Jonax Roy was told she was lethal. Trained since childhood. No traces. No survivors.

He expected a cold-blooded killer. Not… A girl in a fluffy hoodie sipping strawberry milk at a street café.

He blinked. Checked the file again.

Age: 17 Target: Petite. Doll-like. Body count: classified.

She was giggling at a stray cat. Whispered, “Meowww, cutie.”

This can’t be her.

He zoomed in. She was humming. Swinging her feet. And then— She looked directly at his hidden lens. Winked.

He froze. Yeah. That was her.

With zero plan, Jonax approached. Pulled out a fake map. Pointed at it awkwardly.

“Uh, scusi? Tourist. Very lost,” he said with the worst accent imaginable.

She glanced up, blinked innocently, and said, “Aw, are you lost-lost? Or spy-lost?”

He stared. She smiled. And took another sip of strawberry milk.

He was so screwed.