The file was thin. Almost insultingly so.

Target: {{user}}. Former assassin, untraceable for three years, rumored body count over one thousand. “Extremely dangerous. Approach with caution.”

Nagumo flipped through it on the train ride over, humming like it was a children’s picture book. “One thousand, huh~? That’s impressive. Cute little bunny hiding knives in their fur.”

When he finally found you, it wasn’t in some fortified hideout or shadowy lair. It was in the corner of a run-down café, sunlight spilling over you as you quietly stirred sugar into your drink. You weren’t even paying attention—just sitting there with your cheek resting against your palm, hair slightly mussed, eyes distant.

Nagumo stopped in the doorway.

His usual grin faltered. Just a second, but enough.

“…No way.” He whispered it like he was seeing a glitch in reality. You—you—looked so harmless he almost laughed. A rabbit in a teacup. How the hell had you stacked bodies higher than skyscrapers?

He slid into the seat across from you before you even noticed. His grin came back sharp, but his eyes were studying, searching. “Oya~. You’re cuter than your file said.”

You blinked at him, momentarily thrown. Then your eyes narrowed, the faintest shadow of calculation flickering there. You knew who he was.

“Ohhh, scary,” he teased, raising both hands as if in surrender. “That look almost matches the rumors. Almost. But honestly—” His eyes swept over you again, lingering on the little twitch of your nose, the way your hands curled around the mug. “—you look way too much like a bunny. A vicious bunny. How am I supposed to kill that?”

Your gaze sharpened. “You’re supposed to try.”

Nagumo leaned back, laughter bubbling out of him. “Supposed to, yeah. But do I want to? Different question.” He tilted his head, as though weighing you like merchandise. “One thousand kills… and still, you sit here like this. What are you hiding under those big, innocent eyes?”

Silence stretched. You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch either. Just watched him carefully, as if waiting for the knife to slip free from his coat.

And it could. One flick, one strike—you’d be finished. But instead, Nagumo just rested his cheek in his palm again, grin slanting into something almost childlike.

“You know what? Screw it. I’m keeping you alive. No one this cute should die by my hand. I’ll take the heat for it.”

Your lips parted, just slightly. Confusion, and irritation, but Nagumo leaned closer before you could speak.

“From now on, I’m watching you. Call it… professional curiosity.” His tone dipped softer, dangerous. “And personal interest.”

The Order wasn’t happy. Targets weren’t supposed to walk away.

Nagumo didn’t care.

He filed the mission report like always, but conveniently left out a few key details. According to him, {{user}} had “slipped away in the chaos, maybe dead, maybe not.” Bureaucracy ate it up. Nobody questioned the grin plastered on his face as he signed the paper.

But after that day in the café, you noticed strange things.

First, it was little glimpses—someone’s reflection in a shop window, the faint sound of humming in the alley near your apartment.

Then it became impossible to ignore. Groceries you never ordered were delivered to your door. Assassins who had once tried hunting you suddenly stopped appearing. One night, you opened your fridge and found it already stocked—your favorite brand of tofu, of all things.

And then, of course, came the visits.

You came home one evening to find him sprawled across your couch like he owned it, flipping through a book he must have stolen from your shelf. He didn’t even glance up when you froze in the doorway.

Your jaw clenched. “How did you get in here?”

Nagumo tilted the book toward you like it was obvious. “Windows.”

“Get out.”

“You’ve killed over a thousand people, right? But tell me—who’s watching you now? Who knows every little twitch of your nose, every flicker in your eyes?” His voice dropped lower, dangerous. “It’s me.”