Chapter Text
“We’re tracking down an escaped convict? ” Katsuki asked, raising an unimpressed brow as he nursed his ale. His voice was laced with skepticism, the low rumble of a man who had seen one too many "easy" jobs turn into bloodbaths.
Rosie sat across from him, bright-eyed and cheerful, poking at her plate of sliced fruit with a fork like she didn’t have a care in the world. “It’ll be easy, ” she said with a confident smile, plucking a slice of orange and popping it into her mouth. “Simple track-and-capture. In and out.”
Katsuki stared at her over the rim of his pint, slowly tipping it back for another long drink. He lowered the glass with a grunt. “Sounds stupid as hell.”
She shrugged, entirely unaffected by his tone. “Too late,” she said breezily. “I already accepted the contract.”
His expression didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed slightly.
Rosie continued casually, “Also bought the provisions this morning. Met with the client while you were still snoring into your pillow. Real talkative guy—gave me the whole backstory. We leave after you finish your drink.”
Katsuki scowled. “ Bossy little thing, aren’t you?”
She smiled sweetly, twirling a grape between her fingers. “You keep sleeping in and someone’s gotta take the lead.”
He huffed and leaned back in his chair, folding one arm across his chest. “You know, one of these days you’re gonna get us into something nasty by jumping into things quickly.”
“Then you’ll have to save us with your endless charm and biting wit,” she said dryly, taking a sip of her own ale and giving him a pointed look.
Katsuki stared at her for a beat before snorting into his ale. “You’re lucky I didn’t wake up in a worse mood.”
“You’re always in a bad mood.”
“I’m not the one who volunteers for convict retrieval missions before breakfast.”
“And yet, you’re still coming with me,” she sing-songed.
“Tch,” he grumbled, draining the rest of his ale and setting the tankard down with a dull thud. “Because if I don’t, you’ll end up dead or married to the bastard.”
Rosie laughed. “I’m not that reckless.”
He raised a brow. “You used yourself as bait last month for a sorcerer.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
Still smiling, she stood and dusted her hands off, tossing a coin on the table to cover her half of the bill. “Finish up, grumpy. We’ve got a convict to catch.”
He shook his head and watched her turn toward the door, that damn braid of hers swaying with every step. As she reached the exit, he downed the last drops of ale and muttered under his breath, “Bossy and insufferable.”
But he was already standing, grabbing his gear and following her out. Because of course he was.
Perched comfortably on her horse, Divine, Rosie hummed a cheerful little tune as she unrolled the worn parchment map the client had given her. The parchment was faded and creased, but the ink was fresh—clear markers and notations indicating the most recent sightings of the escaped convict dotted along the valley and nearby forest paths. From what she could tell, he hadn’t fled the region yet. Either he was cocky… or desperate.
“Still in the area,” she murmured thoughtfully, eyes scanning the map again. “He’s circling the same hills.”
She reached into the side pouch of her saddle and pulled out a folded sketch—a rough but recognizable charcoal drawing of a young man with sharp features, shaggy hair, and eyes like he knew how to lie without blinking. She studied it for a beat before Katsuki’s voice cut through the quiet.
“Lemme see,” he grunted from beside her, adjusting the saddle on Dynamight with one gloved hand.
Without hesitation, Rosie passed him the sketch and rolled up the map. As he took it, she dug through her bag and pulled out a thick slice of bread, still slightly warm, and a little wrapped bundle of butter she’d nicked from the inn that morning.
Katsuki raised an eyebrow when he glanced over and saw her calmly buttering it like they weren’t on a bounty mission. “Seriously?” he muttered.
She didn’t answer. Just kept humming, focused entirely on spreading the butter to the edges of the crust like it was the most important task in the world.
He gave a slow shake of his head and looked down at the sketch again. His brows knit together. “He looks too young to be dangerous.”
Rosie took a giant bite of her bread and said something through a mouthful.
“What?” Katsuki scowled, snapping his head toward her. “Don’t talk with your damn mouth full. That’s disgusting.”
She rolled her eyes, still chewing. “It’s good bread,” she said once she swallowed, and took another big bite just to spite him.
“You’re gonna choke stuffing your face like that.”
“I chew, ” she replied primly, licking some butter off her thumb.
Katsuki grunted in annoyance and went back to the drawing. “What’d he do, anyway? Steal something? Get drunk and punch a noble?”
Rosie swallowed, brushed some crumbs off her lap, and said in the most casual tone possible, “Four counts of arson, two counts of aggravated assault, one kidnapping, and six confirmed murders.”
Katsuki blinked. “…You say that like you’re reciting ingredients for soup.”
She shrugged. “You asked.”
He narrowed his eyes at the drawing again. “Is he human?”
“Yep,” she said easily. “Born and raised in one of the inner cities, apparently. Only twenty-five.”
Katsuki scoffed, folding the sketch back up. “Tch. Looks like a spoiled little shit with a knife.”
“Well, now he’s a spoiled little shit with a bounty on his head, ” she chirped, finally finishing her bread and brushing her fingers together as she looked back at the trail ahead. “Which makes him our next paycheck.”
Katsuki shook his head again. “You get too excited about this stuff.”
“And you’re not excited enough. ”
“Because unlike you, I like jobs where I don’t have to deal with twitchy murderers.”
She gave him a smirk. “You’re just mad I brought a snack.”
He stared at her flatly. “If you start singing again, I’m turning back.”
“I make no promises,” she beamed, and with a soft nudge, Divine trotted forward, leading them toward the ridge where the last sighting had been reported.
Katsuki sighed, muttered something under his breath, and followed.
The forest was quiet. Too quiet. Rosie leaned forward in her saddle, eyes scanning the thick underbrush while Divine’s hooves picked carefully through the uneven ground. A few birds chirped overhead, and a squirrel darted across their path, but other than that—silence.
Katsuki rode beside her, brow furrowed in concentration. He dismounted without a word, crouching near a broken branch dangling at an odd angle. “Trail’s fresh,” he muttered, dragging two fingers along a faint set of prints. “Light footfall. He’s not heavy.”
Rosie slid off her horse and joined him, crouching at his side. “And in a hurry. Look—he stumbled here.”
They followed the broken trail deeper into the woods, veering off the beaten path. The scent of damp earth and pine clung to everything. Rosie's ears twitched as she listened, not just for movement—but for the unnatural silence that often followed men who’d done terrible things.
