#they are so sibling coded your honor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aleskie-hischier · 15 days ago

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Summary: Tasked with eliminating the government spy Nico Hischier, you arrive in Paris prepared to do what you’ve always done: obey Father’s orders without question. Unexpectedly, you get closer to Nico and he shows you a glimpse of a life beyond the underworld. Torn between your present and the possibility of a future free from darkness, you make a choice that changes the course of your life.

Word Count: 15k Warnings: fluffy angst!! there's a swear word somewhere there and there's a scene that leads to something spicy but there isn't any actual smut!! also there are inaccurate descriptions of advanced technology and chemicals...don't come for me, i'm not a stem student and i don't actually know how that shit works

READ PART TWO HERE

You first meet him at a gala somewhere in Germany. It’s the birthday of some socialite, celebrated in the only way these people seem to know how—a garish display of lavish opulence. The mansion is dripping in gold, with polished marble floors that gleam under crystal chandeliers, and an endless fountain of champagne that flows throughout the night. Around you, guests float about in grand clothes, laughter echoing through the hall. And, from the corner of your eye, in the dimly lit corners, you spot couples slipping away for moments of…private intimacy.

In a perfect world, you’d join the festivities—join in the dancing and drinking, maybe you’d even find someone who catches your eye, flirt for a while, let the champagne make you bold. But you aren’t here for any of that. No, your attendance tonight is strictly for work, and you’re eager to make a good impression. After all, ‘Father’ had chosen you personally for this assignment, this chance to prove yourself by approaching The Target.

The honor wasn’t lost on you. Out of all your ‘siblings,’ it was you he’d chosen—‘Father’s’ quiet, watchful shadow. You almost let a smile slip at the thought of them fuming, quietly seething that you had been singled out as his best. Still, you keep your gloating hidden deep inside. You keep your expression composed, calm, your mask perfectly in place. Just like what you were trained to do.

One by one, ‘Father’ takes you through the crowd, introducing you to guests scattered throughout the hall. There are socialites wrapped in silk and jewels, politicians with their fake and steely smiles; There are actors who prance around with perfectly practiced charm and singers who cast secretive glances at one another—everyone who matters, the pillars of high society, are all here.

You’re cordial, polite, doing exactly as you were trained: standing straight with your head high, giving a subtle smile, letting ‘Father’ do most of the talking while you speak only when directly addressed.

This is why you’re his favorite. You’re a shadow, a seamless extension of his will, your own desires tucked away beneath the polished surface.

Your gaze occasionally sweeps the room, catching every flicker of movement, every momentary lapse in composure. You’re waiting, watching, until finally, you see him: The Target. Standing across the room, just beyond ‘Father’s’ line of sight, and yet right within yours.

The cold and calculating Agent Heart. Real name: Nico Hischier. One of the top operatives the Swiss government had ever produced—usually, anyway. He’d unknowingly made a crucial mistake at his last job, leaving just enough of a trace to reveal the man behind the code name. And now, he would die by your hands.

It was almost a pity to end the life of someone so...well, so pretty, with that sharp jawline and those doe-like brown eyes. But a job was a job, and Nico Hischier had been a thorn in your client’s side for far too long. His audacious infiltration schemes and the false information he’d planted across organizations had finally backfired, landing him in the crosshairs of nearly every intelligence agency in Europe. The bounty on his head was astronomical. And very soon, you’d be securing a piece of it.

You quietly excuse yourself from the current group of guests as ‘Father’ continues talking, stepping away with a smooth, practiced grace that goes unnoticed amidst the swirl of laughter and clinking glasses. Moving through the crowd, you feel the thrill of anticipation quicken your heartbeat—not nerves, but the pure, cold excitement that only missions like this can give.

You’d studied him meticulously, learning everything from his birthplace to his weapon of choice to the peculiarity of his movements. By all accounts, he’s one of the deadliest targets you’ve ever been assigned. But here, under the shimmering lights and surrounded by Europe’s elite, he almost seems ordinary. Unsuspecting. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Carefully, you make your way to him with a calculated grace, cutting through the crowd with subtle purpose until you find yourself near the champagne tower where he stands, engaged in polite conversation but always surveying the room. In these few seconds, your mind runs through the best approaches. This first contact would be critical—too bold, and he’d suspect something; too subtle, and you’d be ignored.

As you near him, you make a choice. You pass close enough to him for a brief, delicate brush of your arm against his, subtle enough to seem accidental yet deliberate enough to catch his attention. The spark of contact makes him look down at you, his gaze as sharp as you expected. You meet his eyes, letting a faint smile tug at your lips, mysterious and inviting.

You let the moment linger just a second longer than usual before drifting away, casting a fleeting glance over your shoulder as you head towards a nearby balcony. A silent invitation, daring him to follow.

It works. Just moments later, you sense his presence behind you, following you closely. And when you step onto the quiet balcony overlooking the gardens, he’s there, closing the doors softly behind him. For a brief moment, you both stand in silence, the sounds of laughter and music now muffled by the thick glass. The night air is cool, and he takes a step forward, his posture casual but his eyes sharp, assessing.

“Didn’t think I’d see someone like you out here,” he says smoothly, his voice low and slightly amused.

You arch a brow, leaning against the stone bannister, feigning a casualness you don’t entirely feel. “And what is ‘someone like me,’ exactly?” you ask, letting a slight challenge slip into your tone.

He chuckles softly, his gaze trailing over you with an interest that’s as analytical as it is intrigued. “Someone who seems a bit out of place among all the gold and glitter.” He pauses, a smile touching his lips. “Though I suppose that’s part of the charm.”

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze with a smile of your own. “Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

He hums, studying you with a spark of intrigue. “What’s your name, gorgeous?”

You smirk, crossing your arms loosely in front of you. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He chuckles, mirroring your smirk with one of his own. “Don’t you want to know who I am?”

You shrug lightly, keeping your gaze steady. “It’s not that important. We won’t be meeting after tonight, anyway,” you reply, your tone coy, almost daring.

He tilts his head, clearly amused, and leans in just a fraction closer. His hand rests on the bannister, his fingers nearly brushing against yours. “And what if I wanted to meet again?”

A playful smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “I think I could make that happen.”

He opens his mouth, about to respond with some new flirtation, but he’s cut off by a familiar voice.

‘Father.’

“Ah,” he says, his tone measured, assessing, “My child, here you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

You turn, adopting a soft, slightly apologetic smile, and gesture toward Nico. “I found some lovely company tonight. I’m sorry for slipping away like that.”

‘Father’ shifts his gaze to Nico, then back to you, a look of subtle satisfaction passing over his features as he realizes you’ve made contact with the target. “I see.” He extends his hand to the spy. “Thank you for looking after my treasure.”

The air shifts as Nico straightens, his previously casual demeanor giving way to a guarded coolness. He accepts the handshake, meeting ‘Father’s’ gaze with a measured look. “It’s my pleasure,” he replies smoothly. “She’s been…lovely company.”

‘Father’ gives an approving smile that, even to you, seems convincing. “Well,” he says, glancing between the two of you, “I hate to cut this meeting short, but our chauffeur is here to take us back home.” His tone is warm, but there’s no mistaking the command in his words.

Nico’s eyes flick from you to ‘Father,’ assessing, before he nods. “Of course.” Turning back to you, he reaches for your gloved hand, lifting it with unexpected gentleness to his lips. “Thank you for your company tonight.”

You give him a warm smile, your heart skipping just slightly under the guise of composure. “It was no trouble at all.” Then, slipping your hand free, you take ‘Father’s’ arm, feeling Nico’s intense gaze burn into your back as you leave the balcony.

Once in the car, the silence is weighted, yet you can sense ‘Father’s’ satisfaction without needing to see his face. He finally speaks, his voice brimming with a rare touch of pride.

“My Shadow,” he says, almost tenderly, “To have made contact with a target even I did not see is nothing short of impressive. I knew you were the right choice for this assignment.” He leans back, a hint of a smile ghosting across his face as he watches the city lights flicker past the window.

A subtle warmth blooms in your chest, a swell of pride that you rarely allow yourself to feel. You’ve made ‘Father’ proud—exactly what you’ve been trained for, the purpose he’s molded you into. And tonight, you’ve once again proven yourself worthy of his trust.

You allow yourself a brief, quiet smile as you reply, “Thank you, Father.”

Suddenly, ‘Father’ turns to you, a faint glint of scrutiny in his eyes. “I must ask, however,” he says, his voice sharp and questioning, “Why did you allow him to kiss your hand goodbye? You don’t often permit targets to make contact with you.”

Caught off guard by his intensity, you pause, then offer a calm, practiced smile. “Oh,” you say, feeling the weight of his gaze, “I left him with a small gift, is all.”

‘Father’ raises a brow, his silence an unspoken command to elaborate.

With a slight, mischievous smile, you hold up your hands, drawing his attention to the delicate gloves still clinging to your skin. “I laced these with poison.”

