Emma's steps slowed.
On the cracked, dusty road—
a pigeon lay still.
Its feathers were ruffled, wing twisted, neck bent at an angle that was wrong.
The eyes were open, but empty.
Not peaceful.
Just gone.
Emma stopped.
No gasp.
No shock.
Just a quiet "…Oh."
The wind moved a few loose feathers across the ground.
She looked at them, the way they fluttered—like something that once had life, now mocking the concept of flight.
She crouched slowly.
Her fingers brushed the feathers near its head, not touching the corpse, just the space beside it.
She remembered:
holding birds gently on her hand
the warmth
the tiny heartbeat
the way they trusted her with their entire life because they didn't understand danger
She remembered a younger Diana pointing and laughing when a bird landed on Emma's hair.
She remembered smiling—just slightly—but it was real.
The dead pigeon didn't upset her.
She was far beyond that.
She had seen children die.
She had made children die.
But still—
There was something about this that felt like a message.
A reminder.
Things that fly
fall.
She straightened back up.
Her eyes were blank, but something in her chest tightened—not pain, not grief—just a faint, dull echo of a feeling she used to know.
"…Keep walking."
She said it to herself.
So she did.
And the pigeon lay behind her, unmoving, as the road stretched long and silent ahead.
Day 2.
Emma sat down in the small restaurant—plastic chairs, metal tables, that cheap ceiling fan clicking as it turned. The smell of fried rice and old oil soaked the air. Her stomach hurt—not from pain, but from emptiness. She needed food. Strength. She couldn't afford weakness now.
She ordered something simple.
Rice. Chicken. Water.
No extra talk.
While she waited, she kept her hood on, mask lowered to her chin, eyes half-dead. Just breathing. Just existing.
Then—
A voice.
Light. Familiar. Too familiar.
"—Emma?"
Emma blinked and slowly lifted her head.
A girl stood there.
Someone from class.
Back then.
Before everything broke.
Her hair was longer now, dyed brown at the ends. She was smiling—a real smile—full of sunshine and warm life. A normal girl's smile. Next to her was a guy, maybe her boyfriend. He had his arm around her casually, relaxed.
She waved softly.
"Hey! It's been so long… wow… you look… different."
Emma didn't respond immediately.
She just stared.
Not cold—just quiet.
The girl continued speaking, not noticing the weight in Emma's silence:
"Life's been… good, I guess. I'm studying business now. And— um— this is Adil, my boyfriend."
The boyfriend nodded politely.
Emma just lowered her eyes.
There it was.
Normal life.
Normal happiness.
Dates. Classes. Friends.
Things that belonged to people who didn't crawl through corpses and blood.
Things Emma once knew—but only in elementary school.
Before absence.
Before training.
Before killing.
Before becoming something that shouldn't exist in the same world as laughter.
The girl's smile faltered just a bit.
"Are… you okay, Emma?"
Emma answered quietly,
"…I'm eating."
"Oh— ah— right… sorry. I just… didn't expect to see you."
The boyfriend looked uneasy.
He didn't know why.
But something in Emma's presence—her posture, her eyes—felt wrong.
Not dangerous.
Not threatening.
Just… like she wasn't from here.
Like she didn't belong in a place with warm food and happy couples.
The girl tucked her hair behind her ear.
"Well… it was nice seeing you. Really. If you ever wanna talk, or catch up, or just—"
Emma cut her off gently, no anger, no emotion:
"You should go."
The girl froze.
Emma wasn't being rude.
She wasn't pushing them away.
She was protecting them.
Because her world was blood.
And anyone too close—dies.
The girl hesitated, stepped back.
"…Okay. Take care, Emma."
They left.
Hand in hand.
Emma watched their backs as they walked away.
Her food arrived.
She ate slowly. Quietly.
No emotion.
Just chewing.
Swallowing.
Refueling.
She didn't feel jealousy.
Or sadness.
Or longing.
Just a heavy, hollow truth:
Some people are allowed to live happy lives.
And some people are weapons.
Emma finished eating.
Wiped her mouth.
Stood up.
She continued walking toward Vencor.
Alone.
The sun was bright—too bright.
The kind of afternoon where everything looks warm, golden, peaceful.
Emma walked down a street that didn't know her name.
Didn't know her history.
Didn't know what she had done.
Children were playing in a small park nearby.
A ball bounced.
Someone laughed.
A mother crouched to tie her son's shoes while he giggled and kicked.
Emma slowed down.
Her eyes didn't soften.
But they held something.
Something quiet, buried, and aching.
Then she saw high school girls walking together—uniforms, backpacks, gossiping about crushes, exams, stupid little dramas. One shoved another playfully, laughing so hard she had to lean on her friend's shoulder.
Emma watched them.
She remembered being small.
Being in grade 6.
Before her absence.
Before the world picked her up and crushed her into a shape she wasn't meant to be.
She wanted school.
She wanted hallways.
She wanted clubs.
She wanted late afternoons where the biggest problem was homework.
She never hit middle school.
Never stepped in high school.
Her textbooks stopped at childhood.
Because Vencor took her.
Because her father chose her.
He didn't choose her to live.
He chose her to carry.
To become something heavier than a future.
Her father didn't say "be happy."
He said:
"The world depends on you."
And Emma obeyed.
So now she walked.
Not because she wanted to.
But because no one else could.
She stared at those students.
At their easy lives.
Their ordinary futures.
And she didn't feel jealousy.
Just a cold sense of distance.
That world is not mine anymore.
I left that world in grade 6.
Her hands slowly tightened at her sides.
Because ahead—far, but approaching—walked the reason everything was stolen:
Vencor.
The most dangerous man alive.
The man she was raised to kill.
The man who tore the world into scars.
He destroyed families.
Countries.
Cities.
And Emma was chosen to become the blade that would pierce him.
Saving the world wasn't her dream.
It wasn't her choice.
It was a burden.
Her father placed the world in her hands.
And her childhood fell out.
Emma lowered her mask back over her face.
Covered the expression that no one else would ever see.
She continued walking—quiet, steady, unwavering.
Her shadow stretched long behind her, like something old and tired.
She didn't look back.
Chapter end