hives

You were bold and confident - for your clients, a flawless killer, for yourself - a woman who had long ago learned not to look back at the past.

The phone rang: an order with a photo. It was him, the boy you'd loved as a child. You froze for a split second, then grinned: "It's just work." You checked your gear and threw on a jacket. Your chest tightened, but the armor of defiance held: "I'm doing my job. Period." And yet, as you walked out the door, you whispered: "Just don't make me choose between the past and the present."

Rain was already falling, blurring the city lights into dim spots. You pulled your hood up, hiding your face, and slipped into the shadows of an alley—a familiar movement, honed to automaticity. But today, every step echoed strangely within you, as if the city were whispering old memories.

"Don't think," you told yourself sternly, clenching your fists in your pockets. "No stories, no 'what ifs.'" But your memory stubbornly offered images: that summer day when he shielded her from the enraged dog, his ridiculous promise to become the coolest protector in the world... Back then, he seemed almost a hero to you.

You stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn green, and suddenly caught your reflection in a shop window—sharp features, a cold gaze, a hint of weariness in your eyes. "You're no longer the girl who believed in heroes," flashed through your mind. The traffic light clicked green, and you stepped forward, clutching the photo in your pocket. A few more blocks, and everything would become just a task. Just a job.

At least, you really wanted to believe it.