For a second, ‘Father’ stares, his eyes widening as he processes your strategy, before he lets out a hearty, genuine laugh that seems to echo in the dim car. “Oh, my dear Shadow,” he says, mirth evident in every syllable, “This is why you are my greatest investment.”

He shakes his head, almost in awe, and pats your shoulder as if to say, well done. “Brilliantly done. Precise, discreet, and utterly poetic. I knew I was right to trust you with this.”

The pride in his tone washes over you, and you lower your eyes, feigning humility even as satisfaction hums beneath your skin.

Right now, in this moment, you’re more than just his tool—you’re his masterpiece, a testament to his power, and his most prized creation. The night around you darkens as the car glides down empty streets, but you feel only the steady glow of triumph.

You don’t see Nico Hischier for another five years.

After that night, he vanished as if he’d never existed, leaving no trace, no sign, not even a whisper in the underworld. Informants scrambled and came up empty-handed, unable to find the faintest clue of his survival. For all intents and purposes, Nico Hischier was dead and Agent Heart was wiped from the face of the earth—yet his memory lingered, nagging at the edges of your mind. A shame, really. He’d been charming, a master of his craft, and more than easy on the eyes with a lovely accent to match. But business was business, and you’d pocketed a handsome payday from his supposed demise.

Life moved on. You took new assignments, completed them, and then went on a shopping spree with the bounty you collected from each person’s demise.

And then, just as you’d almost forgotten him, a report surfaced: Nico Hischier, codename: Heart, was sighted in Prague.

The message left you cold, gripping the paper so tightly your knuckles turned white. Somehow, he’d managed to reemerge five years after you’d assumed him dead. It could only mean one of two things: either he’d somehow already developed an immunity to your poison, or he’d anticipated your move that night and carried an antidote. Either way, he’d outplayed you.

When ‘Father’ found out, his reaction was…uncharacteristic. You almost expected him to explode in fury, yet he remained unsettlingly calm, though you could feel the chill radiating off him. “Lay low,” he commanded, his voice edged with a steely calm. “Do nothing reckless. We will let him think he is safe.”

You nodded, as did the others. Defiance wasn’t an option—not against ‘Father.’ You were his creations, his most prized agents, trained to bend to his will, to serve as extensions of his power. But as reports trickled in of Nico’s movements—Italy, Spain, then Germany, and now, most recently, Paris—a restlessness began to simmer beneath the surface.

It was infuriating. This job should have been finished years ago, with your flawless record kept unblemished. Instead, Nico Hischier was hopping across Europe as if untouched, while your high-profile clients grew increasingly frantic, demanding answers.

What was his plan? He hadn’t been stirring up trouble, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was biding his time, collecting information, plotting something. Five years of his survival meant five years for him to watch, learn, and scheme. Who knew what kind of leverage he might hold now?

The insult burned, a taunting reminder of your one unfinished task. This was personal now.

With a calculated calm, you start packing, your room a messy whirl of preparation. You move quickly, gathering clothes and essentials, disguises folded neatly alongside your dark ensembles. The commercial airport would be a nightmare for weapons and the more, shall we say, experimental items you’d usually pack, so you strip down to the essentials—your laptop, and hard drives and USBs loaded with data on ‘Father’s’ warehouses, contacts, and safehouses in Paris. You weren’t about to leave anything to chance this time. You were going to get the job done.

“What do we have here?” Hyacinth drawls as he strolls into your room, that infuriating smirk playing across his lips. “Shadow, breaking Father’s orders? Never thought I’d live to see the day! Maybe the world really is coming to an end.”

His laugh grates against your nerves, adding fuel to the fire of your frustration. You clench your fists, willing yourself not to snap.

“Shut up, Hyacinth,” you snap, your tone ice-cold.

He lifts a brow, feigning shock. “Touchy, touchy. What’s the matter? Can’t handle the thought of being like the rest of us disappointments?”

Your glare sharpens. “You don’t know a damn thing.”

“Oh, maybe not,” he shrugs with feigned nonchalance, though the glint in his eyes says otherwise. “All I know is that Father’s perfect little lap dog has her first big failure and can’t handle it. Didn’t even get a scolding for it, either. Let it go, Shadow. Shit happens.”

“Not to me!” The words are out before you can stop them, the heat in your voice betraying the tight hold you’ve tried to keep on your emotions. “Shit isn’t supposed to happen to me. He should have been dead five years ago. Something is clearly wrong here, and I’m not about to wait around to see what it is.”

Hyacinth leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Don’t you think by going after him, you’re just putting us all at risk? Maybe you’re the one digging our graves.”

You set your jaw. “I’m making sure it doesn’t come to that. Someone has to, and if that means going out there myself, so be it. I won’t let him compromise us.”

He snorts. “That superiority complex of yours is showing again. Newsflash, Shadow: you’re not any better than the rest of us. We can handle ourselves, you know.”

“Then do that.” You meet his gaze, refusing to waver. “I’m going to end this, for good this time.”

Hyacinth shakes his head, letting out a scoff as he gives you a mock salute before flipping you off on his way out. Once he’s gone, silence falls, leaving you alone with the simmering anger and resolve that’s been building inside you since that first sighting in Prague.

You turn back to your preparations, each item you pack a step closer to reclaiming your spotless record. If Nico Hischier thought he could walk back into your world without a consequence, he was in for a rude awakening. This time, you’d make sure he didn’t walk away—no matter what it took.

The first thing you do when you touch down in Paris is seek out a café where you can start tracking down the location of the warehouse without raising suspicion. You drag your suitcase through the bustling crowds, winding your way to a small café tucked in a quiet corner off a narrow street. It’s the kind of place tourists overlook but locals appreciate, which suits you just fine. Settling at a corner table, you pull out your laptop and hard drive, your eyes flicking discreetly around before focusing on the screen.

Phase one: gathering supplies and resources. It’s essential to be meticulous here, covering your tracks as you hack into the security systems guarding the warehouse. ‘Father’ couldn’t know, not until Nico was back under control, one way or another. Hyacinth was a wild card, as always. But you know your ‘brother’ well enough—he wouldn’t risk his neck tattling to ‘Father’ when it could mean he’d get burned for letting you slip through in the first place. No, the only way you’d get caught would be if you made a mistake. But you don’t make mistakes. Not often, at least.

Steeling yourself, you quickly hack into ‘Father’s’ network, bypassing the high-grade security systems with a practiced ease. You knew every firewall, every code embedded in his system—hell, you’d helped create a few. Within minutes, you’re inside, scanning inventory lists, security schedules, and surveillance layouts. The target warehouse isn’t far, just on the outskirts of the city, and you catch a hint of satisfaction at the minimal security—surely an oversight on ‘Father’s’ part. A clean entry and exit should be more than manageable if you stick to the plan. This was your element. It’s what they trained you for, why they called you Shadow: no one saw you coming, and no one would see you go.

Hours later, with a mental map of the warehouse in place, you check into your hotel—a high-end spot tucked away in the heart of the city. You present your fake ID and passport with the same confidence you’ve honed in every mission. The upscale surroundings are a deliberate choice. Tourists flood hotels like these, and with so many faces coming and going, no one would remember one more guest. Plus, you think, casting a glance around the pristine lobby, it’s a definite improvement over some of your previous hideouts.

Your room is a large suite with a view overlooking the Seine, but there’s no time to enjoy it. By nightfall, you’re ready. Dressed in sleek, dark clothing, a mask fitted snugly over your face, and your bag packed with the essentials, you slip silently into the shadows outside the hotel. Your path takes you through side streets and alleyways, every step calculated as you make your way toward the necessary location.

The warehouse looms ahead, tucked in an industrial sector where only the hum of distant traffic breaks the silence. You slip into the shadows along the building’s side, blending in as you’ve always done. You double-check your tools, each one a lifeline in your hand. There’s no room for error tonight. Not this time.

When you arrive, the warehouse looms ahead in the darkness. It’s surrounded by high fencing, security cameras rotating from their posts like watchful sentries. For most, this would be intimidating, but you’ve faced far worse. The thrill kicks in once more, sharpening your senses. You take a slow, steadying breath, then melt into the shadows, silent as smoke. This time, you’d finish the job you’d started years ago—no matter what it took.

The sunrise has always fascinated you. It’s a signal of beginnings, fresh starts—a promise of new opportunities. You find it poetic that it’s the first thing you see as you slip out of the warehouse, your mission complete and a cold, gleeful satisfaction filling you.

Breaking into the place had been more challenging than anticipated. The exterior’s casual security had lulled you into a false sense of ease, making you believe the rest would be a simple infiltration. But inside, the game shifted. Lasers crisscrossed the halls like webs, ready to alert ‘Father’ at the faintest touch. You’d navigated through them with a mix of agility and nerves of steel, carefully calculating each movement. Then, hacking into the security system to loop the cameras—well, that had demanded an even steadier hand.

