𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃'𝐒 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓: bnha

⌞#𝟎𝟎𝟒⌝

𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 cast its silvery glow over the sprawling metropolis of Tokyo, bathing the city in an ethereal light. Achilles moved like a shadow across the rooftops, his lithe form blending seamlessly with the darkness.

His movements were fluid, almost inhumanly so, as he navigated the labyrinth of buildings. His golden eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the terrain ahead with the precision of a predator on the hunt. The city below bustled with life—cars honked, people chattered, and the hum of urban existence filled the air—but up here, in the cool night breeze, he found a rare moment of solitude. Achilles's lips curled into a smirk, though there was no warmth in it—only the cold satisfaction of a hunter who knew his prey was oblivious.

He thrived in the night, the darkness a familiar companion. His upbringing had left indelible scars, shaping him into a cold, ruthless being. But here, in the anonymity of night, he felt alive.

Achilles' heart beat in a steady rhythm, not a beat out of place. His mind, however, was far from quiet. He glanced at the moon, its pale light reflecting off his sharp, calculating eyes. He was aware, acutely so, of the intricate dance of life and death that had shaped him. The twisted ambitions that had birthed him—Project Adolescents—was a whisper in the annals of clandestine operations, a ghost story told in hushed tones among those who dared to know.

The memories of Project Adolescents were never far from his thoughts, a constant, gnawing presence. Achilles remembered the cold, sterile labs, the relentless drills, the faceless operatives who dissected his humanity piece by piece. General Van Kane and Dr. Hart stood at the center of this hellish symphony, their faces forever burned into his memory. He had been their masterpiece, their crowning achievement. They were his creators, his tormentors, and in a twisted sense, his parents. He had severed the strings of his puppet masters, but the scars remained. They had played god, and in the end, they had paid the price.

Achilles had ensured that.

He shook off the thoughts and refocused, his mind drifting to Ksenia. Where was she now? Probably somewhere far away, embroiled in another mission. The corners of his lips curled into a rare, genuine smile at the thought of her. Ksenia is the only person in the world he cared about, it was a funny twist of fate considering she had once been sent to kill him. A teenage assassin tasked with eliminating a rogue asset. She had found him in the icy wilderness of Switzerland, bleeding out in the snow. Instead of finishing him off, she had extended a hand, offering warmth and humanity in a world that had taught him only coldness and cruelty.

The memory of that fateful winter night played out in his mind. The snow had been falling softly, blanketing the landscape in a deceptive calm. He had been on the brink of death, his will to live hanging by a thread. Achilles could still recall the biting cold, the way his body had felt as if it were shutting down piece by piece. Then Ksenia had appeared out of the blizzard like an angel.

Ksenia's face had been the first sight of kindness he had ever known. The moment their eyes met, he saw that her eyes were filled with something he had never seen before—pity. She had abandoned her mission, choosing compassion over duty. Ksenia's warm touch and kind eyes had been a lifeline, pulling him back from the brink. She had saved him and in a way, his soul. She unknowingly had bound his loyalty to her forever.

In the years that followed, she had taught him more than just survival. She had taught him to live. He owed her his life. The mere notion of losing her was unbearable, and it stirred a rare emotion within him—fear. If anything were to happen to Ksenia, Achilles knew he would lose all restraint and unleash his fury upon the world that would make his past deeds seem like child's play. A chill ran down his spine at the thought, but he pushed it aside.