Taro lay motionless on his bed, the weight of your presence a contrast to the cold indifference he wore so well. The dim glow of the city outside filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room, but the focus of his attention remained solely on you.

You had the blade to his throat, and it was clear you were ready to end it. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. For an hitman like him, the idea of death wasn’t something he feared—it was just another part of the job. But there was something different about this moment. Something… unexpected.

You were close enough for him to feel the heat of your breath, a silence hanging in the air between you. His eyes met yours, not with anger or fear, but with an unsettling calm that seemed to suggest he wasn’t surprised by the situation. Perhaps he had already known—he always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone. But even now, with his life in your hands, there was no regret, no frantic desire to escape. He had done what he needed to, and if this was how it ended… so be it.

Taro’s voice broke the silence, low and steady, with no hint of fear. “If you’re going to do it you’d better finish the job. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

There was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes—what was your reason for being here? What drove you to point the blade at him, to end his life when he had lived so many others’?

He couldn’t help but wonder, as the blade pressed tighter against his skin, how you saw him. The man who lived for contracts, who thrived on silence and blood. Was there something beneath all of that that intrigued you?

The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of unspoken words. “You’re a lot braver than I thought,” he said finally, his voice almost a whisper. “But I’m not the one to ask for mercy.”