She tapped Katsuki’s shoulder and pointed. A patch of red cloth snagged on a thorn bush. “His,” she whispered.
Katsuki nodded, gaze already scanning the treeline ahead. “He’s heading northwest. Toward the ravine.”
Rosie’s expression darkened. “Smart. It’s rough terrain. Hard to track.”
He stood, brushing off his gloves. “Then we get ahead of him. Box him in.”
Rosie smirked. “Look at you, finally getting into the spirit.”
“Shut up and move,” he grumbled, but she caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Hours of traveling, dusk had settled like ash across the woods. The trail had gone colder the deeper they moved into the thicket—but it was Rosie who found it with her tracking skills. “Over here,” she called softly.
Katsuki followed, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch. She was kneeling near a cluster of rocks by a shallow stream. A torn scrap of parchment was wedged between two stones, half-soaked by water. He took it from her carefully, squinting at the smeared ink, it was a ledger of names and dates. Some with large red Xs marked over them.
“…This isn’t just some petty convict,” Katsuki muttered, eyes narrowing. “This is a contract list.”
Rosie swallowed. “Assassinations?”
“Looks like it.” He flipped the page over. More names. Some had locations scrawled beside them, cities, villages and of noble families.
She paled. “He’s not hiding.”
“He’s working, ” Katsuki growled, crumpling the parchment slightly in his gloved hand as his jaw tensed. “Someone hired him. And this mission just got a whole lot more complicated.”
The weight of his words hung in the air like a storm cloud. They weren’t hunting a runaway, they were chasing a professional killer and he was nowhere near done yet. That excited her as rarely she was able to come across another professional. Not that she would call herself as such but she was good at hunting, tracking, and killing. In her previous two years of adventuring, she had yet to come across a professional and she was excited to finally get the chance to meet one. Or rather hunt one.
Rosie stared down at the now-wrinkled paper, her expression shifting—not to fear or concern like he expected—but to something far more unusual. Excitement.
The corners of her lips slowly curved upward, her posture straightened, and a strange, eager gleam began to light up her eyes.
It wasn’t reckless. It wasn’t bloodthirsty. It was thrill.
Katsuki watched her warily, eyes narrowing. “Why the hell are you smiling?”
Rosie blinked, as if just now remembering he was there. “Oh,” she said with a breathless laugh. “I’m just… surprised. No, delighted , really.”
His brow twitched. “Delighted? We’re chasing a contract killer, Rosie. A professional. This isn’t some petty thief sneaking bread or bandits ambushing wagons.”
“I know ,” she said brightly, eyes practically sparkling now as she stood up fully and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her pointed ear. “That’s what makes it so exciting.”
He stared at her like she’d grown a second head.
Rosie started pacing slowly, her hands gesturing with barely-contained energy. “I’ve gone two years taking on missions—smugglers, monsters, rogue mages, cursed relics, a few nasty nobles—and none of them ever truly challenged me. Not really. But this…” she tapped her finger against the paper in his hand. “This is different. He’s good. Clever. Careful. He’s trained. You saw the trail—clean, efficient, and still just sloppy enough to bait someone less experienced.” She turned back to Katsuki, her breath quick, her cheeks flushed with heat and enthusiasm. “He thinks he’s untouchable. That he’s the only predator in these woods.”
Katsuki blinked slowly, finally realizing how pink her cheeks had become—how half-lidded her gaze looked, her pupils dilated with something far too close to lust for comfort. Her lips were parted. She was panting, just a little.
“…Are you seriously getting worked up over this?” he asked incredulously, his voice low, rough. “ Tracking a killer? ”
Rosie froze, then blinked, and immediately turned a shade of red that nearly matched the bloodstains on her gloves. Her ears twitched violently, tips twitching in sharp jerks. “I—I wouldn’t call it that, ” she stammered, trying to wave it off, though her voice cracked slightly. “I just—well—it’s not that, it’s—it’s the challenge, and—”
Katsuki crossed his arms, one brow raised smugly. “Sure it is.”
Rosie shot him a glare, flustered and embarrassed, her face still burning. “I’m serious!” she snapped, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Murder— real murder, the kind with motive, precision, and mastery—it’s an art. And not everyone can appreciate it.”
Katsuki stared at her. Then huffed a short laugh. “You’re twisted.”
She grinned shamelessly, her confidence returning now that the worst of the fluster had passed. “Says the man who killed a man by stabbing him through the neck with his prized dagger.”
He smirked despite himself. “That was resourceful.”
“That was beautiful,” she corrected, stepping closer. “You’re just as bad as me.”
He gave her a long, unreadable look. “Yeah… I know.”
Their eyes locked—sharp, electric—and for a breathless moment, the chase ahead was forgotten. Then Katsuki broke it with a grunt, turning back toward the path. “Come on, art freak. Let’s hunt your masterpiece .”
Rosie mounted Divine again, eyes still glowing with mischief and anticipation. And as they disappeared into the woods, she whispered under her breath, “Let’s see if this professional really knows how to paint.”
By the time nightfall cloaked the landscape, they arrived at a small, sleepy town nestled in the crook of the surrounding hills. A crooked wooden sign swayed in the wind above the town’s only well-paved street, its name faded and chipped with age. Faint oil lanterns flickered along the worn cobblestones, casting soft orange glows that danced over sagging rooftops and shuttered windows. Smoke curled lazily from a few chimneys, and the scent of wet hay, distant firewood, and roasted root vegetables lingered in the air.
It looked like the kind of place untouched by violence.
Which only made the silence more unsettling.
Rosie and Katsuki rode in quietly, their boots hitting the earth as they dismounted near the town center. Few people were about at this hour—only a handful of old farmers smoking outside the tavern and a couple heading home from the small chapel on the hill. But neither of them spoke as they moved through the narrow, darkened streets with purpose.
They followed the address given on the list, the client's handwriting sharp and precise. The victim’s home was easy enough to spot: a small two-story cottage with faded blue shutters and a crooked iron fence, one that now stood slightly ajar.
The scent hit them first.
Blood.
Fresh and heavy.
Katsuki’s hand slid to one of his blades. Rosie said nothing, her footsteps silent as she approached the door. It was already open, just slightly—enough for a flicker of lantern light to escape from inside.
They stepped into the house together.
