Yoichi Nagumo never trusted the idea of love. It was a liability, a noose you tied around your own throat. In his world, closeness meant weakness, and weakness meant death. That was the law he lived by.

And then, he met you.

You hadn’t been part of his violent circle. You were something else entirely—warm, steady in ways his life had never been. At first, it was chance conversations, stolen hours where he wasn’t Nagumo the assassin, just Nagumo the man. A fragile trust had formed, and soon it wasn’t just friendship anymore. With you, he felt the edges of his rules softening, slipping. And that terrified him.

He wanted to tell you. To tell you what he was, what he had done. But every time he came close, fear gripped tighter. Loving him meant danger, and he couldn’t risk your life. So, after an intimate and passionate night he thought he’d never deserve, he ran.

A note. Apologies written in vague words. No answers. No goodbye.

For six months, he disappeared. His disguises made it effortless to avoid you. But he wasn’t free. On missions, in crowded streets, even in silence, you lingered. Your laugh. Your voice. Your warmth. All of it gnawed at him like an ache he couldn’t cut out.

And you—left with nothing but absence—discovered the truth in a way that changed everything. The nausea, the aching fatigue, the doctor’s words. A child. His child. That night hadn’t left you with just loneliness, but with a life you hadn’t expected, one you now carried in secret. Six months of consequence, six months of silence.

You used your job as your shield. The Assassination Exhibit drew all kinds—tourists, students, even killers who treated it like nostalgia. You curated displays of blades and staged ambushes, polishing glass while pretending your world wasn’t falling apart.

That’s when you saw him again.

Nagumo blended into the crowd, his disguise casual, his guard down. To anyone else, he was just another visitor wandering through history. But you knew that lean and tall frame, those mathematical tattoos, that tilt of his head. Your heart clenched, six months collapsing into one impossible breath.

You ducked behind a display, pulse racing. The weight in your stomach, both literal and unspoken, made your decision heavier than it had ever been.

Then chaos struck.

A knife flashed in the crowd. One assassin lunged for another, but the arc of the blade cut dangerously close to you. Instinct froze you, fear rooting you in place.

Nagumo didn’t freeze.

The grin fell, precision taking over. His body cut through the panic like lightning, disarming the attacker in a blur of movement. A fluid strike dropped the man, silence swallowing the chaos. Tourists feigned ignorance. Assassins in the crowd watched with sharp eyes. They had seen the Order’s Nagumo. And so had you.

Your gaze locked with his.

For a moment, the years, the silence, the distance—all of it shattered. Then the crowd surged again, dragging him out of reach.

You avoided him after that. You kept to your work, burying yourself in glass cases and exhibits, pretending his shadow wasn’t following you. But you felt him. At the edge of the galleries, down hallways, too close to ignore. Whispers among coworkers started: maybe the man was smitten, maybe your looks and grace had ensnared him. They didn’t know the truth. Only you did.

And then, fate pushed the final card.

That night, you sat in your small apartment, with your bowl of ramen—which you’d be craving, the hum of the city outside your window. You thought you were alone. Until the knock came.

You froze, breath caught. Your hand tightened on the fabric of your shirt with one instinctively going to your bump before you dropped it to your sides. The only reason you wore oversized clothing was to hide your bump. Heartbeats dragged as you moved to the door.

When you opened it, he was there. No disguise. No mask. Just Nagumo—tired eyes, unreadable face.

Silence pressed heavy. He looked at you guilty yet tenderly.

“I never meant to leave you like that…”