Pain is illusion to distract you
The office was silent except for the faint clicking of a pen. Across the desk, three interviewers waited, their resumes stacked neatly in front of them. The door opened, and in walked Mostang—lean, sharp-dressed, posture loose but deliberate, like he owned the room already.
He didn't bow, didn't give the stiff nervous smile most applicants did. Instead, his eyes scanned the panel—lingering on the two women sitting side by side. A smirk curved at his lips, subtle but confident.
Interviewer 1 (male): "Mostang, 21 years old… You've applied for the position in logistics, correct?"
Mostang: (leans back in the chair, voice low, calm) "Correct. Though I think you already knew that the second you read my file."
He answers every question smoothly, but his eyes never leave the two women. When one of them pushes her hair back nervously, his gaze sharpens just enough to make her blush.
Interviewer 2 (female): "You don't have much experience listed here. Why should we hire you?"
Mostang smirks, tilts his head slightly, his voice dipping colder.
Mostang: "Because experience can be learned. Confidence can't. And if I wanted, I could learn you just as fast."
The words hang heavy. One of the women looks away quickly, flustered, while the other tries to keep her composure. The male interviewer clears his throat, irritated by the arrogance.
Interviewer 3 (female, stern): "…This isn't the place to flirt."
Mostang: (shrugs casually, smile faint) "I wasn't flirting. Just stating facts. But if you took it that way…" (his eyes cut into hers, cold but teasing) "…then maybe you're the one thinking about it."
Silence. The tension is thick. The women exchange quick glances, unsettled, but also oddly drawn in by the strange mix of coldness and charm he radiates.
Mostang leans forward finally, resting his elbows on the table.
Mostang: "Hire me, and you'll see results. Don't hire me, and you'll remember me anyway."
The hallway outside the interview room was crowded with applicants leaving. Mostang slid his hands into his pockets, moving with unhurried steps, his gaze sharp, already knowing he had left an impression.
Then it happened—one of the staff members, a young lady carrying a stack of files, tripped on the corner of a rug. The files slipped from her arms as she stumbled forward.
Before anyone else could react, Mostang's arm shot out. Smooth. Effortless. He caught her by the waist, pulling her against him just before she hit the ground. The files scattered across the floor like broken feathers.
Mostang: (voice low, calm, with that cold smirk) "Careful. Gravity plays cruel games with pretty girls."
The woman's cheeks flushed, her eyes wide as she realized how close she was to his chest. She stammered, "T-thank you…"
Mostang tilted his head, his hand still firm at her waist a moment too long before letting go.
Mostang: "Don't thank me. Just don't fall for me next time."
He crouched briefly, gathering the fallen files with a fluid ease, stacking them neatly before handing them back to her. His gaze locked with hers one last time—sharp, unreadable, like he was weighing whether she was worth another word.
Then, just as casually as he caught her, he walked away, his smirk faint, leaving the woman staring after him—confused between annoyance and an unshakable intrigue.
---
Mostang sat on the leather couch of a dim backroom, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The boss across the table slid a photo toward him.
Boss: "Your next target. Dangerous. Quick. Don't hesitate."
Mostang picked up the photo lazily, expecting some politician or rival gang member. Instead, his smirk faded—just slightly. The picture showed a young woman, raven hair, sharp eyes that seemed to pierce even from the grainy print. Emma.
Mostang: (voice low, cold) "A woman?"
Boss: "Not just a woman. Trained by Vencor"
Mostang: (Whispering, Shocked) "Vencor?."
Boss: "She is the only one who managed to escape from him"
Mostang leaned back, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. He hated this. His one line he never crossed—he never hit women. Never. But the boss's tone carried weight. Refusal wasn't an option.
That night, Mostang stood on the rooftop of an abandoned factory. His pistol was in hand, silencer fixed. He had tracked her easily enough—Emma wasn't exactly hiding; she was hunting someone herself.