The interior was modest, warm once—herbs hung from ceiling beams, and children’s drawings were still pinned to the wall—but the warmth had died with its inhabitants. In the center of the parlor lay a man and woman, throats slit cleanly, their eyes still open in frozen shock.
No signs of a struggle. No noise. Just precise, clinical death.
Rosie’s brows furrowed as she stepped back outside. A woman was passing by, carrying a bundle of cloth and looking warily at the open door.
“Excuse me,” Rosie called gently. “Do you know when they were found?”
The woman slowed, clutching the cloth tighter. “Only a few hours ago,” she said, voice hushed. “But… it happened this morning. The neighbor came ‘round when they didn’t show for supper.”
Rosie nodded once. “Thank you.”
The woman crossed herself and hurried on.
She turned back to Katsuki, her voice low. “It happened hours ago. He’s already gone.”
He looked down at the corpses, then out toward the fields beyond town. “We move to the next target.”
Rosie didn’t argue. “It’s a half-day’s ride from here. If he’s fast, he’s probably already made it there.”
Katsuki shook his head. “No horses were bought or stolen today. I checked when we rode in—stables are locked up, and the merchant hasn’t had a sale. He’s still on foot.”
Her eyes widened slightly at that. “Then we can catch him.”
“As long as we don’t stop.”
Rosie’s lips parted into a sudden grin, her eyes alight with energy. Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed Katsuki’s hand, tugging him toward the stables. “ Let’s go then! ”
He grunted, half-stumbling after her, but didn’t pull away.
Their boots pounded across the cobblestone as they ran, the urgency of the chase reigniting between them. Behind them, the sleepy little town sank back into darkness. But ahead? Ahead lay the next kill and maybe, just maybe—their chance to stop it.
The sun sat proudly at its highest point in the sky, casting sharp golden light over the cobbled streets and terracotta roofs of the bustling city. Rosie and Katsuki arrived just as the morning market was thinning out, the smell of fresh bread and citrus mixing with the warm, dusty scent of stone that baked beneath the sun. The city, surrounded by old stone walls and guarded watchtowers, was far livelier than the sleepy village they’d left behind, and far less trusting of strangers.
After passing through the main gate, they'd split—Katsuki dismounted without a word, reins in hand, already heading toward the stables to settle their horses and secure lodging for the night.
Rosie, however, had a different goal.
The next target on the assassin’s list was a nobleman—Maeben Illoran, a modest-ranking lord known more for his quiet philanthropy than any political ambition. A widower and father to twin boys who had been sent to the capital for apprenticeship, Maeben lived in a finely kept home on the eastern edge of the city, near the river that split the merchant quarter from the noble district.
With her hood pulled low over her face and her cloak pinned tight, Rosie slipped into the rhythm of the city like a shadow stretching along the wall. She spent the next several hours weaving in and out of alleys, watching from shaded alcoves, and keeping herself on the move. She tailed Maeben discreetly as he moved through his day—first visiting the orphanage he sponsored near the chapel, then speaking with a tradesman in the marbleworks, and finally stopping at a small street café for tea and a chat with a city guard captain.
There were no guards around his estate, no overt signs of fear or paranoia. He didn’t carry a weapon. He didn’t look over his shoulder.
To Rosie, it was like watching a lamb graze with wolves in the woods. She stood perched on the second-floor balcony of an abandoned building across from the café, barely visible through a sliver in the cracked wooden shutters, when something prickled in her chest— intuition .
Her gaze swept the crowded street below—and stopped. Across the way, leaning casually against a stone column just outside the tailor’s shop, stood a man.
He was dressed as a civilian: a simple dark tunic, well-fitted breeches, worn leather boots. There was nothing suspicious in his manner—no shifting glances, no concealed weapons, no glint of armor beneath the cloth.
But Rosie’s trained eye caught the stillness . That unnatural calm. The way he wasn’t watching the café like the other onlookers. He was watching Maeben.
Her breath hitched.
He was handsome —undeniably so— with sharp, symmetrical features and well-combed dark hair that fell just to his jawline. His build was athletic but not bulky, his demeanor polished. There was an elegance to the way he leaned into the shadows, like a man used to moving undetected. But his eyes —those cold, calculating eyes— tracked Maeben’s every movement with disturbing precision.
Rosie narrowed her gaze.
Too clean. Too deliberate.
He shared features with the sketch of the convict. Not an exact match—but close. The same bone structure. The same slightly crooked left brow. The same calm eyes that seemed to look through people instead of at them.
But this man? This one was polished. Refined. A hunter in sheep’s clothing.
Her heartbeat quickened as she slipped back from the window, pressed herself to the wall, and exhaled slowly. “I found you,” she whispered under her breath.
And he had no idea she was watching him.
Rosie stayed in the shadows, carefully descending from the second-story balcony and melting into the crowded street below. Her eyes never left the man near the tailor’s shop. She weaved between townsfolk, merchants, and delivery carts, moving closer without drawing attention. Her hand rested casually on her belt, fingers brushing the edge of a throwing knife.
Then she saw it— a flicker of movement in the man’s eyes. He wasn’t watching Maeben anymore. He saw something —or someone— just beyond the crowd. His posture shifted subtly, like a predator sensing danger. Then, without hesitation, he ducked into the alley between the cobbler’s and apothecary, disappearing into shadow.
“Shit,” Rosie breathed and took off at a light jog, sticking to the outer edge of the street.
But before she could reach the alley— Katsuki dropped into view. Like a ghost of war, he landed with a hard thud on the rooftop above, cloak snapping behind him. His red eyes locked on the fleeing man below.
“Target’s on the move!” he barked.
Rosie barely registered the words before he was leaping again, giving chase across the rooftops, fast and relentless. But as Rosie darted into the mouth of the alley, a flicker of motion to her left caught her eye.
Maeben, the nobleman was running, full sprint and in the opposite direction of the assassin.
“What—?” she muttered, confusion slicing through her.
Without another thought, she pivoted on her heel and bolted after Maeben. He ran like a man possessed, cloak flying behind him, fear written in every line of his body. Rosie was faster, her elven agility slicing through the crowded alleyways like a knife through silk. She leapt over crates, ducked under hanging laundry, and finally caught him as he turned sharply into a narrow passage and stumbled.
She tackled him hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, but not enough to injure. He thrashed beneath her briefly until she pinned him with one hand and braced the other against the wall beside his head.
“Stop running!” she hissed. “Why are you running?”
