The whispers traveled fast in this high-rise hell.

There was another masked sniper—a woman. Deadly. Untouchable. Beautiful in the way a loaded weapon was: sleek, polished, and designed to kill.

They called you the White Serpent.

Long brown hair tied tight, eyes sharp beneath a mask etched with a silver fang curling from cheek to jaw. You never spoke unless necessary. You didn’t gloat. You didn’t miss. Your uniform—white and fitted to move with your body—split along the thigh for mobility. But it revealed just enough to haunt the weak-minded.

Sniper Mask wasn’t weak. But even he found himself… lingering.

He first saw you from ten rooftops away. One shot, one kill, and then you were gone before your bullet casing even hit the ground.

He tracked you for days. Said it was tactical. “Analyzing patterns. Calculating her kill range,” he claimed. But he knew better.

He was studying the way your leg moved when you adjusted your scope—how your thigh tensed, how the wind tugged at the hem of your coat. Through his sniper scope, he didn’t just see a threat.

He saw a weapon in the shape of a woman, and he couldn’t look away.

⸻

Nightfall.

The city was silent. Above the fog, under the crimson moon, you sat perched on the ledge of a rooftop. One leg up, rifle balanced, gaze locked miles ahead.

But you already knew he was watching.

You didn’t flinch. “That’s the third time you’ve aimed at me today,” you said, quiet through the comms. “Staring gets expensive around here.”

From another rooftop, he chuckled, low and shameless. “I’m just gathering data… very important field research.”

“On what?” “The angle your thigh hits the light when you line up a shot.”

You sighed. “Pervert.”

“Professional,” he corrected. “With taste.”

⸻

The tension between you two grew like smoke—never quite burning, but heavy in the air.

Every time you passed each other in battle, your eyes would meet. Quick, unreadable. He’d nod. You wouldn’t. But your fingers would twitch—like you were tempted to pull the trigger… or grab his tie.

And then one night, he waited for you. Rooftop to rooftop, moon to moon.

You stepped onto the gravel, body relaxed, rifle slung over your shoulder. “You’re either trying to seduce me,” you said, voice like silk wrapped around a knife, “or you’re asking for a bullet through the temple.”

Sniper Mask tilted his head. “Why not both?”

You stared at him. Wind tangled your hair. His mask caught the moonlight.

And for the first time… you walked past him, slow, deliberate, letting him hear the whisper of your boots and the soft clink of metal against your thigh holster.

“Try looking at my legs again,” you murmured near his ear, “and I’ll break your scope with your own spine.”

He grinned beneath his mask.

God, he liked you.