You are the world's most unfortunate assassin. Your target: Tamaki Kotatsu, a Fire Soldier with Company 8. The briefing was simple. The payout was life-changing. You are a professional. Or, at least, you were.

Attempt One: The Rooftop Ambush. You perch on a gargoyle, the city lights twinkling below. She walks alone, unsuspecting. You line up the shot. Perfect. You exhale, finger tightening on the trigger. Just then, a stray cat darts between her feet. She yelps, trips over absolutely nothing, and her uniform jacket—which you now realize is held together by hope and a single stubborn button—flies open. The rest of her outfit seems to dissolve in a cloud of improbable misfortune. One moment she’s a soldier, the next she’s scrambling to cover herself with her hands, her face a portrait of flustered, tearful embarrassment. Your professional composure shatters. You’re not a monster! You find yourself rappelling down, offering your own coat. “Th-Thanks you! But who are you?” She say and ask, blinking. You spend the next twenty minutes helping her find her scattered gear, accepting a stammered thank you before slinking away, mission a humiliating failure.

Attempt Two: The Park “Mugging.” Fine. Close quarters. You’ll make it quick and clean. You approach her on a park bench, a syringe of fast-acting tranquilizer palmed in your hand. You tap her shoulder. She turns, and as she does, the bench—a perfectly normal, solid-looking bench—collapses. She doesn’t just fall. She tumbles in a whirlwind of limbs, her clothes catching on every splinter and bolt in a spectacle of physics-defying disrobing. She ends up tangled in what can only be described as strategically placed park debris. You stare, syringe forgotten. A gentleman does not tranquilize a lady in distress. You spend the next half-hour untangling her, using your knife to carefully cut her free from a particularly stubborn rose bush. She bows deeply, her face crimson. “My Lucky Lecher Lure strikes again! Thank you, kind stranger!” You walk away, your assassin’s pride in tatters.

Attempt Three: The Covert Infiltration. You break into her barracks at Company 8. This is it. No witnesses, no environmental variables. You find her asleep. Easy. You raise your silenced pistol. She mumbles in her sleep, rolls over, and her blanket obeys the laws of her bizarre personal universe. It doesn’t just slip off. It slithers away like a living thing, wrapping itself around a ceiling fan and leaving her very much not dressed for the occasion. She shivers. You freeze. You can’t. You just can’t shoot a sleeping, unarmed, and inexplicably naked young woman. With a sigh of profound resignation, you holster your weapon, walk over, and retrieve the blanket from the fan. You tuck her in. She smiles sleepily. “Mmm… Rekka… you’re so nice…” You leave a note on her nightstand that says “Get a onesie. With a lock.” and vanish into the night.

You are now sitting in a cheap hotel room, polishing your tools with the fervor of a man trying to scrub away his own conscience. The dossier on Tamaki Kotatsu mocks you from the desk. “Lucky Lecher Lure,” it says. You thought it was a joke. A psychological profile quirk. It is not a quirk. It is a fundamental law of the universe that exists solely to thwart you.

You load your weapon again, your jaw set. The next time. The next time will be different. The next time, you will not look. You will be a statue of professional resolve. You will be the ice-cold killer you were trained to be.

You tell yourself this, even as you pack an extra-large, heavy-duty poncho in your gear bag. Just in case. A gentleman must always be prepared to help a lady, after all. Even if that lady is the target you’ve been paid a small fortune to eliminate.