Each door you encountered was a new puzzle, a metal barrier locked with outdated ciphers that even the finest digital decoders couldn’t solve alone. Finally, you resorted to an old cipher-decoder tucked away in your bag, the kind you’d almost forgotten about, to get you through. Each second felt stretched, every click and buzz echoing louder in the silent warehouse, but you refused to let it fluster you. You were trained for this—methodical, composed, and ruthless in your precision.

The challenges only fueled you. They reminded you of the spies you’d watched over the years, their sneaky maneuvers and meticulous planning. Spies and assassins weren’t all that different, you thought wryly. Both had to be intelligent, inventive, and constantly three steps ahead. You’d taken notes, refined your approach, and now, standing here at the brink of success, you see it paying off.

Once inside the warehouse’s main sector, you located everything you needed: small vials of acids and chemicals with potent effects, needles to inject them into precise targets, and, of course, your preferred daggers. You recognize the risk of bringing such conspicuous weapons; the daggers would leave a clear mark, something easily traced to you. But they were your final line of defense if all else failed. A contingency. You liked to be prepared for every possibility.

With your haul secured, you slipped out as silently as you’d come, setting everything back to how it was before you’d entered.

Back at the hotel, a wave of exhaustion hit you, the adrenaline finally draining. You collapsed onto the plush bed, relishing the soft linens and the contrast of comfort after the tense operation. As your eyes drifted shut, the golden light of dawn filtered through the window. In the back of your mind, a voice whispers that this time, things will fall into place. The sun feels like a premonition—a promise of victory.

When you wake up, it’s just about time for lunch, and the day outside is sunny, practically inviting you out to explore. After a quick shower, you slip into a simple outfit, throwing on a light cardigan, and head down to the lobby. You tell yourself it’s to grab a bite to eat while you figure out how to locate Nico—if he was even still in Paris. A grimace crosses your face at the possibility he’s already vanished, but a quick spark of determination flickers. You’re prepared to follow him to the ends of the earth if that’s what it takes.

Lost in thought, you walk briskly toward the lobby’s exit, but you’re jarred back to the present by an unexpected bump into someone. Instinctively, you’re ready to apologize—until you look up and see him. Nico, in the flesh, his expression caught halfway between surprise and something else. He’s as handsome as you remember, wearing a casual pair of jeans, a sleek knit sweater, and a trench coat that perfectly frames his sharp build. Jackpot.

His eyes first widen when they see you, a flash of recognition, but they don’t show any signs of him connecting you with a failed assassination plot, so that was working in your favor. Then he gives an amused smile.

For a split second, his eyes widen, a flicker of recognition lighting up his face. But he doesn’t show a trace of suspicion; if anything, he looks amused. It’s almost funny how little he realizes who you truly are or that you were ever tasked with ending his life.

“When you said you’d make our meeting happen again,” he says smoothly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I didn’t think you’d keep me waiting for five years.”

You recover quickly, letting an amused smile play on your lips. “Good things take time,” you reply, matching his tone with ease.

“Well then, I guess it’s about time we do this properly." His smirk deepens as he extends a hand, offering a more formal greeting. "I’m Nico.”

“Y/N,” you say, your smile widening as you take his hand, giving it a light but confident shake.

He studies you for a moment, his gaze both amused and appraising. “So, Y/N,” he says, the casualness in his tone belied by the spark of curiosity in his eyes, “What brings you to Paris?”

“Oh, just a bit of business,” you reply, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “But I don’t mind having a little fun on the side.”

“Funny,” he replies, the amusement in his eyes intensifying. His gaze lingers, assessing, as if you’re a puzzle he’s suddenly intent on solving. “I could say the same thing.” There’s a spark of intrigue in his eyes, a quiet challenge, like he’s not quite sure what he’s getting into but is curious enough to find out. “How about we continue where we left off and get lunch? My treat.”

There’s a quiet thrill in how easily he’s letting his guard down. “I’d be glad to,” you say, your voice warm and laced with charm. You place your hand lightly in the one he’s offered as he leads you out of the hotel lobby, and a strange feeling of satisfaction blooms in your chest.

As you step out into the Parisian sunlight, you feel his gaze drift over you from time to time, like he’s trying to piece together the mystery that is you. In a way, it’s thrilling—the careful dance, the unspoken tension between you. For now, you’re both just two strangers, meeting by chance, sharing a meal in the city of lights. But beneath that veneer of normalcy, you know exactly who he is. And soon, he’ll find out exactly who you are, too.

The walk to the restaurant is mostly silent, save for the sounds of cabs and people on the street, though his hand remains firmly laced in yours, grounding you in a way that’s both strange and unexpectedly steady. You’re not sure if he’s doing it to ensure you don’t slip away—not that you would—or if it’s simply his way of staying connected, holding onto this chance encounter as long as possible.

He leads you to a cozy little bistro just a block away from the hotel. It’s the sort of place that’s swarming with locals, with warm wooden tables and waitstaff bustling through the crowd, balancing plates with practiced ease. You’re seated by a window, the afternoon light filtering through as the hum of Parisian life passes by outside. He lets go of your hand to pull out your chair, a surprisingly old-fashioned gesture, before taking a seat across from you. You’re handed menus, and after a quick glance, he orders a steak. You, in turn, order ratatouille—a choice that earns you a look of amused surprise.

“Ratatouille?” He raises an eyebrow, the grin on his face both intrigued and playful as the waiter collects your menus.

You can’t help but smirk back, rolling your eyes a bit as you explain. “I saw the movie last year and figured I should try the dish, see if it lives up to the hype.”

He laughs, the sound warm and relaxed, making him seem momentarily less like the man you’re here to kill. “So, you’re into those kinds of things? Movies?”

“Not really. Just curious.” You give a small shrug, keeping your tone light. “I figured that if I was gonna eat in Paris I might as well go for something classic.”

He nods, eyes never leaving yours, his gaze intense but inviting. “I suppose you just don’t strike me as the type to follow a…classical path, so to speak.”

You tilt your head, intrigued. “And what exactly do you think my path looks like, then?”

“Something more mysterious.” His smirk returns, laced with a deeper curiosity, as though he’s trying to peer through whatever mask you’ve chosen to wear today. “You’ve got this air about you...like you’re here, but not entirely. A bit like a cat. Sneaky, quick,” he says, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that feels both measuring and teasing. “Elusive.”

You laugh, letting out a genuine sound. “A cat? That’s a first.”

It is a first. People in your world were more likely to call you names like “Golden Girl,” “Father’s Shadow,” or “Lap Dog” when your so-called ‘siblings’ wanted to get under your skin.

“Well, you are hard to pin down, aren’t you?” He leans back, still watching you, and the playful energy from before shifts. “People like us—those who can walk in and out of rooms unnoticed—we tend to be running from something, or toward it. Which one is it for you?”

The question catches you off guard, the subtle implication making you wonder if he knows more than he lets on. You lean in, matching his intensity. “Maybe both. Or maybe I just like the thrill of new places and new faces.”

He nods slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, as though filing the answer away with real interest. You notice the warmth in his curiosity, and for a brief moment, it almost makes you feel guilty, like he genuinely wants to know the truth about you.

“Besides,” you continue, a smile tugging at your lips, “I’m the one who’s hard to pin down? You’re the one who’s been quite hard to find these past few years.”

The words slip out before you realize how they might sound, and for a brief second, you see his expression flicker from amused to alarmed. Most people wouldn’t catch it, but you do, and you pivot quickly.

“I just…” You let out a breath, recalibrating. “I thought you’d stay in Germany longer. I tried looking for you after the gala.” It’s the truth, in a way—you had tried to track him down, though for different reasons entirely. “But you were gone. Just…vanished.” The words carry a hint of something unintended, something softer. You sound almost sad, like a lover abandoned or a child denied a favorite toy.

His expression shifts, easing into something more open, though there’s a guarded look in his eyes you can’t quite place. “Oh,” he says simply. “Had some business to take care of.” Then, his lips curve into a smirk, casual and inviting. “If I’d known you were looking for me, I would’ve found you first.”

You return his smile, allowing the flirtation to flow easily between you. “Well, lucky for you, you didn’t have to try too hard this time.”

“Lucky for me indeed.” His gaze sharpens with interest, as if he’s thinking of something more he’d like to say but chooses to leave it unspoken.

As the light shifts, bathing the restaurant in a soft glow, you realize just how naturally the conversation has fallen into place, how seamlessly you’ve slipped into the part you need to play. It’s dangerous, how easy it feels, how perfectly he responds to every cue. For a moment, you wonder if he’s doing the same—if he’s playing a role, hiding motives of his own behind that smooth smile. But the real danger, you know, is how much you welcome it—yearn for it—how a part of you longs for this illusion of normalcy.

