In the country of Arrothon, where supernatural abilities are deemed a grave threat and punishable by death, the King enforces this cruel decree. Among his six sons, Prince First secretly opposes the policy, believing it to be both unethical and inhu...
The aftermath of yesterday's debacle with the Prince left Cooheart seething with aggravation. He could almost feel the force of his anger pressing against the walls of the small, dimly lit apartment he shared with his fellow assassins, its oppressive energy threatening to burst from him. His muscles were taut, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, yet he forced himself to stay still, simmering in his rage.
The mission had been a catastrophic failure, a rare, humiliating slip in his otherwise flawless career. Cooheart prided himself on his precision and ability to anticipate every move, but last night, something had gone horribly wrong. The Prince had to show up and ruin everything, his well-laid plan unraveled in a split second. The blunder weighed on him like a lead weight, twisting his insides with shame and frustration that throbbed in sync with his racing heart. His mind replayed every detail in agonizing clarity, as if punishing him with a loop of his failure.
His jaw tightened as he stood in the center of the apartment, surrounded by cold silence. His usually sharp, focused eyes flickered with an uncontrolled fury.
Every piece of furniture felt suffocating, closing in on him, urging him to lash out and break something, anything, to release the inferno boiling inside. But he knew better. He couldn't afford an outburst—not now.
Instead, he breathed shallowly, teeth grinding against each other as he resisted the violent urge to release his fury.
Papers were strewn haphazardly across the room, their crumpled edges fluttering in the breeze from the open window.
Blueprints, mission reports, and sketches of targets lay scattered in chaotic piles where Cooheart had thrown them in his frustration. His usually impeccable arrangement of gear and weapons, once a symbol of his methodical precision, was now a mess. Knives, sheaths, and holsters were tossed carelessly onto tables and chairs.
Khaotung lounged in the corner, reclining lazily against the arm of a worn-out couch, his posture relaxed and almost indifferent to the mess around him. He had always been the one to balance Cooheart's intensity, his irreverent attitude acting as a calming counterweight to his partner's disciplined focus.
Khaotung's dark eyes flicked lazily over the disarray, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he found the whole situation amusing.
Khaotung lounged back further, arms draped loosely over the edge of the couch, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he seized every chance to poke fun at Cooheart's decision.
"Got yourself tangled up with a stubborn lost puppy, didn't you?" Khaotung's voice dripped with amusement, his words laced with a lighthearted mockery that only added to the sting. He reveled in Cooheart's involvement with the Prince, treating it as nothing more than a joke, a foolish misstep that deserved to be mocked at every turn.
The way his smirk deepened, eyes twinkling with a mix of amusement and challenge, felt like salt in a fresh wound—teasing yet deliberate, as if daring Cooheart to defend his choice.
"You really want me to slit your throat right now," Cooheart muttered, his voice low and measured, the threat dripping with a cold, lethal edge.
His eyes remained fixed on the crumpled paper in his hands, the tension in his body evident despite his calm tone. The paper crinkled slightly under the pressure of his fingers, his grip tightening as he examined the details of their target for the hundredth time.
He didn't even bother to glance at Khaotung, who sat a few feet away.
"Loosen up a little, will you?" Khaotung chuckled, his voice light and carefree as he sprawled on the dingy couch, his posture relaxed despite the gravity of their situation. His amusement was a stark contrast to the tension that gripped the room, a tension so palpable it seemed to cling to the very walls.
"I can't, Khaotung, I just can't," Cooheart snapped, his voice strained with barely contained fury. The man they had failed to eliminate—a predator who preyed on vulnerable young people, twisting their minds with his manipulation abilities to commit unspeakable crimes—was still out there, walking free.
When the assassins were given an order, it was absolute. They carried out their missions with a ruthless efficiency, leaving no loose ends behind. Whether their targets were human or mutant, it made no difference. Each assassin was trained to see their quarry as nothing more than a name on a list—a problem to be solved, erased. There was no moral dilemma, no hesitation. The only thing that mattered was completing the assignment.
"Will try again tomorrow night," Khaotung said, his tone more measured now, though there was still that ever-present hint of levity dancing on the edge of his words. His casual demeanor, the slight shrug in his posture, suggested he wasn't weighed down by the failure as much as Cooheart was.
"The fact you're not taking this failure seriously is pissing me off."
"I get it, but stop panicking, Cooheart," Khaotung said, his tone an attempt at calm, though the underlying casualness remained. "Nunew said as long as we eliminate the target by tomorrow night, we're good. Jeff doesn't have to know anything."
Khaotung's attempt to lighten the mood continued, his words flowing with a blend of casual reassurance and sardonic humor. "Besides, being out here is way better than choking down Jeff's cooking again. That last meal was practically charred beyond recognition. You saw how Aou and Isbanky spent half the day in the bathroom after eating that crap."
The mention of Jeff's disastrous cooking stirred a memory that, even in the seriousness of the moment, was impossible to suppress. None of them had wanted to touch the charred, questionable dish Jeff had presented, but Jeff, in his usual deathly manner, practically forced it on them, his menacing glare daring anyone to refuse. Reluctantly, they had all taken bites, their grimaces poorly disguised as smiles.
The image of Aou and Isbanky's unfortunate reaction flashed through Cooheart's mind—how they'd barely managed to choke down a bite before disappearing into the bathroom for hours, their faces pale and stricken.
Cooheart felt his stern expression waver. His lips twitched, fighting against the somber mask he wore, and for the first time since the debacle with the Prince, a genuine smile broke through, lighting up his normally stoic face.
Khaotung's smirk widened as he saw the effect of his words on Cooheart. His eyes sparkled with a glint of satisfaction, knowing he had managed to crack through Cooheart's otherwise impenetrable facade. The sight of Cooheart's stern expression softening, if only for a moment, was a victory in itself.
Khaotung seized the moment to drive his point home. "But imagine failing a mission because of some kid," he quipped, his tone laced with playful irony.
Cooheart's response was swift and decisive. The faint smile that had briefly softened his features vanished, replaced by a sudden darkening of his eyes. A glint of annoyance sparked in their depths, sharpening his gaze into a fierce, piercing glare. It was the kind of look that could slice through steel, conveying a silent, intense warning.
Khaotung leaned forward, his dark brown eyes locking with Cooheart's fierce gaze. "Don't fuck up this time," he added, his tone firm. The challenge in his voice was clear, a reminder that despite the levity, the stakes were high and their next move needed to be flawless.
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