Festival day.
Lanterns overhead. Street drums echoing between stalls. Steam from noodles and fried tofu rising like incense from cracked pans.
Children ran barefoot, waving flags. Elderly men placed bets on wrestling pigs. And deep beneath it all, simmering like oil beneath skin, Sim Gwan felt it:
The pressure.
Wrong stares. Familiar shadows. Footsteps too even. Smiles too clean.
"They're here," he muttered.
Baek-Ha handed him a stick of candied hawthorns.
"Eat," she said. "It'll be the last thing that tastes good today."
He took a bite.
Didn't smile.
---
They made it four steps toward the west gate when it began.
The first strike was silent. A needle coated in dried ghostroot venom. Sim caught it between two fingers.
Second strike louder. A figure leapt from the festival arch, twin daggers spinning.
Baek-Ha spun, cloak flaring, cleaver in hand. Block. Parry. Counter.
Blood.
Third attacker came from under the noodle stall. Sword short, grip reversed, aimed at Sim's back.
He turned, grabbed the attacker's wrist, and snapped it.
The scream got drowned out by fireworks.
The crowd didn't notice.
Or didn't care.
---
The assassins wore no uniforms.
No marks. No symbols. Nothing that could be traced.
But their skill was obvious.
Sim fought three at once.
Each had different rhythm one fast and direct, one slow and defensive, the last fluid, unpredictable. A formation meant to overwhelm.
Baek-Ha faced only one.
But he was better than her.
Slightly. But enough.
His sword nicked her forearm.
She backed up. Slipped on blood. He moved in for the kill.
And she made her choice.
She didn't dodge.
She moved in.
Let the blade cut.
Then sank her cleaver under his jaw with both hands, twisting.
The crack was wet. Final.
He dropped. Spasmed. Stopped.
She stood over him, shaking.
Hands red.
Face blank.
Sim didn't see it. He was busy driving a stolen blade into someone's stomach.
But when he turned around.
She was no longer the same.
---
They fled.
Not far. Not fast. Just enough to breathe.
A cellar beneath an old bakery.
Dust. Sacks of flour. Cracked lantern.
Baek-Ha sat with her back against the stone wall. Breathing. Not crying.
Sim knelt in front of her. "You okay?"
She didn't answer right away.
Then a soft reply.
"I thought it would feel worse."
Sim blinked.
She looked at her hands. Then him.
"I thought I'd be sick. Or scared. But I'm just... tired."
He sat beside her. Quiet.
"I didn't want you to see that," she said.
"I didn't want you to need to do it."
It was too late.
He reached over.
Took her bloody hand.
Held it gently.
"I'm not proud of what we're becoming," he said. "But I'll fight to make sure we survive it."
She leaned into him. Head to his shoulder. Eyes closed.
And whispered, "Don't you ever die on me."
He smiled, bitter and real. "You'd just drag me back."
---
That night, the guild posted new messages in hidden alleys:
> Sim Gwan: First Kill Survived.
Companion Identified: Status – Active.
Response Required: Phase Two Permission Pending.
And somewhere far north, in a cold temple filled with broken statues, a masked figure dipped a brush in black ash and signed one name:
"Gwan"
No title. No sect. No mercy.
---