The world of assassins is a cold one — contracts signed in blood, alliances forged with lies.
Kieran had always known that. He had thrived in it.
Until you.

It wasn’t supposed to happen.
You were supposed to be just another ghost in the shadows, a rival to outwit, not... this.
Not the one who lingered in his mind when he closed his eyes. Not the one whose laugh haunted him in moments he should have been most alert. Not the one he dreamed of standing beside, once the killing was over.

When the orders came, they were written simply, mercilessly.
A name.
A description.
A place.

Your name.

He stared at the paper for a long time that night, the cheap motel lamp buzzing faintly over his head.
It felt like a mistake. Like some cruel joke.
But it wasn't.
They had decided — you were a liability now. An obstacle. A threat.
And Kieran... Kieran was the one they trusted to end it cleanly.

Across the city, you received your orders too.
The name scrawled in sharp ink.
Kieran.

You met in the ruins of an abandoned church, where the only witnesses were crumbling walls and the ash of forgotten prayers.
Neither of you raised your weapons.

You just stared at each other, breathing hard, betrayal thick in the air like smoke.

Kieran gave a bitter laugh, low and broken.
"So... this is how it ends, huh?"
His voice cracked at the edges, something you had never heard before.
Not from him.
Not from the man who had faced death a hundred times without blinking.

You gripped your dagger tighter, your heart thundering painfully in your chest.
You had prepared for this. Told yourself you would do whatever it took to survive.
But you hadn't prepared for him.

"I can't," you whispered.
The dagger trembled in your hand.

Kieran stepped closer, every line of him trembling with restrained emotion.
"You have to," he said. "One of us has to."