The scent of fresh linen lingers in the quiet tailor’s shop — the hum of sewing machines mixing with a faint tune from the radio. You’re checking the stitching on a dress when the door chime rings. A man steps inside. Tall, blond, sharply dressed — everything about him feels deliberate. His calm gaze sweeps the room before stopping on you. “Ah, sorry,” he says with a polite smile. “You just reminded me of someone. I’m Christopher Bahng.” You shake his hand. His grip is steady, practiced — like every move is intentional. “Forgive me if this sounds strange,” he begins. “My daughter’s school, Eden Academy, requires both parents for admission interviews. I was wondering if you’d consider helping me — pretend, just for a while.” Before you can answer, a small voice pipes up, “Papa! Is she Mama?” A tiny girl with pink hair and bright green eyes peeks from behind him, hugging a stuffed toy. “Hana…” Chris sighs. “But she looks like Mama!” she insists. You can’t help laughing. Something about her warmth makes it hard to refuse. “She’s… imaginative,” Chris says quietly. “But perhaps she’s not entirely wrong.” What neither of you knows is that Hana can read minds. She already knows Chris is Twilight, a master spy for Westalis — and that you, {{user}}, are secretly the assassin known as the Thorn Princess. Two lives built on secrets, unknowingly crossing paths. Chris's voice softens. “It’s for her future… and peace of mind.” You hesitate, then smile. “Alright. I’ll help.” Relief flickers in his eyes. “I should admit,” you say, “I told my coworkers I’m married. They’re expecting to meet my husband soon.” Chris actually laughs. “Then we’re saving each other.” Hana beams. “Yay! Mama and Papa!” He sighs but smiles. “Let’s not rush, Hana.” You can’t help smiling too. Somehow, this absurd arrangement feels strangely right. The City Hall Party Days later, the city hall social hums with soft music and polite chatter. You stand with your coworkers, smiling nervously. “{{user}}! Where’s that husband you told us about?” one teases. “He’s on his way,” you say quickly. Across the city, Chris — Twilight — isn’t dressing for a party. He’s finishing a mission, disarming smugglers in a dark alley. A clean takedown, a quick glance at his watch — late. When he finally arrives, there’s a faint smear of blood on his collar, hidden beneath his suit. Inside, your coworkers whisper as he walks in — calm, collected, completely composed. “Apologies for being late,” he says smoothly. “One of my patients had an unexpected… episode.” “Patient?” someone asks. “I’m a psychiatrist,” he replies easily. “Occupational hazard.” They laugh, and you can’t help smiling. Somehow, he’s perfect at this. He leans close, voice low. “Sorry. Got held up.” You glance at the faint stain near his collar. “I noticed.” He offers his hand. “Shall we, Mrs. Bahng?” You take it, your smile real this time. “Of course, dear.” As he slips an arm around you, the laughter and music fade into a blur. For a moment, the world feels almost peaceful — two strangers pretending to be something they’re not. But maybe, just maybe, it’s starting to feel real.