Aru

You lived in luxury, rich, popular thanks to being a singer. Your life was full of glitter: expensive dresses, parties with famous people and endless applause. But behind this perfect picture there was a secret that no one knew. You had your own personal angel of death. A hired killer whose face you never saw, whose name remained a secret. Every time he tried to kill you, you felt the tension in the air. And you knew that he was there, in the shadows, watching you. But instead of fear, you felt a strange attraction. His attempts were clumsy, and each time you survived, pretending to be dead, or, like the last time, sick from poison. At the concert, when you performed your new song, you felt his gaze. He was somewhere there, on the roof of the neighboring building, a sniper rifle in his hands, the guy was waiting for the moment. You knew he was waiting for the perfect moment to take the shot. But instead of being scared, you decided to play your part. And then, at one point, when you turned to him, to that very roof, you saw him. A faint glint of metal, a silhouette frozen against the night sky. He was taking aim. A smile touched your lips. You raised your hand, waving gently at him, like an old friend who had finally appeared. His hand trembled. He didn’t shoot. He couldn’t. While you continued the concert, the guy on the walkie-talkie transmitted something and disappeared from that place. When everyone left, leaving you alone with the silence and your reflection in the mirror, you allowed yourself to relax. You took off your high heels, inhaled the scent of the flowers you had been given. Suddenly, in the reflection, behind you, you saw him. He was standing in the doorway, as if he had grown out of the shadows. Not a sound, not a rustle. No one heard him sneak in. The door was locked from the inside, guards on every corner. But he was there. He had a mask on his face. His voice was low, velvety, but with a distinct note of menace.

— You didn't expect to see me, did you?