You let yourself drift for a second, thinking about a quiet cottage somewhere in the mountains. You imagine waking up next to someone you love, sharing breakfast and laughter in the early morning light. You picture spending your days apart, coming home to one another at night, swapping stories about the small things, the safe things, the little moments of joy. In this little dream, you hold children of your own—kids who’d grow up safe, untouched by the world you’d grown up in.

You look across the table at Nico, studying his face, his easy demeanor. And for a brief, painful moment, you think that if things were different, if he truly was just a man sitting here with genuine interest, the two of you might have been a good match. But that world, that life, feels as distant as the sunlit street outside, just out of reach and fading as quickly as it appeared.

The food arrives, interrupting the charged silence, and you focus on your plate, cutting into the colorful layers of ratatouille. The flavors are rich and earthy, a surprising comfort, and for a moment, you lose yourself in the meal. The flavors are unexpectedly comforting, earthy and rich, a pleasure you can savor for once, without wondering if it’s laced with some new toxin or if a hidden blade will come flying at you as you take your next bite.

‘Father’ had a way of turning even meals into exercises in survival, leaving you perpetually on guard, reminding you, every time you sat down, that you belonged to him. The absurdity of it all isn’t lost on you—the idea of “family” twisted into something you’ve learned to navigate but never fully accept.

As you eat, Nico occasionally glances up, a hint of curiosity in his gaze, and you realize he’s studying you, reading you as if you’re some puzzle he’s intent on solving. His careful attention puts you on edge, yet you find yourself playing into it, letting him look, letting him think he has the upper hand. But under the surface, you’re calculating, assessing how best to keep him close. After all, you have a job to finish, and the more he thinks he’s reading you, the more you can quietly prepare.

“So,” you say, dabbing the corners of your mouth, casually probing, “How long have you been in Paris?”

“About two weeks now,” he replies, his voice a low hum.

That aligns with the information you received, so you press a bit further. “Work?” you ask, giving him a look of mild curiosity.

“Something like that.” His gaze drifts, thoughtful, as if his mind is somewhere else, somewhere you can’t follow. “Just needed to get away from everything for a while.”

You nod thoughtfully. You understood completely. The life you both lead and the secrecy, the horrors that come with it aren’t for the weak. There are times you’ve dreamed of disappearing yourself, slipping out from under ‘Father’s’ iron grip, but fear keeps you rooted. The thought of ‘Father’ discovering an unsanctioned trip would lead to more than just fury; it would likely spark consequences you can’t afford.

You glance at Nico, taking a sip of water to mask the tension creeping into your thoughts. This job has to go as planned—flawlessly. If it doesn’t, you know you’ll be dragged back to face ‘Father’s’ wrath, and Paris, Nico, all of it, would be nothing more than a dangerous, haunting memory.

“I get it,” you say finally, a hint of wistfulness creeping into your voice. “I didn’t tell anyone I was coming here.”

“Not even your dad?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

You shake your head. “No one knows.” A pause, then you add, “Well, except my brother. But he won’t tell.”

“You have siblings?”

“Three older ones, one younger,” you say with a small smile. “They’re annoying, but they’re mine.” It isn’t exactly a lie. There may be rivalry and threats and a constant competition for ‘Father’s’ approval, but there’s also a silent bond, a certain understanding that only comes from surviving the same relentless environment together. In some twisted way, you protect each other.

He chuckles, a soft, genuine sound. “I’ve got two older ones. A brother and a sister.”

“Yeah?” you ask, leaning forward with genuine interest, surprising even yourself. “What are they like?”

“They’re fun,” he says, his eyes softening as he talks, affectionate in the way most families are with each other. “We’re close—we talk all the time, take trips to the beach or the lake. We play sports together, laugh about stupid things. Just…normal stuff.”

You can’t help the pang that tugs at you, the unfamiliar ache of what you’ve missed. “What about your parents?”

A smile spreads across his face, warm and fond. “My mom makes the best food. Seriously. She’s always trying new things, always spoiling us.” He laughs. “And my dad, well, he’s your classic dad. Quiet, but caring. You should’ve seen him when I graduated university, got all choked up—I’ve never seen him so emotional before.” He pauses, a nostalgic look in his eyes. “They used to drive my brother and me to a whole different town just so we could play hockey—never missed a game or a school event.”

You feel yourself drawn in, pulled by the mundane beauty of what he’s describing. The picture he paints is a world away from what you’ve known, yet there’s something so alluring, so...possible about it that it stirs something in you. A strange longing, a memory of a life that could never be, echoes faintly through your mind.

“What was that like?” you ask softly, not even sure he’ll answer, but he surprises you.

“Safe,” he says, looking right at you, as though he knows you need to hear it. “It felt safe. Like no matter what happened out there, there was always a place to come back to.”

The silence between you feels heavier now, carrying words unspoken, secrets untold. But for a fleeting moment, you let yourself imagine—just for a little while—what it might feel like to have that too.

The conversation settles into a comfortable silence, both of you focused on your plates as the weight of his words lingers in the air.

“So,” he says after a while, setting down his knife with a thoughtful expression. “How long do I get to enjoy your company here in Paris?”

You meet his gaze, a slow, amused smile forming. “Well, that all depends on you, doesn’t it? How long are you here for?”

He leans back, his expression light but his eyes intent. “I’ll be around for the next couple of weeks,” he says, fingers tapping idly on the table. “Exploring, finding the hidden corners of the city.” There’s a pause, and then his smile shifts, turning almost playful. “You should come with me. Two tourists, no plans. Let’s explore together.”

“A bit eager, aren’t we?” you say, tilting your head with a raised brow.

He grins, leaning forward just a little. “What can I say? Don’t wanna lose sight of you again.”

There’s something layered in his words, a glint in his eyes that suggests he may be speaking more truth than he lets on, but you can’t quite pin down what it means. He’s either a very convincing actor or just naturally this mysterious, and you can’t decide which one makes him more dangerous.

You take the final bite of your meal, letting his invitation sink in as you weigh your options. A simple "no" would be easy. Safe. But something inside you is intrigued, drawn to the thrill of the unknown he represents—a thrill so rare for you it’s almost intoxicating.

Finally, you set down your fork and look up at him with a slight smirk. “All right,” you say, voice casual but steady. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

His face brightens, the guardedness dropping ever so slightly. “Perfect,” he says, looking genuinely pleased. “Let’s see where the city leads us.”

The city, or rather Nico, leads you through winding streets and narrow alleys, his arm still linked with yours, his steps unhurried as though he has all the time in the world. There’s an ease to his movements, his glances at you are light and almost boyish, as if you’re both just a pair of tourists enjoying a quiet afternoon. Yet, beneath it all, there’s a tension that winds between you—a silent ache that pulls tighter with every look and every laugh.

You pause by tiny cafés and quaint kiosks, sampling pastries and sipping espresso from delicate cups. At one stop, he takes your picture in front of a flowering tree, snapping a few from different angles until he gets the best shot. At another, he buys you a small trinket from a street vendor—an inexpensive little charm shaped like the Eiffel Tower. You murmur a thank you, clutching it in your hand, the warmth of the gesture somehow surprising.

Yet, in the back of your mind, you can’t shake the thought of the vial of poison and the small dagger nestled in your purse, waiting for the moment you’re supposed to make your move.

You imagine your life after he’s gone.

The assignments will continue, the wealth will accumulate. And then every so often, you’ll look on your shelves and see these small ornaments and think of your time walking the hidden streets of Montparnasse. You’ll look at your phone and see these pictures from Paris and they’ll remind you of him snapping the photos as he bent into different angles until he got the best shot. You’ll see the cheap hair clip in your dresser, tucked away in the back amidst other jewelry and accessories you have, and think of how he noticed you wanted it and got it without needing to ask.

Slowly, these mementos will gather dust, hidden in corners of your room, little souvenirs of the man who saw you. Nobody had ever seen just you.

It’s startling and strange, this feeling—this gentle awareness of being seen, of being considered. Until now, you were always someone else’s shadow, ‘Father’s’ instrument. You were trained to be invisible, an extension of his will and no more. But Nico isn’t like that. His gaze lingers, soft and genuine, as though he’s curious about what lies beneath the surface.

You shake off the thoughts and try to focus on the moment. There’s still time before you’re meant to make your move, time enough to let yourself enjoy the rest of the day. Just for now, you decide to let yourself exist in this quiet, stolen happiness.

Eventually, Nico leads you up a tower to a viewing deck where the city sprawls beneath you in an endless expanse of rooftops and streets. The Eiffel Tower rises in the distance, a towering symbol of the city, so far away yet it feels within reach, as though you could stretch your hand out and touch it. The evening light casts long shadows, painting the Paris skyline in shades of amber and rose, the kind of beauty you’d only ever seen in your dreams.

"So," Nico murmurs as you approach the edge of the deck, his voice low, almost reverent. "What do you think?"

