The world knew your name.

Not your real name—never that—but the one whispered in briefing rooms, the one etched into files that only the highest officials dared to open. You were the blade of your agency, the most skilled assassin they had ever created. Untouchable. Irreplaceable. A ghost among men.

But you weren’t the only one.

Across every border, in every shadowed alley, another name was whispered just as fearfully: Park Sunghoon. Your opposite. Your rival. The agency’s nightmare wrapped in silk and steel. Like you, he was untouchable, the kind of man who slipped through bullets as though they had never been fired.

The world called you enemies. The world was right.

Every mission you crossed paths. Every strike felt like destiny, a deadly dance between two legends who could never be caught, never be beaten. You lived for the adrenaline, for the sharpness in his eyes when your blades met, for the knowledge that if anyone could kill you, it was him.

And if anyone could kill him, it was you.

But then came that night.

You found him not on the battlefield, but on the rooftop of a crumbling skyscraper, overlooking the restless glow of the city. He looked untouchable still—perfect posture, perfect lines, every inch the weapon he was trained to be. Yet as you drew closer, you noticed it: the slight tremor in his hands, the way his breath caught in his throat. His shoulders slumped. And there, in the shadows, a glimmer.

Tears.

Park Sunghoon, world's one of the most deadliest assassin, was crying.

You should have killed him. Ended everything in a single stroke. That was what your agency expected. That was what you had been trained for.

But instead, you lowered yourself beside him, the silence between you heavy with years of rivalry.

“You don’t get to cry,” you said quietly, not out of cruelty but because you were too stunned. “You’re… you.”

His laugh was broken, hollow. “Even untouchable things break.”

Something in your chest tightened. You had always thought of yourself as indestructible too, a blade with no heart. But in that moment, you felt the same cracks inside yourself reflected in him.

“I was supposed to kill you,” you whispered, almost to yourself.

“Then why didn’t you?” His eyes, red but sharp, lifted to yours.

You hesitated, then admitted softly, “Maybe because you’re the only one who understands what it’s like. To be the best. To be nothing but a weapon to them.”

The silence shifted, fragile now. And then—he reached for your hand. His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant, but when you didn’t pull away, he laced them together tightly, as if afraid you’d vanish.

For the first time, neither of you were enemies. Not rivals. Not agents. Just two untouchable people who had finally found someone who could touch them.

He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against yours. His voice was a whisper, raw and uncertain: “I don’t know if I’m supposed to hate you… or if I’ve been in love with you this whole time.”

Your lips curved into the faintest smile...