High above the Atlantic Ocean, a passenger jet was slowly making its way toward North America.
In one of the seats, Lester smiled faintly, politely declining the juice the flight attendant offered him.
"Ma'am, please give it to my sister. She needs your help more than I do. I swear in God's name—she's been thirsty ever since we boarded. You must be the angel sent by God to save her."
"Heh, sir, you're quite the charmer… My name's Wendy. May I know yours?"
Passing the glass of orange juice to the wary-looking girl beside him, Wendy made no move to leave. Her gaze lingered on the handsome, dark-haired man before her.
She had seen countless good-looking men during her years working on planes, even had her share of encounters—but never one like this. This man's looks were almost unfair, and the aura around him… divine.
If it weren't blasphemy, she might have said he was Lucifer himself—an angel who had fallen to Earth. And if she truly were a servant of Heaven, she'd still betray God without hesitation, following this man straight into Hell.
He was that kind of man—one worth losing everything for. Once in a century.
Even this "special task" of bringing him juice—she'd schemed for it, snatching it away from those lovestruck little vixens among her colleagues. There was no way she'd walk away empty-handed. At the very least, she'd get his contact info. Maybe she could even sell it back to those same girls later.
Wendy had never made a deal that left her at a loss.
"Slurp, slurp~"
The short-haired girl glanced at the man, then began drinking the orange juice through her straw, ignoring Wendy completely.
"My name is Lester Lee, Miss Wendy. Just call me Lester…"
He paused, patted the girl sitting by the aisle on the shoulder, then smiled apologetically at Wendy.
"Sorry, I need to visit the restroom."
"Of course—the restroom's that way. Would you like me to show you?"
"No need, thank you."
A hint of disappointment flickered in Wendy's eyes as he declined. She stepped aside, watching as the tall, composed man rose from his seat.
Just as Lester stood up, an elderly man in a blue shirt and black suit returned from the lavatory.
As they brushed shoulders, the old man reached into his jacket—his finger hooked around the pin of a defensive hand grenade. Three more sat inside his inner pocket.
He was about to pull the pin when the man in front of him suddenly reached out to "steady" him. A sharp pain shot up the old man's thigh. His body instantly went limp.
At that same moment, as if nothing had happened, the girl calmly set down her half-empty plastic cup and rose from her seat, wordlessly walking toward the lavatory.
Ignoring his "sister," Lester gently supported the old man, a look of concern on his face.
The old man's lips twitched into the faintest mocking smile before his breath ceased.
"Sir? Are you all right?"
Lester eased the half-conscious man back into his seat, even helping him remove his jacket.
"Miss Wendy! Do you know CPR? I think this gentleman might be having a heart attack! If there's any medication available, please, use it!"
Even as he spoke, Lester's eyes swept across the nearby passengers—pausing briefly on three smiling faces—then relaxed slightly.
Caught off guard by the sudden emergency, Wendy froze for a second before snapping into action. Calling for her colleague, she helped Lester move the man onto the floor and checked his pulse. Her expression changed instantly—she began performing CPR.
Lester released the man and strode briskly toward the lavatory, brushing past another flight attendant who hurried over with a medical kit.
Inside, the girl stood ready—gripping a palm-sized ceramic knife in reverse, her eyes fixed warily on the door.
They slipped into an empty restroom and locked the door behind them.
Lester tossed the old man's suit onto the floor; it landed with a dull thud. The girl's eyes narrowed.
"Not a gun?"
His voice remained calm as he slipped on a pair of spotless white gloves. He even took a moment to straighten his black suit and tie.
"Four defensive grenades. Three more agents who haven't acted yet. Killing us isn't enough—they want to break us. The organization clearly left no way out. Everyone on this plane… is meant to die with me."
"Hah. I knew this day would come if I kept following you—but this fast? Really? And you—making me play games with you after missions to 'build chemistry'… Look where that got us. We're screwed."
The girl dropped her arm limply, sighed, and tossed away her ceramic knife. She began removing her outer jacket.
If even Lester—the top assassin trained by the organization for thirteen years, her mentor—was calmly preparing for death, then there was no hope left. She'd seen the organization's ruthlessness before. On the ground, maybe there'd be a chance. But in the air? None.
With military ties, the organization could easily deploy jets to blow up a compromised plane.
The news headline was already written:
> "Military successfully intercepts suicidal terrorist attack. Bomb-laden passenger jet destroyed before reaching the Empire State Building. Averted disaster—three minutes of silence for the victims."
Thoughts flashed like lightning through her mind as she pulled off her jacket, revealing a pale-pink combat vest—custom-made for her by Lester himself.
When she moved as if to grab his arm, he gently restrained her hands. His voice softened.
"I'm sorry. There's no time. Let's at least go out with dignity."
Her body went rigid. The strength drained from her limbs.
Her teacher had always been absolute in his words—there was no point fighting him now.
"Lester… you owe me. Admit it?"
"I do."
"So we just… die like this?"
"Yes. It won't hurt."
"I… I don't want to die. Teacher, I'm… a little scared…"
Outside, the roar of approaching fighter jets filled the air. Lester kissed her gently on the cheek, pulling her into a tight embrace—as if he could absorb her into himself.
"Don't be afraid. When the missile hits, I'll be in front of you."
Feeling the warmth of his lips fade, the girl smiled faintly.
"I thought you'd kiss me on the lips."
"I… I've always seen you as my daughter."
She froze—her face flushing pink.
"Well, I always saw you as my dad… Promise me—next life, don't be such a damn monk. Be kinder to the girls who like you."
Lester hesitated. Then he felt a sharp twist at his waist.
"Promise me, damn it!"
The heat wave hit—the missile's explosion tearing through the plane, light and fire flooding in.
Lester leaned close to her ear.
"I promise."
The next moment, the jet split in two midair and exploded.
The fighter pilot, cold-eyed, turned his aircraft away.
"Target down."