You glance at him, taking in the slight, an almost vulnerable expression that flickers over his face as he watches you, waiting for a response. The view, the quiet intimacy of the moment, all of it makes the silence heavier. And for a split second, you allow yourself to forget who you are, who he is—to forget the guilt that’s rising inside you. Right now, you’re just Y/N, a girl seeing Paris for the first time, with someone who—if things were different—might have become a part of your life in another way.

“It’s beautiful,” you reply softly, though your words feel too simple, too small for everything swirling inside you.

He studies you, his gaze lingering with a weight that makes your heart beat just a little faster. “I figured you’d appreciate it. It seemed…fitting.”

“Fitting?” you echo, glancing sideways, a faint smile on your lips.

He shrugs, his hands slipping into his pockets as he steps closer, his shoulder brushing against yours. “For a girl who seems to belong everywhere and nowhere all at once.” He smirks, and there’s that gleam again, that sense he’s peering through the walls you’ve so carefully constructed. “You don’t stay still, do you?”

“No,” you say softly, the words falling from your lips with ease. “I travel a lot for work.” You pause, the silence thickening before you add, “The family business.”

He nods, his gaze steady, as if processing your words with more attention than you expected.

“My Father can be…strict about leaving, about staying in one place for too long,” you continue, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Says it can be dangerous. It’s his way of showing he cares.” You say it, but even to your own ears, it sounds hollow, like you’re trying to convince yourself of something you’ve never quite believed.

His expression shifts, an intensity in his eyes that almost feels like he’s seeing right through you. For a fleeting moment, you wonder if you should tell him everything. Lay it all out in the open, be honest for once in your life, and admit the truth: I’m here to kill you. It feels almost tempting, the release of that burden, especially after the small kindnesses he’s shown you. But as you look at him, something inside you twists. The idea of telling him what you really came for feels like a betrayal, one that goes deeper than the job at hand.

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze with a quiet challenge. “You seem to be running too.”

The smirk fades, replaced by something solemn, almost haunted. “Maybe I am,” he admits, surprising you with the vulnerability in his tone. “But Paris feels…different. Nice.” He hesitates, glancing down at the city below before meeting your gaze. “It’s good to feel grounded, even if it's just for a little while.”

The simplicity of his words catches you off guard, and something within you softens, cracking the thin armor you keep in place. In another life, you might have wanted this—the city, the warmth of his hand, the glint in his eyes. A life where you’re not constantly looking over your shoulder or running from the darkness that’s haunted you since childhood.

“So you’ll stay, then?” you ask, the question falling from your lips before you can second-guess it.

Nico chuckles softly, but it’s a sound tinged with something sad, something fleeting. “Long enough, I hope,” he replies, his voice barely more than a whisper, as though he’s already aware that time is running out for both of you.

You look back to the skyline, your gaze lingering on the Eiffel Tower glowing faintly in the dusk. You should be thinking about logistics, about his weaknesses, about how you’ll manage to complete this mission without the complications he’s bringing out in you. But instead, your attention is elsewhere, caught in the warmth of his proximity, in the fleeting tenderness of this moment. His hand brushes against yours, just the lightest graze of fingertips, and a strange pull stirs deep inside you.

The silence between you stretches out, heavy with the weight of things neither of you dares to speak. It’s fragile, this connection, and it feels like it could shatter with a single word, a single choice. But for now, neither of you makes it. Neither of you dares to break the fragile calm.

“In another life,” he says after a beat, his voice quieter now, as if mulling over the thought, “I think I would have played hockey.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard. “Hockey?” You laugh softly, amused, but the intrigue lingers.

He glances at you, his expression wistful. “Yeah. My brother and I played growing up. It’s what he’s doing now—he plays professionally.” He turns back to the view, his gaze distant, as if lost in the memory. “I think I would’ve liked that too.”

You hum, your mind wandering to your own past—those moments you never allowed yourself to think about too deeply. “I don’t know what I would’ve been,” you admit.

His gaze sharpens, sensing the quiet weight behind your words. “No?” he asks, his voice soft but probing.

You shake your head, feeling the familiar tightness in your chest. “Father always told us not to dwell on impossibilities. Said it was a waste of time. So, I don’t.”

There’s a brief silence, a gap between you, as Nico processes your words. His eyes flicker to the horizon, but his attention never strays too far from you.

“Well,” he pressed, the question gentle yet insistent, “What did you enjoy as a kid? Surely there’s something—something you loved, even for just a moment?”

You close your eyes, the memories swarming, distant and fragmented. The orphanage, the cold walls of ‘Father’s’ estate, the endless missions, the calculated steps you were taught to take. They blur together in an unbroken chain, all leading you to the person you are now. But there’s little more than blood and monotonous days.

“I don’t know, actually.” Your voice is soft, almost a whisper, as the weight of the realization settles over you. “I just…did what I was told to do.” It sounds hollow, even to you. A life spent living by someone else’s rules, devoid of anything truly yours.

“You can always start now,” he says quietly, turning to face you fully, his eyes intent and unwavering. “I mean, you came here on a whim, didn’t you? Surely, that counts for something. It was a choice, even if a small one.”

You chuckle, the sound escaping softer than you intended, and meet his gaze. “It might be too late for me,” you murmur, feeling the weight of your words settle between you. Part of you wonders if he can see past your deflection, to the fear simmering beneath it.

He shakes his head, a flicker of resolve crossing his face. “My dad used to tell me that people change as often as the wind changes directions.” His eyes meet yours, piercing yet gentle, holding a challenge you didn’t expect—or maybe a plea. “It’s never too late,” he says, his voice dropping, the sincerity clear. “Not even for you.”

You don’t get a chance to kill him that day—or the days that follow. Somehow, time keeps stretching between you, days folding into nights and back into days. You still carry your bag, its hidden arsenal of a dagger, poison, and an anesthetic always on hand if the right moment arises. But each day, that moment slips further out of reach.

In the days after that first encounter, you and Nico drift through Paris, claiming the city as if it’s yours alone. Together, you cover every iconic landmark—standing in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower as its lights sparkle above, wandering the vast halls of the Louvre, where he teases you about different statues and their poses, and insists that he point out and then mimic every half-smiling portrait you come across. He surprises you with his knowledge of art, the Renaissance, and even Latin, which he learned in school and continued through university. When you reveal you also know the language, it becomes a game, a shared secret as you converse exclusively in Latin for hours, drawing amused looks from strangers and fits of laughter between you two.

He takes you to hidden corners of the city he’s uncovered on his own—the quiet Canal St. Martin, where you dangle your feet over the edge, watching swans glide past as you sip wine together. You learn a lot about him from your day here as he regales you with stories of his childhood: mischievous pranks with his brother, run-ins with strict teachers, and wild nights from his university days. You don’t have many anecdotes to share, but you do tell him carefully curated pieces of a past filled with botany and gardening, though you omit the lessons in toxicology and the purpose behind knowing which plants to avoid—or harvest.

One afternoon, you wander through the ancient arches of the Musée de Cluny, and he spins a story of a different era, playfully declaring you both a lord and lady sneaking away from the prying eyes of nobility, relishing the thrill of being together in secret. For a fleeting moment, you feel swept away by the fantasy, nearly forgetting the truth as you and him find solace in making playful and risqué conversation in hidden corners of the museum, your faces getting dangerously close to one another’s.

He brings you to unassuming cafés, bustling markets, and winding streets that all seem to have stories of their own—each location now carrying traces of you and Nico, building memories you never planned to make. You rate the coffee and croissants with mock seriousness, shop for souvenirs and trinkets neither of you need, and get hopelessly lost trying to find your next destination, only to laugh when you end up exactly where you started.

And every day, the armaments in your bag grow heavier as you begin to wonder when, or even if, you’ll ever use them.

You find yourself unwinding in his presence, relaxing into the rhythm of the city beside him where even the smallest, most ordinary parts of Paris feel enchanted. His hand often brushes against yours as you walk, or he catches your gaze and holds it a beat too long, a subtle invitation hidden within each glance and touch.

Today, he brings you to the Wall of Love in Montmartre, where countless couples gather, drawn by the allure of seeing “I love you” written in over 250 languages. The blue tiles shimmer with red letters scattered across the wall, each phrase a declaration whispered across the world and etched here—a universal symbol of love and longing.

He pauses in front of the wall, his gaze soft as he reads a few of the phrases. As they often do these days, his fingers brush against yours, light and unhurried, as if savoring the contact. When he speaks, his voice is low, reverent, as though the moment demands a quiet respect.

“Look at this,” he murmurs, tracing one of the lines with his eyes. “So many ways to say the same thing. Even if people don’t understand each other, they understand…this.” He gestures to the wall, his hand grazing yours in a way that sends a shiver up your spine.

You look up, taking in the mosaic of languages and emotions woven together on the wall, words you may never fully understand yet somehow feel, even here, in the silence between you. You wonder if he’s trying to tell you something with his own actions, if he’s hinting at something deeper beneath his words. The moment feels suspended in time—a fragment of connection forever binding you to this place and each other.

