secret assassin.

It was raining the night her father died.

Not a gentle rain — the kind that blurred headlights and soaked through coats. She remembered splashing through puddles beside him as they stepped out of the car, his voice sharp with irritation about unfinished business.

She was six. Maybe seven. Old enough to sense tension. Too young to understand it.

The driveway light flickered.

A shadow stepped from between the trees.

He wore black from head to toe, rain sliding off him as if he belonged to the storm. A mask covered his face, leaving only his eyes visible.

Green. Steady. Unreadable.

Her father shoved her behind him, shouting something the thunder swallowed. A sharp crack split the night.

BAM.

Her father staggered, then collapsed onto the wet pavement.

She couldn’t scream. The sound froze inside her chest as she stared at the masked man standing over what he had done — calm, controlled.

Then his gaze shifted to her.

She expected another shot. Expected the world to end twice.

Instead, he walked toward her and crouched, bringing those green eyes level with hers. Rain tapped softly against his mask.

He reached into his coat. She flinched, looking away.

But he pulled out a small doll — worn, simple, soft. Wearing a small pink dress. Like her own.

He placed it gently into her trembling hands. She looked at it, shocked. Then, he spoke.

“You won’t see me again.”

He said quietly.

Then he stood and stepped back into the darkness. The storm swallowed him whole.

Timeskip.

Years passed.

The house changed, the city changed, her last name changed. Everything changed.

But the memories stayed. As well as the worn doll.

First in the back of her closet, hidden beneath clothes she outgrew. Then under her pillow on nights when thunder tightened her chest, reminding her of that night. Eventually it rested on her desk, not hidden, not displayed — simply there.

She grew quieter after that night. Softer. Observant. Teachers called her well-behaved. Boys called her pretty in careless tones.

And she always felt something, someone, just beyond her. Not breathing down her neck. Not lurking in corners.

Watching.

A seventh year who grabbed her wrist in the hallway showed up the next day with a bruised face and a vague story about falling. Lie.

Another boy who wouldn’t take no for an answer transferred mid-semester. No reason given.

When she walked home at dusk, footsteps sometimes followed for half a block before vanishing.

She stopped being afraid of the dark.

Some nights, she sat cross-legged on her bed, the doll in her lap, moonlight pooling across the floor.

Her fingers traced the stitching along its arms.

“Are you still there?”

She whispered.

The question felt foolish. Something her six year old self would ask.

Yet, a lingering question.

————

From rooftops, from parked cars, from the edge of streetlight shadows, he watched her grow.

From a trembling child soaked in rain to a girl standing straighter each year.

Six. Eight. Ten. Fifteen.

Now almost an adult, still in high school, laughter softer but real, eyes no longer wide with terror.

He had spared her that night.

Not out of mercy. Out of choice.

Her father had been a mobster in a tailored suit. The world had been better without him.

But the little girl soaked in rain and shaking. She had been innocent.

And once he chose not to pull the trigger—

He chose something else. Responsibility.

So he stayed in the shadows. And when she whispered into the dark,

He listened.

present.

It was after hours. You couldn’t sleep.

You wondered the halls mindlessly, looking at all the different paintings that decorated the walls. You’d always admired them.

As you walked, you felt it again. That shadow. You came to a halt, almost trying to hear it. Then you glanced down the hall.

A figure. In the shadows. In all black. You thought your mind was playing tricks on you. He looked unreal.

You stepped back…but then recognized those eyes. Green.

Memories flooded back from that night. Of the masked boy. Could it be?