—aimed squarely at myself.

I think of the looks on their faces as I carried out the deed. It's my job to kill—efficiently, emotionlessly—but tonight, I can't escape their faces. The mother’s face twisted in agony, her beauty shattered in the instant my blade pierced her gut, the dad, angry and rushing to help in vain, and the children screaming in agony as I ended the parents first.

They did their best, but it wasn't any match for my expertise. I left no survivors, no traces. Yet parts of them remain in my mind: their names, in the paper I'm about to burn now—though it can't burn their faces away from my memory, since they're already seared there forever.

I notice someone creeping up on me and prepare myself for a confrontation. Subtle movements bring a gun to my hand, but I act oblivious to the person in question until I've pinpointed their position. In one swift movement, my gun's before his head. In a millisecond, I could shoot and he'd be gone for good.

"I just came to check on you," he says in a rather high-pitched tone.

I frown as I point my gun down. "Funny you thought you could sneak up on me," I retort, resuming my position on the rooftop. He sits beside me after a while, and I'm glad he doesn't say anything, though his presence is disturbing enough for my quiet moment to myself.

"Does the ritual really help?" he questions.

I look at the lighter about to burn the paper where the names are written.

I'm not sure myself whether it helps," but I want him to go, so I respond harshly. "It does, and I'm fine. You can leave now."

He makes no move, and the silence resumes until he breaks it, suggesting something completely out of place.

"You need a change of scenery," he says, his tone unnervingly casual. ‘Maybe a party?’"

"What?" I ask, shocked by his words. Is there any part of grieving over innocent deaths that he doesn't understand?

"We all have our way of handling the aftermath of the job," he responds quietly. "You sit and brood and have them on your mind for the next couple of weeks while I go off and dance it off at a festive location, and it's off my mind for good." He says, smiling. "A party."

"So basically, you act like you've done nothing at all and even celebrate," I scoff, glaring at him. "And I thought I was inhuman."

He laughs a little. "Try it," he says. "You'd be surprised." He hands me a card before standing up. "A club, and I'm sure it's open right now. With this, the manager would let you in. Enjoy yourself as much as you want, on me."

I take it from him after a moment of hesitation and mumble a word of thanks. He smiles and takes a step, but that's the last I see of him. He's faded into the shadows where he'd come from, blending once again into the night.

Some time after he disappears into the shadows, I'm sitting with the card in my hand, still contemplating. A party. It's absurd, but maybe he's right. Maybe I need something to drown the memories—just for tonight.

Twenty minutes later, I find myself stepping into a cacophony of blinding lights and pounding bass, feeling like a damsel in distress in my pretty simple dress. My colleague’s words echoes in my mind as laughter, shouts, and clinking glasses rise above the chaotic music. Sweaty bodies press together on the crowded dance floor, the air is thick with the tang of alcohol and the bass vibrating through my chest. I don’t belong here, but something—guilt, maybe?—dragged me in.

I'm out of place. This isn't my lifestyle at all. I'm more used to quiet surroundings but I'm happy that, as usual, I'm unnoticed. My years of stealth training, now diffused into my everyday life, makes me blend in inconspicuously. So, despite the unfamiliar environment, I'm rather comfortable—till I'm not.

A man walks forward, straight towards me, and extends his hand. "Come with me," he says, leaning closer with his voice low enough to cut through the noise. "I need you for a magic trick."

Naturally, I go nowhere. I would have glared at him or maybe sent him flying, but I reckon he's drunk and decide not to waste my time. His face reddens a little as I stand him up, rejecting his offer, but he doesn't react. From that I decide he's not drunk, but it doesn't change my decision. He quickly adapts and laughingly announces to his small audience before performing a petty party trick, as if to appease them.

I have to admit, it's a bit amusing—but not so much when he cuts his show short and walks towards me pointedly. "May I have a seat?" he asks politely. I take a sip of my drink, considering it.

"Come on, I don't bite," he adds, smiling warmly. There's something about his look that entrances me—neither predatory nor afraid. Simply inviting.

"I don't care if you do," I reply, looking away indifferently.

His smile grows wider as he sits opposite me. "Thank you."

I interest myself in picking out more potential exits from the confined space of the room. Killer 101: Know your escape plan. I make a couple more sequences, combos for me to get out of here if something unexpected happens while he makes most of the conversation.

Ten minutes and he's still putting in the effort. For some reason, I feel like I owe him so I start engaging a little more. He's more enthusiastic when I put in some effort myself, and we talk for a couple more minutes, flowing with each other. It surprises me how much we are alike from the vague details he gives about himself. The fact that he's being secretive also aligns with my lifestyle. Although he seems like someone without a care in the world, I notice that he actually has a lot of responsibilities, though I don't know exactly what.

"How can you be so happy?" I question finally, bringing it out lightly but actually very serious about his answer.

"You only get to live once," he responds, smiling. "What's the point if you spend it being sad?"

I raise my glass at his wise response, and he laughs, raising a cupped hand also before realizing there's no glass in it. It's my turn to laugh as his face reddens.

"Let's go get you a drink," I offer.

We talk more on the way to the counter. Against my better judgment, I find myself responding progressively. At first, clipped answers. Then longer sentences. Before I know it, I’m laughing—actually laughing—as if I hadn’t killed a family just hours ago. We spend over 5 minutes getting there because of how slowly we walk, just to get more time to talk with each other.

He orders a beer, but I offer to pay for it.

"No, never," he responds quickly, but I insist.

"I'm doing this one," I tell him seriously, and he pauses. I stare him down until he relents.

"Fine."

I pay with the miracle card my colleague had given me and smile at him.

My little conscience—the one that doesn't mind killing for a living—finally stops pricking me for letting him go on so much and doing hardly anything in return.

"How about we go someplace together?" he suggests.

I raise an eyebrow at him, frowning. I'm not about to leave with a stranger.

"Please," he adds, softly. For once, the word doesn’t feel hollow. I've long gotten used to it, hearing people beg for their lives but this time It pulls at something in me—something buried so deep I’d almost forgotten it existed. Against every instinct, I nod.

"All right," I agree.

His face lights up, brighter than it had ever in our entire time spent with each other and I hide my smile behind a sip of my drink. We both know where this leads, but contrary to my expectations, I'm actually looking forward to it.