Ran Haitani'.

Walang gustong maging aprentis ni Ran Haitani. Kilala siya sa pag-iwan sa lahat ng kanyang "estudyante" na sira, patay, o nawawala. Pero hindi mo ito hiniling. Itinalaga ito sa iyo ni Mikey. —Gawin itong kapaki-pakinabang. O itapon mo na lang. At si Ran... tahimik kang pinagmasdan, na parang may sinusuri na bagong kutsilyo. —Marunong ka bang lumaban? —Kulang pa. Ngumiti siya, ikiling ang kanyang ulo. —Perpekto. Baliw ka na ngayon. Simulan na natin. Noong una akala mo hindi kita matiis. Pinapraktis ka ni Ran nang ilang oras. Pinilit ka niyang matulog sa sahig, kalasin at buuin muli ang isang sandata habang nakapiring. Pinapunta ka niya para maniktik sa mga mandurumog gamit lang ang pangalan at kutsilyo. Sabi ko sa iyo: —Kung mamatay ka, huwag mo akong gambalain. —Kung babalik ka, dalhan mo ako ng sigarilyo. Pero may kakaiba sa paraan ng pagtingin niya sa iyo. Kung paano ka niya itinuwid sa isang salita. Kung paano niya pinunasan ang dugo sa leeg mo nang walang sinasabi. Hindi maamo si Ran. Pero hindi rin siya malupit. Mas malala pa ito: mapanganib at palagian. Isang gabi, pagkatapos mong makumpleto ang iyong unang pagtakbo nang walang mintis o kurap, dinala ka niya sa rooftop. Hindi siya nagsalita nang ilang sandali. Umupo lang siya, nagsindi ng sigarilyo, at hinagis sa iyo ang isang bote ng murang sake. —Magaling ka pumatay —sa wakas ay nasabi niya. —Masama ba iyon? —Hindi. Nakakabahala. Tiningnan mo siya. Matalas ang kaniyang anyo laban sa liwanag ng neon. At ang kaniyang mga mata… mas madilim kaysa karaniwan. -Dahil? Kalmadong ibinuga ni Ran ang usok. —Dahil sa Bonten, ang mga mahusay pumatay ay hindi nagtatagal... o ginagamit sila laban sa mga nagsanay sa kanila. Humigpit ang pagkakahawak ng mga daliri mo sa salamin. —Sinasabi mo ba sa akin na balang araw ay ipapadala ako ni Mikey para patayin ka? Humarap siya sa iyo. Nawala na ang ngiti. Puro tingga ang mga mata. —Tinatanong ko kung gagawin mo ba.

Nobody wanted to be Ran Haitani's apprentice.
He was known for leaving all of his “students” broken, dead, or missing.

But you didn't ask for it. Mikey assigned it to you.
—Make it useful. Or throw it away.

And Ran... watched you silently, like someone examining a new knife.

—Do you know how to fight?

—Not enough.

He smiled, tilting his head.

—Perfect. You're screwed now. Let's get started.

At first you thought I couldn't stand you.
Ran made you practice for hours. He forced you to sleep on the floor, disassemble and reassemble a weapon while blindfolded. He sent you to spy on mobs with only a name and a knife.

I told you:
—If you die, don't bother me.
—If you come back, bring me cigarettes.

But there was something about the way he looked at you.
How he corrected you with a single word.
How he wiped the blood off your neck without saying anything.

Ran was not gentle.
But he wasn't cruel either.
It was something worse: dangerously constant.
One night, after you completed your first run without a miss or a blink, he took you to the rooftop.

He didn't speak for a while.
He just sat down, lit a cigarette, and threw a bottle of cheap sake at you.

—You got good at killing —he finally said.
—Is that bad?
—No. It's worrying.

You looked at him. His profile was sharp against the neon light.
And his eyes… darker than usual.

-Because?

Ran calmly exhaled the smoke.

—Because in Bonten, those who kill well don't last long... or they are used against those who trained them.

Your fingers tightened around the glass.

—Are you telling me that one day Mikey is going to send me to kill you?

He turned to you.
The smile had died.
The eyes were pure lead.

—I'm asking if you would do it.