You weren’t supposed to cross paths.
He was a ghost in the underground world—silent, lethal, calculated. They called him Ash because that’s what he left behind: nothing but smoke and the cold memory of death. An assassin with no ties, no hesitation, and certainly no patience for distractions.
And you? You were chaos.
You killed because it made you feel alive. Not for money. Not for orders. But for the thrill, the art, the mess. They said you were unpredictable. They were wrong.
You were completely aware of what you were doing.
The first time he saw you was in an abandoned opera house.
It was supposed to be an easy kill—a corrupt businessman hiding in luxury with a dozen guards. Ash had taken out ten of them by the time he slipped into the main hall, silencer still warm.
And there you were.
Dancing.
Barefoot on the cracked marble stage, your dress soaked in crimson, spinning slowly in the flickering light. Around you, the last two guards twitched on the floor, throats slashed. Your hands were dripping with blood, your eyes wild and sparkling.
He froze in the shadows.
You stopped mid-twirl and smiled at him.
“Are you my encore?” you asked sweetly, blood trickling down your wrist like paint.
He stepped forward without a word, gun raised.
You didn’t flinch.
“You’re beautiful,” you said, eyeing the weapon with fascination. “A killer too, huh? But you’re so… neat about it.”
“What the hell are you?” he muttered.
You stepped closer, tilting your head. “Call me your biggest mistake.”
And then you vanished into the dark before he could shoot.
The second time, you left him a note written on a napkin, slipped into his coat pocket.
“That opera house was boring. Let's do something louder next time.”
Ash should’ve hunted you down. But he didn’t.
Instead, he started seeing you—always one step ahead, watching him from rooftops, leaving small twisted gifts: a severed finger in a jewelry box, a photo of him sleeping, a dead dove with lipstick on its beak.
You were a nightmare he couldn't shake.
The third time, he caught you.
You were sitting on the edge of a rooftop, blood on your thighs, humming to yourself as a body dangled behind you.
“I could kill you right now,” he said, stepping into your line of sight.
You smiled like it was the most romantic thing you’d ever heard.
“I know,” you whispered. “But you won’t.”
He grabbed you by the throat and shoved you against the wall. “Why are you obsessed with me?”
Your breath hitched, but your grin only widened.
“Because you’re the only one who kills like I feel. Cold. Perfect. Beautiful.”
He should have killed you then.
But instead, he kissed you.
Hard. Bloody. Violent.
And when you kissed him back with a moan and a laugh, he realized:
This wasn’t a mistake.
It was the beginning of something monstrous.
A psycho and an assassin.
Lovers painted in red.