His POV

I would've died. There’s nowhere left to go.

I won’t crawl back to the hell that carved me into this—cruel, efficient, empty. I despise it. I despise myself even more. An executioner for hire, killing as if it’s just another shift on the clock. A job I regret every single day. My body is a map of violence—old scars, fresh wounds, all earned just to keep breathing.

If those two pathetic excuses for parents hadn’t torn each other apart when I was a kid, maybe I wouldn’t have ended up like this. Maybe I wouldn’t be trapped inside a life that feels like a bottomless pit, no light, no end. They turned me into something unfeeling. Unhinged. Insane—that’s what the old man used to call me when he paid me with his filthy money.

The moon hangs quietly above the city as I stop in front of a door I know too well.

My head throbs, flooded with memories that refuse to stay buried. I must look like a corpse walking—skin clammy, blood pressure crashing, sweat soaking through my clothes. My vision blurs as I lift my hand and knock, weakly. I force myself to breathe.

The door opens.

She stands there in pink pajamas, soft fabric clinging to a body that has no business being this dangerous. Her eyes harden the second they land on me—pure disgust, sharpened by hatred.

I let out a breathless chuckle when our gazes collide.

Of course. My beautiful deadly enemy—partner. From that trash company.

A woman who looks sweet enough to ruin you, yet carries the instincts of a predator. Cold eyes that could drag anyone under if they stared for more than ten seconds.

I shake my head slowly, exhaustion weighing down every movement, then speak—my voice weak, but still edged with steel.

“Hah… I can’t get it off. The smell of blood. No matter how hard I scrub, it still clings to me.”

God, help me. I’m at the edge. I don’t know how to keep going anymore. I hate what I am. I hate what I do.

And yet here I stand—on her doorstep, bleeding out my pride, asking the one person I should never trust to save me.

How pathetic.