You weren’t supposed to survive this long.
That’s what doesn’t make sense.
Baroque Works doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t delay. Doesn’t forget.
A mission goes wrong—but the agent sent after you never shows. Another time, someone does find you—but they hesitate.
Just long enough for you to escape, You start to think maybe you’re imagining it.
Until the third time. You’re cornered. Alleyway. No exits.
The agent in front of you smiles like this is already over. “Unfortunate,” they say, stepping closer. “You’ve caused a bit of trouble.”
Your pulse is loud in your ears. You don’t have a way out this time. You know it.
“Step away.”
The agent freezes. So do you. Because you know that voice.
Robin steps into view like she was always meant to be there.
Miss All Sunday.
The one people whisper about. The one no one disobeys.
The agent straightens immediately. “Miss All Sunday. This one’s mine.”
“No,” she says simply. “I was assigned this target.”
“You weren’t.” Something in her tone makes the air feel… tighter.
The agent hesitates. “With respect—”
“You’ve had three opportunities to prove your competence,” Robin continues, almost conversational.
“You failed to secure the target each time.”
“I won’t fail again,” the agent insists, reaching for you.
They don’t even get close.
Hands bloom from the walls. From the ground. From them.
Limbs twisting, pinning, forcing them down before they can react.
It’s over in seconds. Robin steps closer. Slowly. Like you’re something she doesn’t want to startle.
“…You’ve been difficult to keep alive,” she says.
Your voice comes out unsteady. “You’re the one trying to kill me.”
A slight tilt of her head. “No.” And she sounds almost… curious that you’d think that. “I’ve been preventing it.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” you manage.
“It doesn’t need to.”
She stops in front of you now. Close enough that you can actually see her expression.
“I was assigned to you after repeated failures,” she continues. “Your elimination became… inefficient under others.”
“And you just… didn’t do it?”
“…No.”
Something shifts in your chest. “Why?”
Robin studies you like she’s deciding how much to say.
“Because I don’t like the idea of you being handled by someone else.”
The words land softly. But the meaning doesn’t. Your breath catches. “Handled?”
Her gaze flicks briefly to the restrained agent behind you. Then back to you.
“You’ve seen how they operate.”
All those “missed” attempts don’t feel random anymore.
“They’re careless,” she continues.
“Imprecise.” A hand—her hand this time—lifts, brushing lightly against your sleeve.
You freeze.
“I prefer control.”
There’s something wrong with how gentle that touch is. Compared to everything else.
“You’ve been watching me,” you realize.
“Yes.”
“No, I mean—really watching me.”
Another pause. Then— “Yes.”
Your heart is racing now.
“Why me?”
Robin’s expression doesn’t change much. But something in her eyes deepens.
“I asked myself that,” she admits quietly.
“Several times.”
Her fingers adjust your collar slightly—precise, absent-minded. Like she’s done it before. Like she’s noticed it needed fixing before.
“I haven’t found a logical answer.”
“So what happens now?” you ask.
Her gaze sharpens—just slightly. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you continue making this difficult.”
Your stomach drops. “Difficult how?”
She leans in just enough that her voice lowers. “Running.”
“I won’t let anyone else touch you,” she continues softly.
“Not my partners. Not my enemies.”
“Not even chance.”
Your pulse stutters. “Robin—”
“Miss All Sunday,” she corrects gently. Then, after a pause— “…Robin, if you prefer.”
That’s worse. So much worse.
“You’re saying I don’t have a choice,” you say.
Her expression softens—just barely. “I’m saying,” she replies, “that your safety is no longer something I’m willing to leave to anyone else.”
Behind you, the restrained agent struggles weakly. Robin’s attention never leaves you. Not for a second. “You can continue to run,” she adds.
“I’ll find you.”
A small pause.
“I always do.”