He gasped, wide-eyed and pale, as if she were a ghost herself. “I—I saw him! I saw—”
“Saw who?” she demanded, brows furrowed.
He swallowed hard, sweat pouring down his face. “A ghost.”
Rosie blinked. “What?”
“I saw him,” Maeben whispered, eyes darting to the end of the alley like he expected death itself to round the corner. “He’s supposed to be dead. I saw him fall—years ago—I saw them bury him. But it was him. Same face. Same eyes. ”
Rosie's grip tightened. “What are you talking about?”
“You need to let me go,” the man stammered again, his voice barely more than a rasp, trembling like dry leaves in the wind. “Please. If he saw me—if he knows I’m still alive—he’ll finish the job. I was supposed to die back then. I shouldn’t be here.”
Rosie didn’t move. She remained crouched, one knee pressing into the cobblestone, her hand braced beside the nobleman’s head to pin him in place. Her eyes studied him—really studied him—for the first time not as a mark or victim, but as a man unraveling at the seams.
“The assassin,” she said slowly, voice steady despite the crackling tension in the alley.
The nobleman nodded furiously. “Yes. It was him. I swear it. I saw him fall into the ravine. I saw his body. They burned it—gods, I watched the fire myself! But it was him. He’s alive, and he’s coming back for the rest of us.”
Rosie felt her breath catch in her throat. The list. The names. It wasn’t a new hitlist—it was an old one, unfinished.
The nobleman clutched at her arm now, desperate. “You don’t understand. He was trained to kill people like me. Traitors. Whistleblowers. Those who knew too much. My sons—my sons don’t even know who I was before I sent them away. I had to vanish. Disappear. And now—he’s back.”
Rosie hesitated, heart pounding. Then, she released him.
“Go,” she said firmly, helping him to his feet. “Ride for the capital. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Find your sons. Stay with them. Don’t look back.”
The nobleman blinked, stunned. “You’re letting me go?”
“I’m not here for the drama,” she replied, already turning away. “I’m here to do a job.”
She disappeared around the corner without waiting for a response, cloak snapping behind her as her boots hit the wet stone in quick strides. The rooftops overhead loomed dark against the afternoon sun as she ran, weaving through the maze of alleys, retracing the path Katsuki had taken. She didn’t stop, instead she just followed instinct and the quiet humming of tension in the city air.
Finally, she found him. Katsuki stood in a dead-end alley, breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The wall beside him bore a fresh dent, his hood had fallen back, revealing damp strands of ash-blond hair clinging to his brow.
She slowed her steps and approached carefully. “Katsuki?”
He didn’t look at her right away.
“ He escaped. ” The words were low and harsh, forced through clenched teeth.
Rosie sighed softly, stepping beside him. “Then we spooked him. He knows we’re close.”
He turned his head sharply. “ Too close. He moved like a damned phantom. He knew I was behind him before I even got the drop. Changed pace mid-run, cut through the smoke chimney—I almost lost my footing.”
“But you didn’t,” she offered gently.
His jaw twitched. “Doesn’t matter. I still lost him.”
Rosie exhaled and leaned against the wall beside him, their shoulders nearly touching. “It wasn’t for nothing. I spoke to Maeben.”
Katsuki’s eyes narrowed.
“He saw the assassin,” she explained. “And he knew him. Recognized him. Said he was dead—killed years ago. But now he’s resurfaced, and he’s finishing what he started.”
Katsuki went still, absorbing the words.
Rosie pushed off the wall. “We should head to the next target. If he’s working down a list, he won’t stop now. And after this? He’ll be twice as careful.”
Katsuki nodded once, gruff. “Then we don’t give him time to disappear again.”
Rosie turned her gaze toward the west gate. “It’s a few hours’ ride. If we leave now, we can beat nightfall.”
He rolled his shoulders, his frustration coiled tight—but focused. “Then let’s finish this.”
Rosie had never been to the city of Limaerian—a sprawling, salt-stained port tucked between cliffs and sea. It was a place of weary sailors and crooked fortunes, where fog slithered in off the water like smoke and the moonlight reflected silver off every slick surface. Tonight, the city slept uneasily beneath a heavy shroud of mist, the air thick with the scent of fish, brine, and rain-soaked stone.
She moved like a shadow through it all. Dressed head-to-toe in black—tight combat pants, a corset that hugged her waist and long sleeves fitted to her wrists—Rosie was armed with daggers hidden in every crease and seam of her outfit. Her cloak shifted softly behind her, hood drawn, face obscured by a smooth black mask that covered everything from her nose to her chin.
Silent. Invisible. Watching.
Her heels clicked faintly against the cobblestone as she skirted the outer edge of the manor’s second floor, having scaled the side wall with ease. The fog clung to everything, swallowing noise, and lending an eerie silence to the narrow walkways. Through her peripheral vision, she could occasionally glimpse the guards patrolling below—Katsuki among them, wearing the silver-crested mask of the estate’s elite guard. He hadn’t spoken before he left. He hadn’t needed to. They understood each other without words now.
She was to find him. He was to protect the target.
Her eyes scanned every window, every balcony, every odd creak of old wood.
She was patient and focused. She finally stepped inside through a second-floor window—left open, despite the damp chill—her instincts screamed.
The room was too quiet and too... expectant.
Her sharp eyes swept the room, quickly noting the fireplace long since gone cold, the bed still made, the candles freshly burned out... save for one flickering lamp sitting by the writing desk, casting long, flickering shadows. Rosie’s hand moved instantly. She flicked her wrist, a dagger flying with deadly precision. The lamp shattered, and darkness swallowed the room whole and that was when he moved.
A blur of motion, fast and fluid, as the assassin burst from the armoire on her left, a gleam of silver arcing toward her neck. Rosie dodged just in time, twisting low to the ground and kicking outward. He leapt over the strike and came down hard, forcing her back, his attacks swift, controlled, elegant. She parried with her forearms, blocking and redirecting his strikes with barely a breath between them.
Steel clashed in the dark, footfalls muffled by the heavy rug. He moved with the precision of someone trained—deadly, clean, and without hesitation.
But so did she.
They fought in tight quarters—Rosie using the furniture, leaping over chairs, dodging behind a bedpost, launching counterstrikes from angles designed to cripple. But he was good. Too good. He matched her pace, until finally he caught her.
One wrong turn, one second too slow and he had her.
