Rain's Point of View
Rule #1: Never get attached.
It's not poetic.
It's not something I stitched onto the inside of a jacket or tattooed behind my ribs.
It's survival.
Every syndicate boss who ignored that rule ended up with a bullet in his mouth and a trail of blood where his empire used to be. You love someone, you give your enemies a map to your soul. You care too much, and someone will rip it out of you. Slowly.
And yet—
She looked at me with those wild, storm-colored eyes, and all I could think was: She hasn't changed.
Still talking with her hands. Still wearing sparkly earrings like they're armor. Still trying to clean up a disaster with a napkin too small for the mess.
Still her.
Five years ago,
was sixteen. Bleeding from the ribs. Kneeling behind a half-collapsed wall on the outskirts of Naples. The first real job I'd ever been sent on—one that went sideways fast. I'd been ambushed, separated from Ren, and bleeding too much to think straight.
She found me.
Just a girl on a school trip, maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen. Dressed in a ridiculously oversized pink hoodie, a yellow skirt with white daisies, and a flower crown she'd probably made herself.
She never asked who I was. Never panicked at the blood. Just knelt beside me like I was some injured bird.
"You're hurt," she whispered, voice trembling. "But I know how to help."
She took off her hoodie. Wrapped it tight around my side. Sat beside me for an hour and talked nonsense about the stars and how rain always feels softer in cities with music. Then, when the sirens came—she left. Disappeared like smoke.
I never knew her name. Never spoke a word.
But I never forgot her.
"People need people," she said. "Even the scary-looking ones."
I never forgot her.
Never expected to see her again.
Now here she is—Sky Wang. Second-year law student. Future human rights attorney. Lover of chaos and caramel drizzle. And apparently, a walking blindspot in every intelligence file I have.
I lean back in my leather chair as Ren paces in front of my desk.
"She's clean," he says, annoyed. "Just a sunshine girl with a latte addiction. She volunteers for the elderly, visits animal shelters, and watches Disney movies at two in the morning. You're wasting our surveillance net."
I tap the side of my whiskey glass. "No one is ever clean."
"Except her, Rain," he says, finally stopping. "You know that. You already knew that five years ago. You're not doing this for data."
I look out the window. The Italian dusk settles like fog over the rooftops of Florence. Below, the city hums with life—tourists, pickpockets, lovers, ghosts.
"She remembered me," I murmur.
"No. You remembered her."
He's right. Of course he's right. Ren always is. That's why I keep him close.
And yet—her voice is still echoing in my mind.
"Thanks for not vaporizing me."
She doesn't fear me. She doesn't know me.
And that's the problem.
Because if she did…
She'd run.
But she didn't.
And I—idiot that I am—found myself smiling. Smiling. Like some schoolboy caught in a romcom.
She has no idea what kind of man I am.
What kind of blood lives in my hands.
What ghosts follow me into sleep.
And still, she smiled at me.
She smiled at me.
It's the most dangerous thing anyone's done in a long time.