For that brief, fragile moment, you’re just two people in Paris, a part of the world where love and connection persist against all odds. The weight of the dagger and vials in your bag fades, his presence anchoring you to the present. It’s enough—almost too much.

Yet, even as your heart flutters, there’s a part of you wound tight, like a coil ready to spring. You tell yourself it’s because you need to stay focused, that letting your guard down even slightly could cost you everything. But every time he meets your gaze, the edges of your resolve blur, replaced by something nameless and terrifyingly real.

“Have you ever felt that?” he asks, his tone almost tentative, as though he’s not used to letting anyone in. “A feeling you don’t even have to translate. It just…is.”

His question catches you off guard, slicing through whatever shield you’re still trying to keep intact. You look at him, unsure of what to say, and then, with a carefully neutral smile, you reply, “I wouldn’t know.”

He looks at you for a long moment, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. “Maybe it’s not too late to find out,” he says softly, as though he’s suggesting something that has the power to change everything.

And for a moment, you wonder what could happen if you could let yourself feel, let yourself know what it means to be more than just a weapon. What would your life look like then?

The question lingers between you, silent and electric, and you feel it—your heart beating too fast, filled with a hope that you’d be able to stay in this moment just a little longer.

That night, he takes you to dinner at the hotel restaurant where you’re seated at a cozy, dimly lit corner. It’s the kind of place where the music is soft and the waitstaff almost invisible, giving you the sense that this moment belongs entirely to the two of you. You share a perfectly seared steak and a rich pasta dish, complemented by a bottle of red wine that he insists on pouring for you since there is apparently a ‘proper’ way to pour wine. The food is delicious, but the real highlight is the conversation—sharp, teasing banter that’s layered with the kind of teasing that’s come to define your time together.

“Superpowers are supposed to come with weaknesses,” he huffs, swirling his wine as he gives you a mock-serious look. “Yours, though? Too overpowered.”

You smirk, slicing off a piece of steak and savoring it slowly before answering. “Time control isn't as powerful as everyone makes it out to be,” you counter with a casual shrug. “I mean, have you seen the people who have these powers? Most of them are absolute idiots.”

“See, that’s exactly what I’m saying. You’re smart. Tactical. Absolutely stunning.” He leans in, his voice dropping just enough to make your heart skip. “You’re dangerous.”

His gaze holds you captive, his eyes twinkling with that strange mix of admiration and mystery that you’ve come to recognize. There’s a glimmer of something in his expression, something that suggests he sees you more clearly than you’d like—an unsettling thought, yet one you can’t seem to shake. You smile, hoping it masks the way his words make you feel, the faint warmth that they stir against your better judgment.

“If you only knew,” you reply lightly, reaching for your glass to steady yourself.

Before he can answer, his phone buzzes on the table, its screen lighting up with a notification. He glances down, and his expression shifts—serious, as though the world outside your bubble has come crashing in. He looks back at you, and there’s an almost apologetic look in his eyes.

“Work,” he says simply, pushing his chair back as he stands. “Give me a few minutes?”

You nod, watching as he steps away from the table, disappearing through a side door to take the call. As soon as he’s out of sight, the warmth and playfulness of the evening evaporates, leaving you in silence, alone with the untouched glasses and the low hum of the restaurant around you.

You glance down at his glass, still half-full, a perfect vessel for the vial of poison you carry in your bag. It’s as if the universe itself has laid this moment out for you, a seamless opportunity wrapped in the elegance of the night. The decision lies before you, chilling and familiar, and you reach into your bag, fingers brushing the cool glass of the vial.

Your heart races, your pulse pounding against the quiet that’s settled around you, and you feel the weight of the past few days hanging in the air. You tell yourself this is just another assignment, that you’re here to do a job—but you can’t shake the look in his eyes from moments before, the way he seemed to see you as something more than just a stranger passing through his life.

The guilt seeps deeper, harder to shake than ever. And it’s not just guilt now; it’s something more—a gnawing certainty that you’ll regret this moment forever if you follow through. You’ll live with the memory of Paris, with his laughter and the streets you wandered together, haunted by the lingering, unanswerable what-if.

But you also know what needs to be done, and you steel yourself, feeling the familiar resolve settle in, as cold and unyielding as the vial in your hand.

As you twist open the vial, preparing to pour the poison into his glass, your resolve falters. The weight in your hand suddenly feels unbearable. And then, almost involuntarily, you snap the vial shut and tuck it back into your purse, just as swiftly as you’d pulled it out.

Not tonight. You still have a little more time. There’s no need to ruin this evening; you’ll let yourself have this, one final night untouched by duty.

When he returns to the table, his expression is tinged with disappointment, and he slips back into his chair with a sigh. “Looks like we’ll have to cancel our trip to the gardens tomorrow morning,” he says, a faint apology in his voice. “There’s something I need to take care of.”

You nod, feeling an odd relief flood through you. “It must be important,” you say, the words coming out with a quiet, unexpected understanding.

He watches you for a moment, something warm in his gaze. “Yeah. But meet me in the lobby at 10 p.m.” He leans forward, that familiar spark lighting up his eyes. “I’ve got something I want to show you.”

You smile, feeling the tension begin to loosen. “It’s a date, then.”

And in that moment, it feels like it really could be.

After dinner, with the warmth of the wine still buzzing in your veins, he offers you his arm for the short walk to the elevator. You’re both a little giddy, leaning into each other as you talk about small things—favorite flowers, favorite colors. Mundane details that you usually wouldn’t think twice about sharing, but now they feel oddly significant, like small secrets passed between you in the quiet of the evening.

Neither of you realize you’ve stepped off on the wrong floor—his floor—until you’re standing at the door to his room. You pause, staring at the unfamiliar numbers on the door, a surge of nerves rising in your chest. You could laugh it off, step back and blame it on the wine, let the moment slip away. But instead, you find yourself rooted in place, unwilling to pull back, unable to let go of him just yet.

When you look up, you find him already watching you, his gaze heavy, something unnamed flickering behind his eyes. The silence thickens, and the air between you crackles with a tension neither of you are willing to break. You’re close enough to see the way his eyes linger on you, as if he’s caught in a moment he doesn’t want to end.

Then, as if in silent agreement, he turns to face you fully, leaning down. And you, almost instinctively, rise onto your toes to meet him halfway. The kiss is tentative at first, soft and searching, but it quickly deepens, growing heated as his hands slide to your hips, pulling you against him. Your arms wind around his neck, and he holds you closer, the kiss turning into something heady and electric, filling you with a rush that’s terrifying in its familiarity.

It’s as if you’ve been here before, in another life where things were simpler, where there were no secrets and no deadly consequences. And in that moment, you can’t help but let yourself sink into it, feeling everything you’ve ever felt in the safety of his embrace.

By the time you finally break apart, your back is pressed against the wall beside his door, his hands framing your face as he stays close, his breath warm against your skin. You’re both breathing heavily, the quiet hum of the hallway the only sound around you, as if the world itself has faded to give you this stolen moment. His eyes flicker over your face, studying every detail as if trying to memorize it, and you feel an ache settle in your chest at how vulnerable he seems in this dim light.

He leans in again, his lips ghosting over yours, hesitant, as if he’s asking for permission that neither of you should be giving. His hands shift, sliding to the small of your back, pulling you against him once more, and you’re keenly aware of every point of contact, of the warmth radiating between you that seems to make time stand still. It’s almost too much, and yet, it’s not enough at all.

You close your eyes, your resolve blurring like mist, as he presses a trail of soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, down to your neck, each one more deliberate than the last. A shiver runs through you, and you clutch his shoulders, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to this fleeting reality.

“Nico,” you whisper, barely audible, as if saying his name out loud might break whatever spell you’re under. He pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his own eyes darkened with something unspoken, something that feels just as dangerous as the feelings swirling within you.

Without another word, he turns and, still holding you close, reaches for the keycard. The door clicks open, and in a quiet invitation, he leads you inside, his hand never leaving yours. Inside, the room is dimly lit by the streetlights filtering through the curtains, casting a soft glow over everything, lending it a dreamlike quality. You step in, and he closes the door softly behind you, a final barrier between you and the outside world.

For a brief moment, you stand in the center of the room, facing each other, as if testing the reality of this moment. His hand remains on yours, his thumb tracing slow circles over your skin, and you feel the weight of all the words you haven’t said, all the truths you’ve hidden. But right now, they feel so far away, overshadowed by the nearness of him, by the quiet intensity that draws you closer still.

You’re both silent, the tension between you simmering just below the surface, until he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek. It’s a simple gesture, but it sends a rush through you, and before you can overthink it, you find yourself leaning forward, closing the space between you once more.

