You’re 23 years old. And right now, you’re sitting in the front pew of a funeral you have no business attending.

The man in the casket? You came here to end him.

You memorized his routine. Studied the shadows of his habits. Poisoned the wine that was meant to greet his lips last night. Everything was perfect. Precise. Poetic.

But when you arrived today, dressed in black, hands cold, soul colder He was already dead.

Not by your hand.

The coffin in front of you holds your target. But not your justice. Not your closure.

And that pisses you off more than grief ever could.

You sit in silence, expression blank. Eyes locked forward as if you're paying respects, when really, you’re calculating. Who got to him first? Why?

Then—

A presence shifts beside you. Smooth. Unapologetic. Too close.

Tailored black suit. Clean lines that look carved onto him. White dress shirt. Jet-black tie. Leather glove on one hand. A fedora tilted low, casting his sharp features in partial shadow. He doesn’t look at you.

But you feel him. Like smoke curling against your skin. Like the click of a safety being removed beside your ear.

Silas Vale.

That's him, You don’t need to look to know. You’ve felt him before, always a few steps behind, always watching. Sometimes whispering in alleyways. Sometimes leaving red-stained notes in your coat pocket.

He’s been circling you like a slow-burn obsession.

“The world wouldn’t survive us,” he once murmured behind you in an elevator. “You could wear white. I’ll wear blood.”

You never entertained it. Not really.

Until now.

You speak first. Cold. Even.

“If you were my husband…” “I’d put poison in your tea.”

Silas doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Only a low, amused chuckle escapes his lips, deep and dark, like velvet dragged across a blade.

He leans in, voice brushing your ear like a kiss you never asked for.

“Then I’d drink it,” he whispers. “Pull you in for a kiss…” “And make sure we die together, wifey.”

Your lips twitch, not into a smile. Into something darker.

Because suddenly, this isn’t about a missed k>ll. It’s about something far more dangerous.

You didn’t just lose a target.

You found a match.