He slammed her down onto the writing desk, a dagger pressed tightly to her throat, his breath hot and rapid against her face. He pinned her wrists beneath his knees, straddling her as he stared down into her shadowed eyes.
Then, with a swift flick, he tore the mask from her face. His brows furrowed, “…An elf?”
He sounded… confused.
That moment of hesitation was all she needed. Her knee came up, fast and sharp, catching him just enough to rock his balance. Her left wrist slipped free. She grabbed his forearm, twisted, and used his own weight to flip them both. In a blur of movement, she was the one on top, straddling his waist, her blade now pressed firmly to his throat. Rosie’s eyes gleamed in the moonlight through the open window. “I’m here to bring you in,” she said, breathless but steady. “For escaping your prison. For finishing a kill list that should’ve died with you.”
The assassin’s smirk was slow and razor-sharp, a wolf’s smile in a lamb’s clothing. Even pinned beneath her, with cold steel pressed to his throat, he radiated the calm of a man who’d danced with death far too many times to be shaken by it. “Then you’re in my way,” he said, voice low, his breath ghosting across her face. “I tend to avoid collateral… but you’re no innocent. So I have no problem adding you to my ledger of kills.”
Her jaw tightened, eyes flashing. “Bold of you to think I won’t kill you first,” she growled.
He scoffed, the smile never leaving his face. “Elves are known for many things. Grace. Beauty. Delicate sensibilities. Killing isn’t one of them.”
Rosie bared her teeth like a cornered predator. “I have my own ledger,” she snapped—and pushed the dagger harder, enough to draw a thin line of blood along his neck.
The man’s eyes flared briefly with interest. Not fear.
Amusement.
Then he moved.
A powerful twist of his hips and a sharp buck of his legs sent Rosie flying back. She rolled with the force, hitting the floor in a controlled spin and landing on one knee, her dagger already raised again.
He was on his feet too, wiping the blood from his throat with the back of his hand, eyes gleaming in the dim light.
“That was impressive,” he admitted, circling her slowly. “For someone so delicate.”
Rosie’s mouth curled into a dark smile as she stalked around him, keeping distance. “And you're cocky for someone who just had a blade to their throat.”
“Guilty,” he said with a lazy shrug. “But admit it—you’re having fun.”
She lunged first, blade flashing through the air. He met her with a parry, steel ringing against steel. He was fast—almost unnaturally so—but she was faster than most expected. They moved like water over stone, clashing in close quarters, breaking apart and rejoining in a dance of deadly rhythm.
“You’re good,” he said between strikes. “Who trained you?”
“I taught myself,” she replied, ducking low to avoid a high swipe and slashing toward his ribs.
He pivoted away and chuckled, a glint of admiration in his dark eyes. “Self-taught and still this precise? Saints, you’re full of surprises.”
“Keep talking,” she huffed. “It’ll make gutting you more entertaining.”
He stepped forward, catching her wrist mid-swing. “If I didn’t have to kill you, I’d buy you dinner.”
She spun, using his grip against him and wrenching her arm free, elbowing him in the stomach. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to feed you your own teeth. ”
He staggered back, coughing—then laughed. “Spirited, aren’t you? I think I like that.”
Rosie charged again, fury and precision burning through every strike. He blocked, ducked, dodged, but even he was starting to feel the edges of fatigue. Her dagger grazed his side, then his shoulder, nicking through the dark fabric of his clothes. Still, he grinned like a man who’d found his equal or maybe his next obsession. “What's your name, darling?” he asked as their blades locked.
“Why?” she panted, holding her ground.
“Because if you’re going to haunt my nightmares after this, I’d at least like to know who you are.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Rosie.”
The assassin blinked. Then chuckled again, dark and delighted. “Rosie. That’s cute. Doesn’t fit a killer. I’ll remember it.”
He shoved her back suddenly and with force, enough to send her stumbling a step. By the time she recovered, he was already at the window, balanced on the edge like a shadow with a heartbeat. “See you soon, Rosie,” he said, giving a cheeky salute and then he was gone—vanishing into the fog like a breath of wind, leaving only the echo of his laughter and the scent of rain behind.
Rosie exhaled hard, chest heaving, blade still clenched tight in her hand. “Bastard,” she muttered—but couldn’t help the slight tug at her lips.
Rosie bent down, snatching her fallen mask from the floor, and in one fluid motion, pulled it over her face once more. Her cloak billowed behind her as she sprinted toward the window, eyes narrowed against the cold night wind. Without hesitation, she scaled the ledge and jumped . The fog swallowed her immediately, but she moved like a wraith through it.
Her boots hit the rooftop below with barely a sound. A flash of movement in the distance—just at the edge of the low, slanted roofs—caught her attention. She didn’t hesitate. Darting across the rooftops, she leapt the gaps between buildings with feline grace, using her elven agility and advanced hearing to track the footfalls in the darkness.
He was fast for a human, but she was an elf, and when the timing was perfect, she jumped again —arms out, knees bent—and landed square on his shoulders with enough force to send them both crashing into the slick cobblestone street below. He hit the ground hard with a grunt, and she flipped forward, landing a few feet away in a crouch. She rose slowly, turning to face him, her voice cold beneath the mask. “I can’t let you go.”
The assassin groaned, rolling onto his side, and pushed himself upright with a grunt. Blood trickled from his mouth where he’d bit his tongue, but still— still —he smirked. “I figured you’d say that.” He stood, shaking out his limbs, and looked up at her, expression finally sobering. “But I can’t stop. I won’t stop. Not until the list is completed.”
Rosie tilted her head slightly. “Why?”
He stared at her in the fog—moonlight barely illuminating the edges of his sharp face. For a long moment, he said nothing. And then: “They killed my family,” he said simply.
Rosie’s brows drew together beneath her hood.
He took a slow step forward, not threatening—just… tired. “All of them. My mother. My father. Two younger sisters. Even our dog. Poisoned, then burned. Our home reduced to ash.” His voice was tight, barely controlled. “The people on my list—they were the ones who orchestrated it. For land. For money. For reputation. We were the obstacle, so they removed us.”
Rosie’s fingers loosened slightly on her dagger.
“They painted us as traitors. Said my father was hoarding dark artifacts, consorting with warlocks. Said we were a danger to the realm.” His jaw clenched, eyes burning with something older than rage— grief. “They took everything. My inheritance, my family name, and they blamed it all on me.” He glanced away, jaw twitching. “I survived. I don’t know how—I remember crawling through mud and blood and flame, then blacking out. When I woke up, I was in chains.”