The kiss quickly spirals into a whirlwind of sensations, a chaotic blend of tongues and breathy moans that echo softly in the dim light enveloping the room. His hands, warm and confident, glide down your waist, finding their way to your ass, fingers curling around it with a firm squeeze that sends a shiver coursing through you. As his lips trail from your mouth to the curve of your neck, the intoxicating way he devours you leaves you gasping for more.

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, drawing him closer as if the distance between your bodies could somehow separate the energy pulsing between you. In one swift motion, he throws you onto the bed, the soft mattress cradling you as it folds under your weight.

For a brief moment, he breaks the kiss, his deep-set gaze searching yours with a mix of urgency and desire. As he peels off his shirt, the dim light casts a glow over his chest, revealing scars—stories etched into his skin—that tell tales of battles fought and survived. You reach out, letting your fingers wander over the uneven terrain of his torso, tracing the outlines of those marks as though they hold a significance only you can understand.

He captures your hand in his, planting a soft, lingering kiss on the inside of your wrist, the touch conveying a tenderness that starkly contrasts the fervor of the moment. It’s a gentle reminder of the man you’ve come to know, the complexities beneath the surface that lie just beyond the heat of desire.

As he positions himself above you, his arms forming a protective barrier on either side, the intimacy of the moment grows palpable. Every part of you ignites under his watchful gaze.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathes, his voice low and barely above a whisper.

Your heart races as you reach up, cupping his face with your palm, and you draw him down for a tender kiss, soft yet electric, filled with unspoken promises. “I want you,” you murmur against his lips, surrendering to the impulses that have plagued you since you’d reunited.

A spark ignites in his eyes, darkening with desire that mirrors your own. In that moment, the world outside fades away, and there’s only the two of you, lost in a dance of want and need and maybe something more, something unspoken.

Tomorrow you’d blame all this on the wine and the Paris atmosphere, but tonight? Tonight, he’s all yours.

By the time you wake, the room is drenched in the light of a quiet morning, and he’s already gone. You’d expected it, but the emptiness of the vast hotel room lingers, a reminder of the intimacy that filled it just hours ago. Your body aches, the dull soreness a vivid reminder that what happened last night was no dream. You run your fingers over the faint marks he left on your skin, each one like a silent promise, a testament to your night together that bled into the early hours of the morning.

You turn and find a neatly folded bathrobe on the chair beside the bed, a bowl of fruit, a pitcher of water, and a note. You unfold it, catching your breath as you read:

Thank you for last night. You were amazing, the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

A quiet laugh escapes you, and you shake your head. Of course, he’d thank you for something you both wanted, as if last night had been some favor you’d done for him. Your eyes skim the note, the faintest warmth creeping up your cheeks as you read the next line.

Stay as long as you want. Just remember to meet me at the lobby at 10 p.m. I have a surprise for you.

His signature trails off at the end, barely legible, a scrawl that feels both intimate and endearing. You find yourself tracing the curves and edges of his handwriting, as if somehow it can hold you here, hold you to him, even as reality waits for you on the other side of this door. You clutch the note to your chest, swallowing hard against the feeling building inside—a quiet, sinking ache that whispers of the inevitable.

For just a moment, you let yourself fall into the delusion that this could somehow become part of your life beyond this moment, this city, this tangled web of secrets you’re both keeping. But deep down, you know better. Whatever this was, however fleeting or real, it was doomed from the start.

The softness of his touch, the laughter that lingered through the night—all of it will eventually be filed away as just another memory, another ghost from another life.

You close your eyes, clutching the note just a little tighter, feeling the weight of all that’s left unsaid between you. He’d left marks on you, physical and otherwise, reminders that would remain long after you’d finally carried out your mission. You were meant to be unbreakable, and yet here you were, on the edge of something that threatened to pull you under completely.

And as the morning sunlight filters through the curtains, it hits you fully—you are utterly, royally, and completely fucked.

At 10 p.m. on the dot, you’re waiting in the lobby, the anticipation almost unbearable.

And then you see him, standing by the entrance, his silhouette softened by the warm glow of the lights. When he sees you, his face lights up, his smile tender as he steps closer, reaching out a hand to caress your cheek. His thumb brushes against your skin, and for a moment, the world narrows to the warmth of his touch.

"Hi," he murmurs, his gaze steady, warm. “How was your day?”

The gentleness in his voice and the easy way he looks at you tells you everything he can’t say outright—that he doesn’t regret a thing. There’s still a tension between you, but it’s softer now, more grounded, something that feels like it’s become part of the air you share.

“It was good,” you reply, lifting your hand to cover his, savoring the warmth that seeps from his skin to yours. “Thank you for the fruit.”

"Just wanted to make sure you were taken care of,” he laughs softly, the sound warm and familiar, “Come. I wanna show you something nice." His fingers slip between yours, his grip firm but unhurried as he pulls you towards the door.

You give him a playful smirk as you follow, feigning skepticism. “Something nicer than what we’ve seen already? You’re setting the bar awfully high.”

He chuckles, glancing over his shoulder with a glint in his eye. “It’s my favorite spot around here,” he says, a note of something deeper lingering in his tone. "I wanted you to see it, too."

The streets of Paris are quieter at this hour, the hum of the city softened as the evening deepens. Hand in hand, you walk through winding alleys and past dimly lit cafés, his fingers laced with yours grounding you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. The conversation is light, snippets of dreams and half-whispered thoughts, but you both feel the weight of the silence between words, the unspoken sense that this night means more than either of you dare to admit.

Eventually, he leads you to an inconspicuous building, old stone framed by wrought-iron accents, the kind of place you’d pass by without a second thought. He releases your hand for a moment to unlock a side door, glancing back at you with a mischievous grin.

“Are you bringing me somewhere I won’t be able to find my way out of?” you tease, the words playful but carrying the faintest edge, as if part of you is still wary, still on guard.

But he just laughs, a low, reassuring sound as he steps inside, gesturing for you to follow. “You’ll have to trust me on this one.”

He guides you up a narrow, winding staircase, the only sounds your footsteps echoing off the stone walls. With each floor, you feel a faint thrill building, your pulse quickening as the city outside draws farther and farther away, until finally, he opens a door and you step out onto the rooftop.

The view is breathtaking.

Paris stretches out before you, the city unfolding in all directions, a sea of lights glistening under the deep indigo sky. The Eiffel Tower shimmers in the distance, its glow a warm, steady pulse against the night. The Seine snakes through the city, its surface reflecting the light like a thread of silver weaving through shadows.

He comes up beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours, and the silence that falls between you is comfortable, heavy with something unspoken. He doesn’t say anything, letting the view speak for itself, and you find yourself grateful for the quiet, for this moment that feels somehow suspended from everything else, a stolen piece of time that exists only for the two of you.

You glance at him, catching the way he’s watching the skyline with a reverence that tells you this city means something deeper to him, something that goes beyond words. When he finally turns to look at you, there’s an intensity in his gaze, a softness that makes you forget, for a split second, all the reasons you’re here.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, as if the quiet could somehow protect this fragile peace, as if speaking too loudly might shatter whatever spell holds you both here.

He nods, his gaze drifting out over the city before shifting back to you, his eyes unreadable. “It is,” he murmurs. Then he pauses, his gaze softening but sharpening all at once, layers of unspoken thought flickering there. “Some things are more beautiful when you see them for what they truly are.”

His words settle between you like a dare cloaked in careful phrasing, wrapped in a fragile honesty that you aren’t sure you’re ready to unfold.

You don’t answer him. A part of you is afraid of what he’s implying—what he’s already begun to see. So instead, you simply stand next to him, your shoulders brushing, as you take in the Paris skyline. The world below is a vast glittering sea of lights and lives, yet everything you care about in this moment is standing right beside you.

The silence between you feels heavier now. The night air is cool, a breeze brushing past, yet the weight of his words clings to you, pressing in. This moment feels more fragile than anything else so far, as if it could fracture at the slightest touch. The weight of the armaments resting in your purse suddenly feels unbearably heavy, its presence inescapable.

“So,” he says finally, breaking the silence, his voice lower, rougher, edged with a tension that matches your own. He turns to you fully, his eyes piercing in a way that’s almost challenging yet laced with something like hurt. “When are you gonna kill me?”

You freeze, his words cutting through the delicate peace, a shocking confirmation that he’s known, maybe all along. You snap your head toward him, eyes wide with disbelief, the weight of what you carry crashing over you.

His gaze is unrelenting, holding you to the spot, as if daring you to answer.

“You knew,” you say quietly, as if speaking louder might unravel you entirely.

"I've known since Germany," he admits. His gaze sharpens, but his voice is calm, almost careful. “You’re not going to deny it?”

You swallow, the weight of being caught pressing down on you, but nothing can dull the ache settling over your heart—the pain of knowing that somehow, you’ve brought him to this. Your hand drifts toward your purse, fingers grazing the cold metal of the dagger. You started this dance, and now you’re bound to finish it.

