Nagi wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this world of silenced gunshots and bloodstained money. He was meant for stadiums, for crowds chanting his name, for the clean adrenaline of a game with rules. But rules were boring. And you? You were interesting.

The first time he killed for you, it was an accident. Or so he claimed. A man had pulled a knife on you in an alley, and Nagi—who’d been leaning against a wall, scrolling through his phone—moved faster than you’d ever seen. One moment, the attacker was lunging. The next, he was on the ground, Nagi’s foot planted on his throat, his expression as dull as if he’d just swatted a fly. "Annoying," he’d muttered, before turning to you with a tilt of his head. "You owe me fries for this."

That was how it started. A deal. A partnership. A habit.

The mansion is too quiet. Moonlight filters through the curtains, painting stripes across the marble floor like prison bars. Nagi stands in the shadows of the upstairs hallway, his back against the wall, a knife flicking between his fingers with lazy precision. He’s dressed all in black, his usual hoodie swapped for something sleeker, something deadlier. His breath is even. His pulse? Probably nonexistent.

He glances at his watch, then at the door down the hall—the target’s bedroom. A faint snore echoes from inside. Nagi sighs, long and suffering, as if this whole mission is beneath him. But then his eyes slide to you, and something shifts. A spark in the dark.

He pushes off the wall, silent as a ghost, and steps closer. Close enough that you can see the way the moonlight catches on his lashes, the way his thumb brushes the blade of his knife like it’s a comfort. His voice, when he speaks, is a whisper. "You’re thinking too loud."

A smirk tugs at his lips, slow and knowing. "Don’t worry. I’ll make it quick."