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THE NIGHT OF HER DEATH
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The key turned with a tired click. Pisces pushed open the door to his condo, greeted not by silence but by the low murmur of a television. Blue-grey light flickered against the dark walls.
"G6, you idiot," he muttered, the exasperation in his voice almost affectionate. "Left the TV on again."
He dropped his keys into the bowl. His eyes adjusted, finding her curled on the couch, tangled in a blanket. A small, unconscious smile touched his lips. Who would have thought the most lethal person I know could look so… peaceful.
He moved quietly, not wanting to wake her, and reached for the remote. The flickering light smoothed the sharp edges of her face. She looked younger. Normal.
"You know," he whispered into the electronic hum, "you're actually beautiful when you're not threatening to dismember someone." His heart gave a traitorous skip. He pointed the remote, and the TV died, plunging the room into silence.
It was in that silence that the dread began to seep in.
Something was wrong.
The silence was too absolute. There was no sound of her breathing.
"G6?" His voice hung in the dead air.
No response.
His heart hammered against his ribs. He closed the distance in two strides and gently brushed her arm.
It was cold.
"No." He fumbled for her wrist, his fingers pressing desperately against her skin. Nothing. He tried her neck, his own pulse roaring in his ears.
Nothing.
"No, no, no, no—" The mantra spilled from his lips as panic clawed its way up. He grabbed the earpiece from his coat pocket, hands shaking. "Operator activate! Pisces signing in!"
"Operator Activated. Pisces signing in confirmed."
He dropped to his knees, dragging her limp form onto the floor. He laced his fingers, placed his palms on her sternum, and began compressions. One, and two, and three…
"Emergency!" he yelled into the comms. "Contact Gemcardia Hospital! Send a medical team to my location. Now!"
He paused, tilted her head back, pinched her nose, and sealed his mouth over hers. Her lips were cold. He gave two rescue breaths, tears tracing hot paths down his cheeks.
He checked for a pulse again. Still nothing.
"Request accepted. Processing. Gemcardia responded. A medical team is en route," the operator's calm voice intoned.
A sob wrenched from his chest. He resumed compressions, the sickening crack of her ribs a sound he knew would haunt him forever.
"Akira," he pleaded, voice breaking over her real name. "Please… Come back to me. Don't you dare do this."
Each compression was a plea. Each breath was a bargain. The world had narrowed to this dark room and the cold body beneath his hands.
"Stay with me, Akira. Just stay with me."
The sound of the front door splintering open was like a gunshot. Pisces didn't flinch.
"In here!" he screamed, voice raw.
A tactical medical team burst in, efficient and synchronized.
"What's the status?" the lead medic barked, already pulling out a defibrillator.
"No pulse! No respiration! Body temp is dropping fast!" Pisces rattled off, his professional jargon slicing through the terror.
The lead medic's eyes flicked from Pisces's tear-streaked face down to the patient.
And then he froze.
The entire team froze.
The lead medic's face drained of color. His hands trembled. "Oh, god," he breathed. "It's the Reaper."
One of the other medics took an involuntary step back. "It's G6…"
To them, G6 wasn't just an assassin. She was a force of nature. A legend. Seeing her lifeless on the floor wasn't a medical emergency; it was an impossibility.
The lead medic shook himself, the professional terror forced down by a deeper fear of failing her. "Don't just stand there!" he snarled, voice cracking. "Move! Now! If we lose her…"
He didn't finish the sentence. …none of us will ever sleep again.
They surged into action, their efficiency now laced with frantic, reverent horror. Electrode pads were placed on her chest with trembling hands.
"Clear!"
G6's body arched off the ground as the defibrillator jolted her. The sight was violently wrong.
Pisces watched, his hands smelling of her perfume and his own tears. He saw their raw fear for her, and the catastrophic consequences of her loss.
"We've got a rhythm!" a medic called out.
"Pulse is thready, but it's there!"
The lead medic didn't celebrate. His face was grim as they loaded her onto a gurney. "We're not out of the woods. We need to move. Now." He looked at Pisces, his expression a mix of pity and urgency. "You're coming with us."
As they rushed the gurney into the waiting ambulance, Pisces grabbed his coat. His eyes never left her pale, still face.
The strongest person he had ever known was suddenly the most fragile thing in the world.
「GEMCARDIA HOSPITAL」
The sterile light of the ICU bay was a brutal contrast. G6 lay pale and still under the clinical glare. The only sounds were tense medical jargon and the frantic whine of the heart monitor.