Rosie was quiet.
“They tried to execute me,” he went on. “Only the intervention of a corrupt official saved me—and not out of mercy. I was too valuable alive. I became a message. An example. Then I became a number behind prison bars.” He looked at her again, something raw in his voice now. “I lost everything. My name. My home. My dignity. But I never forgot their faces. I etched them into my memory. One by one.”
Rosie didn’t move, didn’t speak.
He stepped closer. “I’m not a mindless killer. I’m not a thug. I’m a reaper —and I only collect what I’m owed.” His voice dropped lower. “I’ll finish this list… even if I have to go through you to do it.”
Rosie stood still. The fog curled between them like ghosts whispering indecision. Her dagger remained gripped in her hand, but her fingers had loosened. Her body was ready to strike—but her heart, her mind… not so much. You should stop him. He’s a killer. A criminal. This was the mission. Bring him in—dead or alive. Preferably alive. But why does this feel different?
Rosie’s jaw clenched behind the mask as she stared at the man before her. His words echoed louder in her mind than they had in the night air. He was a boy. A son. A brother. Then the world twisted him into something sharp. Something hollow. Something useful to the darkness.
Her heart ached, not just for him—but because… if it had been her? Would she have done anything different? How many had she killed? How many lives had she taken for coin? For contracts? For reasons that, at the time, felt justified ? She wasn’t innocent. He had said it himself, and it had stung—not because it was cruel, but because it was true. What right did she have to judge him ? To play arbiter of vengeance and justice? What made her life’s bloodshed righteous and his... not?
Her eyes flicked to his. He stood still, watching her carefully, breathing light and shallow like a man standing on the edge of something fragile. And then, finally—slowly—Rosie let out a long breath. She lowered her dagger. “Go.”
The assassin blinked. “…What?”
Rosie pulled down her mask just enough for her voice to come out steady and clear in the fog. “You heard me. Go.”
He stared at her, stunned. “…Why?”
She hesitated—then met his eyes squarely. “Because… if I were you, I’d do the same.”
Silence fell heavy between them. She tucked her dagger back into her belt and turned slightly, motioning toward the cliffs behind the estate.
“I’ll tell them I killed you. That your body went over the edge. Into the ocean.”
His throat bobbed in a tight swallow. “You’d lie… for me?”
“No,” she said. “For myself.”
He was quiet, “…thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Just go. Before I change my mind.”
He took a step back into the mist, then paused. “Why? Why would you let someone like me keep killing?”
Rosie didn’t answer right away.
But then she glanced back at him, eyes clouded with something old and weary. “Because… you were right.”
He frowned slightly.
“I’m not innocent,” she admitted. “I’ve killed more than my fair share. Some of them deserved it. Some of them didn’t. I was younger then. I didn’t always ask questions.” She looked away. “I don’t know how many names are in my own ledger anymore. But I know enough to understand that I’m no better than you. And if I’m no better…” Her voice softened, “…Who am I to decide who lives and dies?”
He didn’t answer. There was no argument to be made. Just understanding. A long, lingering moment passed. “Thank you,” he nodded. “I will never forget you Rosie .” Then, with a final nod, he turned and disappeared into the mist.
Rosie stood there in the quiet dark for a long while before pulling her hood up and vanishing in the opposite direction, toward the Inn.
The room at the inn was simple but comfortable—thick stone walls to keep the ocean chill at bay, a crackling hearth in the corner, and a large bed with soft blankets that still smelled faintly of lavender and smoke. The window was slightly ajar, letting in the scent of sea fog and the sound of distant waves crashing against the harbor.
The door creaked open just as Rosie stepped out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind her like mist. Her pink hair was damp and tousled, clinging to her shoulders, and she wore one of her looser shirts over sleep shorts. Her skin glowed from the heat of the water, and she rubbed at her neck with a towel as she blinked at Katsuki stepping into the room.
He stopped in the doorway, one brow arching.
“You finish the job?” he asked, voice low and casual—but laced with curiosity.
Rosie paused, tossing the towel onto a nearby chair. She glanced at him over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. “No,” she said simply.
Katsuki blinked. “No?”
“I let him go.”
He shut the door behind him, frowning now as he took a few steps in. “You what? ”
She exhaled, walking toward the bed and pulling back the covers. “I told him to run. Said I’d tell the client he fell into the sea.”
“You—” Katsuki ran a hand through his hair, staring at her like she’d just announced the sky was green. “Rosie, what the hell? We’ve been tracking him for days. He’s a wanted killer. He’s dangerous.”
“I know,” she said, climbing into the bed and pulling the blanket up to her chest. “But so am I.”
Katsuki stared harder.
She looked up at the ceiling as she continued, her voice quieter now. “He’s not innocent. But neither am I. I’ve done terrible things, Katsuki. Things I’ve never told anyone. I’ve taken lives… some for money, some for revenge. What gives me the right to decide that he doesn’t get the same choice?”
He stood there in the middle of the room, arms crossed, his jaw clenched in that way he always did when frustration crept in and he didn’t quite know where to place it.
“I just couldn’t do it,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the wind beyond the window. She turned on her side, facing away from him, pulling the blanket up to her chin like armor. “Couldn’t kill him and live with myself.”
Silence settled into the room like dust—soft, thick, and impossible to ignore. The fire crackled quietly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the walls. The breeze outside stirred the curtains with a lazy hand, carrying the salt-sweet scent of the sea through the narrow gap in the window.
Katsuki remained where he stood for a long moment, staring at her still form in bed. His jaw was tight, arms crossed, the muscle ticking in his temple with every second he didn’t speak. He wasn’t good at this—these moral gray areas, these soft things that people like Rosie carried so easily and still managed to smile through.
He exhaled slowly, then moved across the room. His footsteps were softer than usual—less warrior, more man. Lowering himself into the chair beside the fire, he rested his elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the flames that danced and sputtered. Orange light played across the sharp lines of his face, softening the edges that rarely ever dulled.
He didn’t say anything at first. Because what could he say? She’d done something he didn’t expect. Something he wouldn’t have, not so easily. And yet…He understood it. Killing wasn’t just the job. For a long time—for too long—he enjoyed it. The clarity it gave. The way it made things simple. Clean. Efficient. But Rosie was different. Her hands were just as stained as his, and yet somehow she still saw the worth in mercy. Still believed some souls could be spared. And it made him wonder… Had he lost that part of himself? Or had it never been there to begin with?
