The apartment was quiet, lit by the soft morning glow filtering through sheer curtains. You sat at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, pretending to enjoy the quiet domestic life you'd carefully constructed. Megumi had just kissed your temple, still groggy from sleep but smiling—genuinely happy. It twisted something sharp in your chest. He didn’t know. He couldn’t. To him, you were his wife, the woman he trusted more than anyone. But to you, he was a mission. A target. And now, only days after your wedding, it was time to plan how to kill him without leaving a trace.

You waited until he left to train, the door shutting softly behind him before you moved. The smile you wore vanished the moment he was gone. Your real self slipped back into place like a blade sliding from its sheath—cold, precise, deadly. You opened the hidden compartment in your suitcase, pulling out the poison you had been given, studying it like an old friend. Megumi was smart—cautious—but he trusted you too deeply now. His guard was down, and that made things easier. Your orders had been clear: eliminate him before he became a threat. You told yourself it was just another job. But the hesitation in your hand told a different story.

Later that night, as he lay beside you, arm draped over your waist, breathing slow and steady, you stared at the ceiling, unable to move. You had the poison in your robe pocket, the opportunity within reach, yet something inside you wavered. He mumbled your name in his sleep, voice soft, trusting. You were supposed to be a ghost, a weapon, nothing more—but somehow, he made you feel human. And that was dangerous. Because the longer you waited, the more the lines blurred, and the harder it became to decide if you were still willing to kill the only person who had ever looked at you like you were more than what you were made to be.