Death sometimes is peaceful
Emma sat up slowly, her body aching, bandages tight around her torso. The room was dim, quiet, only the faint sound of Diana shifting in a chair nearby. Mostang stood leaning against the wall, smoking, eyes narrowed.
Emma's gaze flicked toward the corner of the room. She said nothing at first, just watched. Then, softly, in that unnerving calm tone of hers:
Emma: "You can stop pretending you're part of the shadows. I can hear your breathing pattern—it's inconsistent. A spy wouldn't make that mistake unless she was rushed."
Diana blinked, confused. "...What?"
Emma's eyes sharpened. "She's behind the vent."
Before anyone could react, Emma picked up a broken glass shard from the nightstand and threw it. The shard embedded itself in the vent with a sharp clink. A muffled gasp followed.
The vent's panel slid open, and a woman in black tactical gear dropped to the ground, caught red-handed. She glared at Emma with cold eyes, a knife in hand.
Spy: "Tch. Even half-dead, you're still a monster."
Emma tilted her head slightly, unfazed. "Monster? No. Just awake."
The spy gritted her teeth, knife in hand, ready to pounce. But Emma simply leaned back against the headboard, her voice steady and sharp.
Emma: "If you were ordered to kill me, you would have struck while I was unconscious. You didn't. Which means you're gathering information. Correct?"
The woman flinched, just slightly.
Emma: "Tell me, then—are you afraid of me, or afraid of failing the people who sent you?"
The silence was heavy. The spy's grip on the knife tightened.
Emma's eyes narrowed, calculating. "You're breathing too quickly. Your pupils dilated when I mentioned failure. You don't fear me—you fear them. Whoever sent you. That makes you weak. And… useful."
Mostang exhaled smoke, watching with a smirk. Diana frowned, whispering, "She's already breaking her down…"
Emma continued, her tone colder. "Do you know how many children I killed when I worked under Vencor?" She let the words hang in the air like poison. The spy's face went pale.
Emma: "I don't care about morality. I don't care about innocence. What I do care about… is efficiency. If you work for me, you'll live. If you go back to them, you'll die screaming. I guarantee it. And if you lie…"
Emma slowly lifted her hand, still trembling from injury, but her gaze was sharp enough to cut steel. "…I'll carve the truth out of you myself."
The spy hesitated, then finally dropped the knife to the floor. Her body trembled, but her voice came out steady:
The spy's voice cracked as she finally gave in. "Fine… I'll tell you what you want."
Emma didn't move. She sat in silence, her piercing eyes never blinking. The weight of her stare forced the woman to keep talking.
The spy spilled enough—Vencor's next move, names of a few key operatives, a hint of their next target. Emma listened, expression unreadable, as if every word was already known to her.
When the woman finished, sweat dripping from her temple, Emma simply said:
Emma: "That's all I needed."
The spy blinked. "…That's it?"
Emma leaned forward slightly, voice like ice. "Leave. Now. And remember—if you even think of coming back with a blade, I'll already be behind you."
The woman stumbled out, shaken.
Mostang flicked his cigarette, smirking. "You let her walk? Bold."
Emma closed her eyes, finally laying back down. "She's already dead. She just doesn't know it yet. By the time Vencor finds her… they'll assume she betrayed them. And I'll get the rest of the truth without lifting a finger."
-----
Diana leaned against the wall, still catching her breath from helping Emma move earlier. Her eyes wandered over Emma, sitting back down, her gaze distant, almost otherworldly.
For a brief moment, Diana's mind flashed back—elementary school days, sun-drenched playgrounds, scraped knees, and laughter. The little girl she had defended against bullies.
And then reality hit her like a punch.
The girl in front of her was gone. In her place sat a woman hardened, sharp, a killer wrapped in the guise of calm. Emma's posture, the cold precision in her eyes, the faint scarlet trace of her recent battle—all of it screamed of someone who had survived horrors Diana couldn't imagine.
Diana whispered under her breath, voice trembling slightly:
"…Emma… is this really you?"
Emma's eyes flicked toward her, the faintest shadow of recognition softening her otherwise unreadable expression. But only for a second. Then it was gone, replaced by that calm, calculating gaze Diana had learned from Emma
Diana swallowed hard. The girl she once knew—the little girl she remembered defending—had grown up into slowly. Being known as. Vencors legacy
And in that moment, Diana realized just how far Emma had traveled. How much she had endured. And how alone she had been through it all.
Will she change?. Into being evil.
Emma adjusted her jacket, brushing the dust from her sleeves.
"I'll be going out," she said simply, her voice even, controlled. No hesitation.
Diana looked up from her seat. "Where…?"
Emma didn't answer. She walked past the door, her steps measured, calm, almost silent.
As she passed the street outside, an old man stumbled toward her, anger etched into every line of his face. His voice cracked and rasped like broken glass:
"You… you monster! You killed my daughter!"
For a heartbeat, Emma froze, her mind instantly flashing to that day—the screams, the blood, the weight of her actions under Vencor's orders. She remembered her hands, the life she took, the reason it had to be done.
But outwardly? Nothing.
No apology. No emotion. Just silence.
Her lips didn't twitch. Her eyes didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head slightly, letting the moment hang heavy in the air before continuing her walk, as if the old man's curse were nothing more than a passing breeze.
Diana, watching from the window, shivered. She knew that silence wasn't indifference—it was Emma's way of carrying the weight of everything she had done, alone.
The old man swung his gnarled hand, striking Emma's ribs with surprising force. Pain shot through her side—a reminder that she wasn't invincible, that her body was still recovering from past fights.
But Emma didn't flinch. Her breath stayed even, her posture composed. The sharp sting of pain rolled through her, but she absorbed it, letting it anchor her rather than break her.
The old man muttered under his breath, shaking his head. "I wish you die. You Bitch…"
He turned and limped away, leaving Emma standing in the quiet street. Her hand lightly touched the spot where he had hit her, fingers brushing against the still-sore flesh.
A flicker of memory crossed her eyes— the countless people she had lost and fought for. She straightened her spine, mask of calm back in place, and continued walking, each step deliberate.
No words. No reaction. Just endurance.
Chapter end