"Blood work confirms it! Severe respiratory acidosis. Toxicity from a powerful opioid. It suppressed her brain's drive to breathe. Her heart stopped from hypoxia," a nurse announced.
A cold fury mixed with Pisces's despair. The morphine vial from her Milan injury… next to her vitamins. She grabbed the wrong one.
"Pushing naloxone! Max dose! Bag her! Let's go!" commanded Dr. Vance, the lead medic. He worked with desperate energy, forcing oxygen into her lungs while a nurse pumped the antidote into her IV.
Pisces watched, his heart hammering. Each passing second was a lifetime.
This was it. The unstoppable force, taken out not by a bullet, but by a tragic, stupid mistake.
Minutes stretched. They pushed more naloxone. They cycled through CPR. They used the defibrillator again.
But the flatline tone never changed. It was a relentless, absolute sound.
Dr. Vance's shoulders slumped with final defeat. He held up a hand. The team slowed, then stopped. One by one, they stepped back.
The room fell into profound silence, broken only by that single, relentless tone.
Dr. Vance looked at the clock, then at the still form on the gurney. He slowly pulled off his gloves.
"Time of death," his voice was hollow, "5:47 a.m."
The words hit Pisces like a physical blow. He staggered back, the air punched from his lungs. No. This isn't happening. He stared at her face, expecting her to open her eyes and smirk. But her expression remained empty. The soul that had burned so fiercely was simply… gone.
Dr. Vance looked like he had aged ten years. He took a shuddering breath and pushed through the double doors into the private waiting area.
And froze.
The small room was packed.
Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed and eyes sharp, was G6's mother—a former operative known only as "Jade." Next to her stood G6's brother, his expression a storm of anger and grief.
But it was the man in the center who commanded the room.
He was an old man, impeccably dressed, his hands clasped calmly on the head of a cane. He did not fidget. He did not speak. He simply stood, a monument of stillness and absolute authority. This was Mr. Gem. The founder of Gemstones-Arcadia Org. In his prime, known as "G5." The father of G6.
Every powerful person in the room was subtly oriented toward him, waiting.
Vance cleared his throat. "Mr. Gem," he began, addressing the only person that mattered. "We did everything we could. We pushed enough naloxone to reverse an overdose ten times over. There was no response."
He swallowed, the next words ash in his mouth.
"Time of death was 05:47 a.m. The cause was accidental toxicity. She grabbed the wrong vial. It was… a tragic mistake."
Mr. Gem absorbed this. His ancient, knowing gaze seemed to look right through the doctor. He gave a single, slow, final nod. The case was closed.
Then his eyes shifted past Vance, landing on Pisces, shattered in the doorway.
"Pisces," Mr. Gem said, his tone leaving no room for question. "You will handle her effects. Secure what she left. You will write the initial report."
It wasn't an order to mourn. It was an order to clean up the aftermath.
With that, Mr. Gem turned and walked away, his retinue parting for him without a word. The crisis was over. The Reaper was gone.
The silence left in his wake was heavier than the flatline's drone.
Jade didn't collapse. She didn't scream. She pushed herself off the wall and walked to the window, her back to the room.
"A wrong vial," she stated, her voice a whisper that cut through the quiet. "All those years. All the bullets, the knives… outsmarted by a glass bottle." She gave a short, sharp shake of her head. A sound that was supposed to be a laugh came out broken and airless. "She was always in such a hurry."
Her brother let out a low, bitter breath. He looked at Pisces, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Of course it was. She never could just… rest." He slammed his fist softly against his thigh. "Stupid Akira. So brilliantly stupid."
It was the closest they would ever come to a eulogy. Their grief was internal, pressurized, expressed only in critiques of the method—a language they understood far better than tears.
Jade finally turned from the window. Her eyes were dry, scanning the room, already assessing the strategic vacuum.
"The Sixth Reaper is gone," she said, her voice devoid of any emotion. It was a simple, clinical pronouncement. "The organization's strongest weapon has retired."
She smoothed down her jacket, a final, pointless act of order, and walked out without another glance. Her brother gave a last, lost look toward the ICU doors, then followed.
Pisces was left alone in the silent, sterile room.
He looked down at his own hands. The truth of Jade's words settled over him, as cold and final as the sheet that would now cover his senior, his friend, the woman he secretly loved.
The Sixth Gem was gone. Not with a bang, but with a tragic, quiet whisper.
And the world, though it would never know it, had just become a much less terrifying, and infinitely darker, place.