The familiar sound of the blade flicking open doesn’t startle him; he remains perfectly still, his expression calm, almost resigned, but there’s a flash of hurt beneath his steady gaze. He looks at you as if bracing himself for what you’ll do next, yet refusing to flinch, like he’s known this would come and decided to face it head-on.

“You should start moving,” you murmur, your voice barely steady as you raise the blade, the tip just inches from his chest. “I could kill you where you stand.”

His lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile, a mix of defiance and sorrow as he takes a step forward, so close now he could almost lean into the blade. “You could,” he says, voice steady. His hand reaches out, wrapping around your wrist, pulling it—and the blade—down to your side with a gentle but unyielding strength. “But I don’t think you will.”

Your grip on the dagger tightens, but his words unravel something in you. He studies you intently, his face inches from yours, his voice low. “You could have killed me at any time—probably should have. I gave you every opportunity to finish this. So why am I still breathing?”

The question slices through the silence between you, barbed with challenge but tinged with something else, something that sounds heartbreakingly like hope.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, unable to meet his eyes as the blade dangles uselessly from your grip. It’s close to the truth, but you know he’s not satisfied with it.

He steps closer, his hand still firm on your wrist. “I think you do, Y/N.” His voice softens when he says your name, like it’s something precious, something he’s been holding close all this time.

“I don’t,” you say, shaking your head, even as the words feel hollow. “I don’t.”

“You do. I know you do.” He leans in, lifting his other hand to cup your face, tilting it so you’re forced to look at him, his touch gentle against the raw tension hanging between you. “Tell me I wasn’t wrong about this. Please.” His eyes search yours, pleading, as if he’s hoping that whatever truth you have left to give will be enough to make sense of this chaos.

The weight of it all—the tension, the longing, the fear—crashes over you like a wave you can’t fight. The dagger slips from your hand, clattering uselessly to the ground as you sink to your knees, your shoulders trembling. “You aren’t wrong,” you murmur, unable to look up at him, unable to face the full force of what you’ve confessed.

Silence settles as he watches you, his expression softening, and for the first time in as long as you can remember, you feel utterly exposed, stripped bare beneath the weight of his gaze. And, impossibly, he kneels down beside you, his hand brushing yours, wordlessly reassuring you that he’s still here.

“Then come with me,” he says quietly, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid to break the fragile trust that’s woven between you, “Run away with me and we can leave this all behind.”

You don’t miss the desperation in his voice, the way he’s so set on leaving the underworld, as if he already knows exactly how he’ll escape it.

Then it hits you like a wave crashing to the shore—he was always going to leave. One way or another, Paris was going to be his last stand, his final act before he vanished. For good.

“You were never going to stay, were you?” The words leave your mouth in a rush, sharp with the sting of your realization. Tears well up in your eyes as you lift them to meet his.

He nods, his expression unwavering. “These past few months have been my last mission for the government.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, cylindrical remote with a red button on top. “I infiltrated the warehouses from your father’s organization, taking what the government wanted me to and leaving behind…a present.” His gaze locks onto yours, filled with an intensity that cuts through the night. “Paris was my last stop.”

Your heart drops as the weight of his words sinks in. He’s going to destroy them all. Every warehouse from Prague to Italy to Paris, every asset, every last piece of ‘Father’s’ empire—all of it was going to blow to pieces at the push of a button. The very thing you’ve spent your entire life in service of, your family's empire, your future—all of it gone in the blink of an eye.

You should have been furious. Should have attacked him in that moment, fury and vengeance bubbling up inside you. Instead, something else surfaces. A soft laugh escapes you, one that’s equal parts incredulous and impressed. You smile at him, a genuine expression that seems to surprise even yourself.

“You outplayed me. All of us.”

He doesn’t respond at first, just looks at you with a mixture of regret and admiration. The tension between you has shifted. He knows what he’s done, what he’s about to do, and yet—there’s something about the way he leans into your touch when you reach for his face that makes you hesitate.

For a split second, you wonder if there’s still a chance for both of you. Or if everything you thought you knew was simply another game, one you didn’t even know you were losing.

“Ask me a question,” you say finally, your voice low and steady as your hand moves to gently tangle in his soft hair. “Anything. And I’ll answer it.”

He looks at you, a mix of amusement and confusion flickering across his face, before he nods, settling into the moment. “Is Y/N your real name?”

The question isn’t what you expected, but it’s also exactly what you needed. You smile, a tear slipping down your cheek that you quickly wipe away, a quiet laugh escaping your lips. He could have asked about anything—your work, sensitive details of ‘Father’s’ organization that only you were privy to, any of the secrets you’ve carried for years. Instead, he wanted to know about you.

It’s then that you realize the depth of what you’re willing to do for him. You make a choice. One that saves him. Even at the cost of yourself.

“It’s what they called me at the orphanage,” you tell him, your voice softening. You take his hand in yours, grounding yourself in the warmth of his touch. “The one I stayed in before father took me in. It’s who I was before I became father’s Shadow.”

He furrows his brows, looking at you with a quiet curiosity. “That’s what they call you, right? Shadow?”

You smile, the corners of your mouth lifting faintly. “I’m not as strong as Punch or as quick as Lightning,” you explain, your fingers tracing patterns on the back of his hand. “But I’m sneaky. Agile. Unassuming to most people. No one ever sees me coming until the last second.” You inhale deeply, the weight of your next words pressing heavily on your chest. “But they call me Shadow because I was the most obedient. I did everything he asked of me, never questioned him, even when I knew something wasn’t right. I followed father everywhere. I was…his shadow.”

A look of concern crosses his face, the sadness in your voice not lost on him. He leans in, his hand tightening around yours, and there’s a softness in his eyes that makes the sting of your past feel like it might just be bearable. But the moment is fleeting. You know what’s coming next.

“Thank you for believing I can change,” you whisper, your heart heavy with the unspoken truth. Even when you thought there was no way out, when you saw no escape, he believed in you. He wanted to believe in you, wanted to have you leave this all behind with him. And that belief stirs something deep inside you.

You pull away from him gently, reaching into your purse. The soft rustle of fabric sounds loud in the silence of the room as you retrieve the remaining arsenals—a vial of poison and a syringe of anesthetic.

You take both of his hands in yours, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. The taste of regret and longing lingers on your lips.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you say quietly, your voice breaking ever so slightly. A second kiss follows, this time slower, lingering just a moment too long. “Let me take care of you now.”

His eyes soften, his trust in you so complete that he doesn’t notice the quick movement of your hand as you grab the syringe with the anesthetic. You press it into his arm with practiced precision, the needle sinking into his skin. His gaze remains on you for a moment longer, confusion flickering across his features as the drug takes hold.

He loses his grip on the remote, it falling from his hand as he slumps back, the weight of the anesthetic bringing him near unconsciousness. You don’t hesitate. You pick up the remote and sit beside him, watching as he fights the sleep that crawls steadily toward him, his breath shallow and labored.

“Y/N,” he chokes out, his voice thick with the confusion and panic of fading consciousness. “What are you doing?”

“It’s okay,” you smile, though the fear in your eyes is undeniable, “I’ll take care of myself. So, you go out and live on. Be happy, okay? For me?”

“Don’t do this,” he slurs, his words starting to lose coherence. “We can leave together.”

You shake your head, tears welling up again, blurring your vision as they escape down your cheeks. “It’s too late for me.” You gently caress his face, fingers lingering on his skin, tracing every curve of his jaw and the line of his cheek. You commit the image of him to memory, knowing it will be the last time you ever see him like this. It was a shame this wasn’t the last thing you were going to see when this was all over, but at least you could remember it.

A small sob escapes you, but you continue, your voice barely a whisper. “Just so you know, I think I could have loved you more…liked you even more than I do now.” His hand reaches out to grab your wrist, trying to stop you, but you shake it off. The tenderness in his eyes breaks something inside you, but you don’t let it stop you. “I think…we could have had a very happy life together.”

“Y/N, don’t!” His voice is filled with desperation, but it’s too late. He tries to reach for the remote, but the drug has already taken hold of him, and he doesn’t have the strength to stop you. You stand quickly, turning your back to him as he weakly tries to move toward you.

Before he can reach you, you press the button. The room is filled with a sudden, deafening silence that only amplifies the heaviness in your chest. The sound of an explosion rips through the night air, just a ways off in the distance, a harsh reminder of the irreversible decision you’ve just made.

His eyes widen in realization. He’s awake long enough to understand what’s happened, the realization of your fate when you return back to ‘Father’ settling over him like a weight he can’t escape. His gaze flickers, searching your face as the truth sinks in.

Then, his eyelids flutter, the anesthetic pulling him under as the last traces of consciousness fade from his eyes. His body goes limp, his hand falling from his chest, and the last sound you hear from him is a quiet exhale before his eyes close.

You don’t know how exactly how long you sit there, staring at him, the weight of everything you’ve done crashing over you. But there’s no going back. You’ve made your choice.

You chose him.

READ PART TWO HERE

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