On a deserted dock, under the dark night sky, a black car pulled up and stopped. A middle-aged man in a suit and red tie stepped out, slamming the door behind him. He held a black envelope in his hand, and on his ring finger was a gold ring set with a red gemstone. With a faint sigh, he walked toward the person who was waiting patiently for him. She was a professional assassin.
"I have a mission for you," the man said, standing just a few steps behind the figure staring out at the silent lake.
The woman listened silently, then tossed the cigarette from her lips and crushed it beneath her boot. She turned to face the man behind her, and the dim lighting cast a shadow from the brim of her cap across her face, concealing her features.
"Here's the information." He placed the paper envelope into her outstretched hand. "They must be dead in fifteen days."
A calm, wordless nod was the only response he received.
"Romanov," was the first word she read, printed in bold Arial as she pulled the paper from the envelope. "Aleksander Romanov and Maxin Romanov. Father and son." Her low voice echoed faintly in the quiet air.
Back at her apartment, the assassin read through the target information, circling important points with a red pen. As she checked the rest of the envelope's contents, a postcard-sized photograph fell out. She picked it up and studied the image fixed on the glossy paper.
A brown-eyed man in a dark green sweater and brown trousers smiled softly beside a skinny, shy-looking teenager with a slight blush on his cheeks. The boy's eyes were nearly hidden behind a long dark fringe. They stood beside a brightly lit Christmas tree decorated with colorful ornaments and twinkling lights. Her face remained expressionless. She simply placed the photo on the table—right beside a silenced pistol.
Aleksander Romanov owned a car repair shop and had a decent clientele. He was always seen wearing a navy-blue jumpsuit stained with motor oil. His son Maxin was a shy eighth grader with excellent grades, but he was isolated and bullied by his classmates, who resented his intelligence.
They were ordinary people living ordinary lives, the assassin concluded after a week of surveillance and even brief interaction. She posed as a young woman interested in restoring an old car at the garage, and as a potential mother touring Maxin's school before enrolling her "son."
After days of intense observation, she still didn't understand why they were marked for death—but it didn't matter. No matter the reason, they would die that night.
From inside a car parked across the street, the woman watched the Romanov house, waiting for the right moment. When the lights finally went out, she put on her gloves, loaded her pistol, checked the silencer, and set the timer on her wristwatch for two hours.
One... Two... Three... Forty... Seventy... One hundred and twenty minutes...
When the beep finally sounded, she removed the watch and reset it, then exited the vehicle. She crossed the street, unlocked the small latch on the white gate that barely reached above her waist, and walked along the side of the house. At the back door, she picked the lock with a paperclip. The sound of the lock turning was masked by dripping water from the kitchen sink, the aluminum clinking with every drop. The assassin, highly trained to ignore such distractions, remained focused on her mission.
Her black boots carried her down the hallway to the right of the living room, where three doors stood. According to the house plan, the last door in the middle led to the bathroom. That meant she had to choose which of the two remaining rooms held her first target.
She didn't hesitate. Her lips, hidden behind a dark mask, even curled into an amused smile. She chose the first door and opened it.
The room was dimly lit by a small bedside lamp on the nightstand. Aleksander Romanov slept peacefully, unaware of the shadow looming over him with a gun aimed at his chest.
The assassin placed her finger on the trigger. Without hesitation, and with steady breathing, she pulled it. Jaechan's chest jolted with a final convulsion before blood began to spill from the hole in his forehead where the bullet lodged.
As she approached, she noticed a silver object on the nightstand—the ticking sound came from a wristwatch. Nox took it and slipped it into her pocket, preparing to leave the room.
The first target was down. Like a creature devoid of emotion, she remained unmoved by the cowardly way she had killed him.
However, her blank expression twitched ever so slightly when she exited the room—and found someone standing there.
Twenty centimeters shorter than her, wearing pale blue pajamas and a sleepy expression, was Maxin Romanov.
His eyes widened beneath his messy fringe. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he lowered his gaze and saw the gun in her hand. His heart skipped a beat. His breath caught. Acting on instinct, he turned and ran into his room.
The assassin could have shot him then. Her reflexes were sharp; she could have raised her hand and fired. In less than ten seconds, he would have been lying dead in a pool of blood on the beige carpet.
But she didn't.
She simply stood still, watching him disappear into the second room.
Maxin scanned his nearly empty room, searching for anything he could use to defend himself. In a panic, he locked himself inside his wardrobe.
She entered the room, which held only a bed, a wardrobe, and a desk near the window. Her gloved fingers flipped the light switch, illuminating the room—and Maxin's ragged breathing in her ears.
The assassin felt something shift inside her as she gripped the gun. With a sigh, she decided to end it. She had a time limit to stick to.
She walked to the wardrobe and opened it. A trembling boy sat amidst hanging clothes.
"No...! Please, don't!" he cried.
His sobs echoed in her ears, triggering a long-forgotten memory lodged deep in her mind.
Maxin saw the assassin stop and move toward him. In a final act of desperation, he threw his body forward, knocking them both to the ground.
He wore a balaclava and a cap that concealed his face.
His thin frame pinned her down for a moment before she shoved him aside and planted her hands on either side of him, trapping him. Their breaths were heavy, adrenaline wreaking havoc on their bodies. In that tense moment—one that could have been avoided minutes earlier—the assassin stared down at her target as he cried.
The fourteen-year-old boy, trapped beneath her, met her gaze with phoenix-like eyes, crystal-clear and full of fear, pleading for his life.
The sight of someone so young, so small, so vulnerable struck something in her mind. A feeling she hadn't experienced in years.
Remorse.
The thought shook her. She backed away, reaching for the gun that had fallen nearby. She gripped it tightly and looked back at the trembling boy. He was frozen, unable to move, staring down the barrel of her pistol. She stepped closer.
Maxin whispered, "Please…"
She lowered the weapon from his temple. His blood had already started to trickle.
Dazed, she stood and walked out of the house, her legs trembling with a feeling she couldn't quite name.
With shaky hands, she opened the car door, threw the locked gun somewhere inside, and tore off the balaclava as she gasped for air, her lungs burning.
"What the hell. What the hell!" she shouted, slamming her hands on the steering wheel, furious.
It was still night as she started the engine and drove aimlessly, trying to clear her head.
Hours after sunrise, her car parked on the roadside, she smoked her fourth cigarette of the morning. When she turned on the car radio, the first news headline made her rip the cigarette from her lips.
The burning ember seared her skin—amplifying her rage.
Major crime. Man shot in the forehead. His son is the sole witness.