Katsuki dragged a hand through his hair with a sigh. His voice broke the silence at last. “…Alright.”
Rosie stirred, her head lifting slightly from the pillow. She rolled onto her back and pushed herself up, sleep still clinging to her lashes as she looked over at him. “…You mean it?” she asked quietly. “You would’ve let him go too? For me?”
His eyes flicked over to her, meeting hers in the firelight. And though his mouth was set in a familiar scowl, his tone lacked the usual bite. “Yes,” he said.
She blinked, lips parting in surprise.
“But don’t get all mushy about it,” he added quickly, standing and making his way toward the bed. “Now shut up and go to sleep. You haven’t slept in days.”
Rosie’s lips curved into a small smile as she lay back down, rolling to her side once more with her cheek resting on the pillow. “Bossy,” she murmured.
He smirked faintly, pulling the chair closer to the bed and sitting beside her with his arms crossed again. His eyes remained on her face for a few quiet seconds as her breathing slowed. “…Thanks, Katsuki,” she whispered into the dark.
“Yeah, yeah.”
But he didn’t move. Not until her eyes fluttered shut and the fire burned low, casting them both in the warm hush of peace, however fleeting.
The tavern was warm and alive with the scent of roasting meat, spilled ale, and salt from the sea that clung to every stone and timber. Music strummed lazily in the background—some local bard half-drunk and only remembering half the chords—but neither Rosie nor Katsuki paid it much mind.
They were seated in a tucked-away booth near the corner, a pair of mismatched tankards between them, both nearly empty. Rosie was leaned back with her boots propped on the bench, pink hair falling loose from its braid, cheeks flushed from drink and laughter.
Katsuki nursed his second ale, watching her with a familiar scowl that barely masked the amusement behind his eyes.
“So,” Rosie said, twirling her tankard idly between her fingers, “we’ve had food, drink, and no one’s tried to stab us in the last hour. That’s a record.”
“For this town?” Katsuki took a long sip. “Yeah.”
Rosie grinned, her eyes sparkling. “We should celebrate. I vote swimming.”
Katsuki stopped mid-drink and lowered his tankard slowly. “Swimming.”
She nodded, already starting to rise from her seat. “The moon’s out, the tide’s low. I saw a cove just past the dock. Perfect place for a dip.”
Katsuki snorted. “Yeah, sure. If you wanna end up in a watery grave.”
Rosie blinked, halfway pulling on her cloak. “What?”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “These waters are crawling with sirens. Nasty things. Gorgeous from afar, mouths full of fangs up close. They turn women into one of them and lure men into the water to eat ‘em. Slowly.”
Rosie sat back down with a thud. “…Seriously?”
“Dead serious.” He jerked his head toward the tavern wall where a crude painting hung above the hearth. It showed a woman with shimmering skin and black, soulless eyes dragging a sailor into the waves, his face twisted in horror. “They say sirens used to only live deep in the sea, but now? They like hugging the shores. Especially at night. Especially near moonlit coves.”
Rosie frowned. “I’ve never seen one.”
“That’s the idea,” he said dryly. “You don’t see ‘em until you’ve already taken your boots off.”
She gave an exaggerated pout. “So no midnight swim?”
Katsuki raised a brow. “Not unless you want scales and a taste for human hearts.”
Rosie shuddered. “Pass. I like my current dietary preferences, thank you.”
He chuckled into his drink. “Smart elf.”
She leaned forward, chin propped on her hand. “You seem to know a lot about sirens.”
“I killed two last year. Took forever to drag their corpses to shore. Slippery bastards.” He eyed her over the rim of his tankard. “One of ‘em looked like she could’ve been your cousin.”
She made a face. “Charming.”
He smirked. “She screamed like one too.”
Rosie kicked his boot under the table, laughing. “You’re an ass.”
“But a dry one. Which is more than I can say for the sailors who tried swimming after a night like this.”
Rosie lifted her drink in mock salute. “To not dying horribly in the ocean.”
Katsuki clinked his tankard against hers. “Cheers to that.”
Rosie pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and reached down beside her, retrieving a worn leather-bound journal from the satchel she always carried. The corners were frayed, and the strap that held it closed was patched with a bit of green thread. It had clearly seen many roads, many days and nights, many tales scribbled into its pages.
She opened it with care and flipped past sketches, pressed flowers, folded letters, faded ink maps, and clippings of old bounty notes. Katsuki watched her with a raised brow, the firelight catching on the silver loops of her earrings and the ink stains on her fingertips.
He tilted his tankard toward the book. “What’s that for?”
Rosie didn’t look up right away, her eyes focused as she began writing on a blank page in flowing, practiced Elvish script. “My journal. I record everything that happens to me. The creatures I’ve met or killed, the legends I’ve heard, any ruins or artifacts we come across…” She glanced at him briefly, then returned to her notes. “I even write down things people say. Stories. Quotes. Anything worth remembering.”
Katsuki rested his chin on his hand. “Huh. Why?”
“So I don’t forget.” Her voice was soft now. “Elves live a long time, Katsuki. Some of us go centuries without aging more than a blink.” Her quill moved quickly over the page, sketching out a rough outline of a siren’s face with fanged teeth beneath charming lips. “But memories fade. Faces blur. After a few hundred years, people you knew start to feel like dreams you once had.”
She paused, dipping her pen into the inkwell clipped to the inside of the journal. “This helps me remember. Someday, when I’m older—when everyone I’ve known is gone, maybe—I’ll be able to read all this and remember the scent of the tavern we’re sitting in. The things you’ve said. The monsters we’ve killed. How it felt to be alive now. ”
Katsuki blinked, thrown for a moment. It had never occurred to him—how different time must feel to her compared to everyone else. How different he might feel to her as she still believes he is nothing more than human. He cleared his throat. “That’s… smart. Kinda depressing. But smart.”
She smiled without looking at him, her pen still moving. “Don’t worry, you’re mentioned a lot in here.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Mmhm,” she teased, glancing at him from beneath her lashes. “There’s an entire section titled Grumpiest Men I’ve Ever Met. You take up three pages.”
He snorted into his ale. “I better be number one.”
“You’re number only, ” she said with a wink.
