Inside a grand theater, Gin sat coldly in the VIP section, watching every fleeting scene unfold below. His eyes glimmered with disdain as he mocked the singer’s desperate attempt to hit a high note—shrill and unrefined, just screaming, really—yet the audience below still showered her with hollow praise.
He clicked his tongue, mind drifting back to a woman once hailed as the most beautiful blossom of the Land of Cherry Blossoms. She had been so breathtakingly lovely, so delicate, that no words could ever truly capture her allure. Yet the world has its cruel wisdom: A beauty’s life is a fleeting one. She ended her own life with a single gunshot, alone in her home. The reason why—no one ever really knew.
The audience’s thunderous applause dragged him back to the present—the present he so despised. Rising slowly, he made his way toward the parking lot, where Vermouth was already waiting for him. She could not see his face clearly in the darkness, but his imposing figure spoke enough of the noble air he carried so effortlessly. As he tilted his head slightly, the sleek lines of his tailored suit accentuated every sharp edge of his stature.
“You never miss a night, do you?” Vermouth teased, though he could hear the poison that always curled beneath her honeyed voice. “Still haunted by her, i guess?”
He said nothing, just stared at her with that fleeting contempt dancing in his eyes. Vermouth looked away, then back at him—her gaze suddenly dripping with feigned softness.
“Don’t push your luck, Vermouth.” His tone was ice, final. Without another glance, he slipped into his car. Her mocking laughter followed him as he drove off into the night.
It all traced back to those years when that ethereal beauty graced the streets like a dream given flesh. By then, Gin had carved out his place in the organization—an unshakable role built through ruthless survival. They met by chance, or perhaps by fate—he had dreamed of her before he ever laid eyes on her. The first time he came to settle a score at that very theater, she stood before him—his dream turned real.
She bewitched him effortlessly, wrapping him in every shade of love’s cruel tenderness. He indulged her every whim—once burning the most expensive bill he owned just so she wouldn’t ruin her delicate shoes crossing a muddy street. She never spoke much; neither did he. They both spoke a language made only of actions.
Once, she tiptoed up and pressed her lips softly against his.
“I’ve kissed you. That makes you mine now.”
She believed that to kiss was to bind two souls together—like the first sip from a bottle meant the rest belonged to you. So she kissed him once and decided: his heart would beat for her alone, until its last note.
Back then, those childish words must have seemed absurd to a man like him—her fierce, clumsy devotion a laughable thing.
Two souls—one man, one woman—drifted together, clung to each other, hurt each other. Love turned illusion, and that illusion shattered them both. He loved her so deeply he led her to ruin. He loved her enough to abandon everything, to dream of a life far from all the killing.
That her—the First Beauty—was no mere name. She had become the most exquisite thing in his brutal world. How could he stain that beauty with his own hand?
“Why?” he growled, a strange tremor cracking through his heart.
A man like Gin, trembling at the thought of killing a woman?
But love is the one chain that breaks every iron rule.
“Do it.” That was all his boss said before dismissing him like a stray dog. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles bled. He’d rather she killed him—anything but a life where her warmth no longer existed.
He’d always known: in this line of work, everyone close enough would someday have to die by his hand. But still—he was caged in a prison named Love.
She was infuriating—beautifully so.
When he returned from missions, she’d wait at the door like an eager child, launching herself into his arms the second she saw him. If he worked late in his study, she’d barge in, chatter nonsense, disrupt him until he finally banned her from the room altogether. Sometimes, she’d sneak in anyway, gently stroke his hair until he fell asleep—protecting him, shielding him from shadows only she seemed to see.
And then there was that question, softly spoken:
“If I die, will you be sad?”
He’d answered immediately: No.
Because he truly believed it—he was too numb to mourn anyone’s absence. At worst, he’d be annoyed. After all, she was just another pretty face, wasn’t she? But his every action afterward betrayed that lie.
When he opened the door to their home—her home—he heard that familiar voice drifting from the next room: “Welcome back.”
He hated knowing that one day, he’d never hear it again.
So he did something foolish—shutting his eyes, he pretended it was all just a dream. Maybe when he opened them, she’d still be there—waiting, belly rounded with a child who’d call him father.
“Darling?” Her sweet voice pulled him back. He forced his eyes open. Painful, but better than pretending.
He stepped inside, shoes abandoned at the door, and walked toward the sound of her.
Bathed in the ghostly glow of that single bulb, she looked up at him with that naive, gentle smile—the light that once trapped his ruthless heart. He reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of that smile, as if trying to prove it was real.
Noticing the broken sorrow in his eyes, she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around his broad back. His tall frame, sharp silver hair falling over cold eyes and that distant, lethal beauty—none of it scared her. He cupped her cheek.
“It’s time, isn’t it?” she asked softly. Spring-water eyes met his, utterly unafraid. Gin pressed a handkerchief into her palm—their token of love. Hidden inside was a silenced pistol.
She didn’t even flinch, so he spoke anyway—trying to explain that this was the only way to save her. But her soft, eerie laugh made his chest tighten—what did that laugh mean?
“What’s so funny?” he demanded.
She paused, something inside her cracking. Looking at his raw, desperate face, she fell silent, unsure what to say. Then she whispered hoarsely,
She lifted her trembling hands, and in that dim light, they could both see it—her once-elegant fingers shimmering, fading into transparency.
He opened his mouth, but the scene twisted—warped—his vision spun, and a coppery stench hit him from the bathroom.
Gin collapsed to the floor, nausea clawing at his throat. Only now did he remember—the body of the First Beauty had been lying in that tub for two days already. No one ever ordered him to kill her. There had never been a sweet voice welcoming him home—only the desperate illusions he’d woven to escape the monster named Reality.
She was gone, taking with her all the reckless dreams and fragile wishes of a woman who just wanted a home. He’d wanted it too—a family, a quiet life with her. So why did she abandon him so cruelly?
The truth was, the heart never sits on the right side.
And the harshest punishment for a man like him—
was to be cursed with a heart that could love.