But when his eyes fell on her for the first time in person, everything tilted. She was standing in the moonlight, her figure calm, unmoving, like she had already sensed him. Her beauty wasn't soft—it was sharp, untouchable, terrifying.
Emma turned her head slightly, eyes locking with his. No fear. Just quiet recognition.
Emma: "…So. They sent you."
Mostang tightened his grip on the pistol but didn't raise it. His cold mask faltered for the first time in years.
Mostang: ".. They asked me to kill an angel dressed like a devil."
Emma's lips curved into the faintest smirk, unreadable.
Emma: "Then don't point that gun at me. Because if you do… you'll never walk away alive."
The silence stretched. His heart, usually untouched by anyone, flickered for the first time.
Mostang's finger hovered over the trigger. The silencer felt cold in his hand, heavy like a weight he hadn't expected. Emma didn't move, didn't flinch, just watched him with those sharp, piercing eyes.
Emma: "…Hesitate all you want. I can see it. You're not like the others."
Mostang swallowed, jaw tight. Every instinct screamed at him—kill, follow orders—but another, older instinct burned hotter: his line he never crossed. Hitting a woman… never.
He tightened his grip on the pistol, breathing hard, and took a step back.
Mostang: "…I—This isn't… it's not right. I… I can't."
Emma's smirk didn't soften. She didn't move closer. But her presence was enough—dominant, calm, unshakable.
Emma: "…Good. That's the part I like. The part that still has… some sense of control."
The wind swept through the rooftop, carrying the faint smell of smoke and salt from the distant sea. Mostang lowered the gun slightly, glancing at her again. His chest heaved—not from fear, but from the conflict inside him.
Mostang: "…You don't know how close I came to… losing myself. I follow orders… I obey. But… you're different."
Emma's gaze softened—just fractionally. She tilted her head.
Emma: "…Different how?"
Mostang: "…I don't kill women. But with you… I can't even think about it."
The words hung heavy between them. Emma didn't smile, didn't mock. She only studied him, evaluating. And in that silence, Mostang realized something terrifying: he might just be in too deep—not as her enemy, but as someone who could never harm her, no matter what.
Mostang's gaze flicked between Emma and the empty street below. Every second here risked his life, his boss, his reputation—but leaving her alive didn't sit right either.
Mostang: "…I should go."
Emma's sharp eyes narrowed.
Emma: "…And let them catch you? Or let them catch me?"
He smirked faintly, pulling the pistol back into his holster, his voice calm, controlled.
Mostang: "…Neither. I have to report in. Boss won't wait."
Emma tilted her head, studying him like a predator studying prey.
Emma: "…Report what? That you hesitated?"
Mostang: (chuckling lightly) "…Something like that. But I'll tell him you escaped before I got a chance. That's all he needs to hear."
He took a careful step back, his posture casual, but his eyes never left hers.
Mostang: "…I don't know if I should admire you… or hate you for making me lie to the boss. Either way… we'll meet again."
Emma's lips curled just slightly, almost approving.
Emma: "…We will."
Mostang's boots clicked against the rooftop as he moved toward the exit, keeping his movements smooth and composed. Behind him, Emma's gaze followed, calm but unreadable, calculating.
As he disappeared into the shadows, he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else:
Mostang: "…She's a nightmare. And I'm already in too deep."
The street was dimly lit, the air cold and damp. Emma walked past the cracked pavement, her boots crunching softly against the scattered leaves.
Ahead, a man slept on a tattered blanket, curled against himself for warmth. His face was hidden under a threadbare hood.
Emma paused, glancing at him. Without a word, she slipped into the nearby convenience store. A few moments later, she emerged carrying a small bag: a warm meal, some snacks, a bottle of water.
Kneeling just briefly, she placed it carefully near the man's side, adjusting it so it wouldn't fall onto the pavement. She straightened, giving him one small, unreadable glance.
Then, as quietly as she had come, Emma turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows. The man remained asleep, unaware of the quiet kindness that had passed beside him.
Chapter end