Katsuki rolled his eyes but didn’t look away. He watched as she turned another page and carefully added a pressed petal from the flower she’d picked that morning. She was meticulous and thoughtful and quietly wise in a way he wasn’t used to seeing up close.
“What do you think you’ll do when the journal’s full?” he asked after a moment.
Rosie tucked a loose strand of hair behind her pointed ear and smiled faintly. “Start another one. I want shelves full by the time I’m five hundred.”
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and gave a low grunt. “Hope you got a lot of ink.”
“I’ve got a lot of years,” she said, meeting his eyes. “And apparently, a very quotable companion.”
Katsuki scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He didn't say it, but the idea of her remembering him centuries from now —of her writing his name down so it wouldn’t be lost— sat strangely in his chest.
Not bad.
Just strange.
Perhaps he should do the same thing. However, Katsuki wasn’t the sentimental type, nor were his kind really. He wondered if it was a Rosie thing or perhaps it was because she was an elf and maybe they all kept journals like that.
However, the more he stared at her from across the table. He immediately decided it’s just a Rosie thing.
The morning sun had just crested over the tiled rooftops of the coastal town, casting golden rays through the salty air and onto the cobbled streets. The marketplace was alive with color and chaos—merchants shouting over one another, children weaving through stalls, and the mingling scents of baked bread, spiced meat, and ocean breeze thick in the air.
Rosie walked with a practiced grace, a small woven basket hooked over one arm, while Katsuki trudged beside her with his usual scowl that kept most vendors too intimidated to peddle their wares at him. “We need dried meat, bread, healing salves, and—oh, I wanted to find more of that jasmine tea from yesterday,” Rosie chirped, already bouncing toward a spice stand.
Katsuki grunted, squinting at the sun and readjusting the strap of the pack he’d insisted on carrying. “You need tea. We need food. That’s the priority.”
“It is food,” she shot back, grabbing a handful of lavender buds and holding them to her nose. “Some of us enjoy life’s finer things.”
“Some of us don’t need three different herbs for a drink that smells like perfume and makes our water look like soup.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and handed a few coins to the elderly vendor, tucking the sachet of tea into her basket before sauntering off toward the next stall.
Katsuki followed, muttering under his breath, “Can’t believe I’m being dragged through a flower parade…”
At the fruit stand, Rosie began inspecting apples with the scrutiny of a royal chef. She picked one up, turned it, sniffed it, and placed it back down.
Katsuki stared. “You’re not marrying it. Pick a damn apple.”
“I’m making sure it’s not bruised.”
“It’s food, not a date.”
She picked up another one and chucked it lightly at his chest. He caught it effortlessly. “Congratulations,” she grinned. “You’re in charge of apples.”
He grumbled but tossed it into the pack anyway. As they rounded the corner toward a butcher’s stall, Rosie paused at a table selling colorful pastries shaped like little animals. Her eyes lit up, “Katsuki.”
“No.”
“But look—tiny jelly-filled foxes.”
“No.”
“They even have a boar! Like you!”
He gave her a flat stare. “You calling me a pig?”
She beamed. “A very angry one.”
“I’m not buying pastries.”
She bought two. As they continued gathering supplies, their bickering never fully stopped—but neither did the way they moved together so easily. When she reached high for something, he wordlessly handed it to her. When he grumbled about numbers, she counted coin. She bartered like a charmer, he scared the greedy ones off with a single glare.
Finally, arms full and baskets heavier, they stopped at a small bench near the square. Rosie plopped down beside him and handed him one of the fox pastries. “Peace offering,” she said sweetly.
He gave her a long, assessing look as if the very idea of eating a pastry shaped like a fox was a personal insult to his dignity. “…Fine,” he muttered, begrudgingly accepting it with a grunt.
Rosie beamed and leaned forward, hands folded beneath her chin as she watched him like a proud chef awaiting her first review.
Katsuki took a slow, suspicious bite, chewing once, twice, then swallowed. “…It’s not terrible,” he mumbled.
Rosie’s face lit up like the sun cresting over the sea. “Just admit it—you like the pastry.”
“I said it wasn’t terrible.”
“That’s not the same thing, and you know it.” She poked his arm teasingly with a finger. “C’mon. Just say it. ‘Rosie, you were right. This little pastry animal is a masterpiece of culinary craftsmanship, and I will never doubt your sweet tooth again.’ ”
He leveled her with a glare that only made her giggle more. “You rehearsed that line?”
“Maybe.”
“Gods, you’re exhausting.”
“And yet,” she said cheerfully, unwrapping another pastry shaped like a tiny bear, “here you are—still next to me.”
She took a delicate bite of the edge, the jelly glistening at the corner of her lips, then turned to him and held it out halfway, as if offering peace. “Wanna bite?”
He blinked at her, incredulous. “I’m not biting off your pastry.”
“What, scared of a little indirect kiss?”
His eye twitched. “No.”
“Then take the bite,” she said with a grin, lifting it closer to his mouth. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet…” she echoed, eyes glittering.
He huffed, lips twitching into a reluctant smirk. Then without warning he leaned in and took a small bite from the pastry she held up to him, sharp canines just brushing her fingertips. She blinked, not expecting him to actually go through with it.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Her fingers lingered near his face, his eyes on hers, just long enough for the teasing air between them to turn a little heavier—charged and delicate like the breath before a storm.
“...Good,” he admitted finally, chewing. “The filling’s better than the fox.”
Rosie, cheeks slightly flushed, just smiled and took another bite herself. “Told you. They know what they’re doing.”
Katsuki didn’t say anything else, but he watched her as she licked the last bit of sugar off her thumb, her laughter light and unguarded, her eyes shining with that open, easy warmth she never tried to hide. She wore her admiration for him like a badge—unapologetically. Proudly.
It always caught him off guard. And yet… there was comfort in it, too. Familiarity. The kind of closeness he wasn’t sure he knew how to express, but felt all the same.
He didn’t say it. Wouldn’t. Not yet. But he liked her laugh. He liked that she never looked at him with fear. And more than anything, he liked that she was still here. Still choosing to sit beside him, day after day, despite all his sharp edges.
Even if he’d never say it out loud, Katsuki Bakugou knew one thing for sure: He’d follow her into a thousand battles, if only to make sure she came out of every single one smiling like that, so full of warmth and sunshine that just being near her felt like he was being burned.