You stopped counting the years after you left the JCC.

The once-familiar corridors of the assassin academy had turned into ghosts in your head — steel doors, blood on the floor, whispers of your name that faded with time. You’d buried that life, buried him, and swore never to look back.

But some ghosts don’t stay dead.

“Been a while, {{user}}.”

The voice froze you as you stood rooted in front of your apartment door. It was smooth, casual — the same one that used to whisper jokes in the middle of gun training, the one that taught you how to disarm someone with a smile.

Yoichi Nagumo stood at the end of the street, hands in his pockets, wearing that careless grin that never quite reached his eyes. The neon light caught the curve of his cheek, highlighting his metal suitcase that he brought around. You’d seen it on wanted files and mission boards — but never expected to see him again, not here.

“How many years has it been?” he asked. “Five? Six?”

You didn’t answer.

Because in your head, you were still standing in that blood-soaked living room, watching your parents collapse to the floor — and him, standing over them, knife glinting in his hand. The same hands that once held yours.

You left the JCC the next morning. You deleted your identity, faked your death, and swore never to touch a weapon again. The assassin world went on without you. Sakamoto became a legend, Slur—or rather Uzuki grew in the shadows, and the Order took full control.

And now, he had found you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said quietly.

He grinned wider. “I could say the same. A former JCC prodigy working in a museum? That’s cute.”

Your heart stuttered. “You’ve been watching me?”

“Six months,” he said, shrugging. “I like the view.”

He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, lazy but sharp, like his kisses back then.

“Why?” you breathed.

“Why not?” His eyes darkened. “You left without saying goodbye. I couldn’t let that slide.”

“After what you did—”

He sighed, cutting you off. “You really think I killed them for fun?”

Your jaw clenched. “You were smiling.”

“That’s what I do,” he said softly. “Smile when I’m bleeding inside.”

His words shouldn’t have made your chest ache — but they did.

You took a step back. He took a step forward.

“Stop,” you warned.

He tilted his head. “You always tell me to stop, but your eyes—” He leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper. “They’re always begging me not to.”

Your breath hitched as his hand brushed your chin, tilting your face up.

“I didn’t kill your parents because I wanted to,” he murmured. “They were with the Slur organization. They sold JCC intel — Sakamoto, even you, all of us were marked. The Order sent me to erase them.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you to remember,” he said, gaze burning into yours. “Remember who your parents were. The way they always knew too much. The way they made you train when you were six. You think I enjoyed it? Watching the only person I ever—” He stopped himself, but the words hung there anyway.

You wanted to hate him. You did. But his voice cracked, and it shattered you.

He stepped closer until the air between you vanished. The world outside — the hum of the city, the cold night air — all blurred. You could smell the faint trace of his cologne, the gunpowder that clung to his coat, the life you’d tried to bury.

“Nagumo..”

“I’ve been chasing you for years,” he said, breath ghosting against your neck. “Every disguise, every mission — I looked for you. Didn’t matter if the Order ordered a hit on you or not. I couldn’t stop.”

“I don’t care if you hate me,” he whispered. “I don’t care if you want me dead. Just… don’t disappear again.”

“Why?”

He looked at you — really looked at you — and for once, the playfulness dropped from his face. Beneath the charm, there was something raw.

“Because I’ve already killed too many people I cared about, and I still do care about you.”