With the end of Nox's speech, a dull silence settled in the space where the target and his assassin stood.
Maxin's brain throbbed from the stress of the situation. Avoiding eye contact with his killer, he looked up at the ceiling, catching a glimpse of her rising from the chair and walking toward the door. The creak of the wood opening sent shivers down his spine, as did the sound of the lock clicking shut. You have no escape. He could hear her voice whispering in his ear.
"You're holding him captive?" Viktor, on the other end of the line, nearly laughed at the absurdity.
"I hesitated. Like a rookie, I couldn't kill him," Nox said suddenly. Viktor straightened his posture, gripping the phone tightly. "I just couldn't kill that bastard. I need punishment or a drowning. I urgently need something to bring me back to my senses."
"You're acting like an idiot. Calm the hell down." As he said it, Viktor himself felt a growing anxiety from Nox's strange behavior.
They had been partners for nearly seven years, and Viktor saw Nox as a top-tier mentor. In all those years, she had always been cold and ruthless. A first-class assassin with flawless aim, who never hesitated to pull the trigger. At times, Viktor questioned whether Nox was even human, given the chilling way she treated people. Like a deadly machine—once you became her target, you'd never see daylight again.
So who the hell is Maxin Romanov? Why is he so hard to kill? And the biggest question of all—why does he make Nox feel like a fool? Like some inexperienced assassin who trembles at the thought of killing? Like a brain tumor, Maxin had embedded himself in her mind and was devouring the part of her that wasn't human, triggering terrifying reactions in a woman who had known nothing but the thrill of killing—and the anxiety of not killing.
"Nox, think carefully. Maxin's face is all over the organization. He's no longer just a mistake you made in the past. Now, Maxin Romanov is the target of the country's most dangerous assassins."
Choosing his next words carefully, Viktor lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. His voice came out hoarse. "This boy could either be your salvation... or your ticket to hell. That's why I'm telling you—either kill him as soon as possible or accept the consequences of protecting him."
Protecting? Protecting Maxin Romanov? The one responsible for the scars on her back? Never. That's not who Nox is, and never will be. Killer blood ran through her veins, and she wouldn't rest until Maxin Romanov was dead—preferably with a clean shot from her favorite weapon right between his eyes.
"I would never protect a target, Viktor. I'm going to kill him. That's a promise."
In that moment, Nox truly believed what she said. She fed on those words, restoring her dark inner self. However, it's safe to say things did not unfold that way.
Daylight still shone through the medium-sized window when Maxin regained consciousness and felt even more pain than before. The door opened again, and the woman entered carrying a white plastic bag.
"Lunch," she muttered, pulling a square-shaped food container from the bag. "It's something you like. No, I don't usually poison my targets. I prefer to kill them myself."
Intimidating, she saw Maxin's shoulders tremble.
She placed the container on the nightstand and came close to Maxin, untying his hands with swift movements. His wrists were free, but her terrifying presence held him like thick, heavy chains.
"Eat."
With a trembling grip on the aluminum spoon, sore wrists, and weak fingers, it took a while before he managed to bring the food to his mouth—a battle between his battered body's protests and his consciousness, which refused to accept anything from her.
"Do you want me to feed you?" she teased, amused, watching his face twist into a furious expression. Damn it, if he could, he'd throw the whole meal in that crazy psychopath's face! But his stomach churned beneath the muscles of his abdomen, desperate for food.
Like a death row prisoner, Maxin experienced what he called the last supper. The taste of his favorite food on his tongue softened his expression. A grain of rice stuck to the corner of his mouth, and the assassin—once again seated in her chair—watched his every move with sharp eyes.
The softness in Nox's facial muscles made her feel numb. Scratching her throat, she glanced at the gun in her hand. Her loyal companion, marked with faint lines of wear. Since yesterday, something had slowly begun to change in Nox. During the night, even her eyes—those that rarely closed—had relaxed, waking her just as the sun rose in the window. It was a disconcerting expression for someone whose mind only ever focused on targets: how to find them, the perfect time for an ambush, the thrill of the kill, and the climax of burying the body.
Raised in that world, Nox was so used to her life as an assassin that going without a target brought on something like withdrawal. Her body nearly collapsed from the lack of a trigger to pull. In extreme cases, she'd find herself biting her own fingers until they bled—just to stop the itching between them.
Seeing Maxin Romanov again, the desperation she felt had transformed into pure excitement, reviving her completely. Making her aware of the world around her. Her gun was thoroughly cleaned, and his photo was printed in the highest quality—just to hang somewhere she'd see it first thing, no matter what she was doing.
Her world began to revolve around Maxin.
The notebook in her hands contained all his schedules. Nox frequented the same places he did. She watched him wake up, memorized his every expression, observed him sleeping, even ate the same meals. She had never had a favorite color—until she noticed the light blue Maxin always wore, and began to see it differently.
Killing him had become more than a desire or a shot at redemption—it had become her reason for living. And now, seeing him in front of her, tied to a single bed, with such a beautiful face—even if stained with tears—his lips shining with sauce and his amber eyes glancing at her from time to time, that fiery urge to kill him was slowly being extinguished... by him. Realizing her decline, Nox shot up from the chair so quickly that it jolted, nearly toppling over.
Maxin, finishing his food, noticed her sudden movement—and realized his hands were free. The door was unlocked.
Like a storm, he leapt to his feet. The plastic container fell, scattering rice on the floor, and Maxin's white-shoed feet stepped onto the wooden boards.
A deep breath escaped from within him, reverberating through his entire body and swelling his heart. Without hesitation, he bolted for the door.
The forest's mossy green nearly blinded him. The towering pine trees made him feel like an ant in a massive world, and panic nearly consumed him. Terrified, he turned toward the lake—and his ears buzzed when he spotted his assassin.
The tall woman in black clothes stared attentively at the dense, dark lake water. The cold breeze brushed both their faces, and Maxin gave one last look before running in the opposite direction, cold sweat clinging to his skin as tree branches whipped at his body.
Like a madman—driven by escape, obsessed with survival—Maxin stumbled and fell into the dark brown earth twice, but didn't care. He got up and kept running until he reached a clearing. The feeling of being watched began to suffocate him. Not now. Please.
His eyes scanned the three paths the forest opened up to him. The sound of his heart pounding in his chest was deafening, and his diaphragm ached from the desperate need to breathe. He briefly closed his eyes—and heard the branches shifting.
Fear transformed into a dangerous beast. Maxin cried, bit his lips hard, and sprinted down one of the paths, praying to God, fairies, or anything to get him out of that forest.
Perhaps the strength of his prayer was so intense that he was finally heard. His legs gave out, and he fell again. But this time, his nearly bloodshot eyes saw something—a road, silent and empty.
Maxin cried, and kept walking, a complete mess: sweaty, disheveled, reeking of earth, but with a faint sense of freedom. He didn't know how long he had been running. He only hoped that assassin would never find him again.
"Hey, you!" Sitting on the curb, resting after who-knows-how-long, a red car pulled up beside him. The dark window rolled down, and a red-haired woman smiled at him.
"Oh, thank God! Please, help me!" Maxin cried, visibly grateful. "I was kidnapped. Please, help me."
The slim redhead's face twisted into a surprised expression at the sight of his bare chest and tortured state.
"Oh my God! Get in, come on!" She leaned over and opened the passenger door.
She watched his trembling form climb into the seat.
Her hands left the steering wheel and reached toward him. Her breath touched Maxin's face, and he shrank back.
"Just helping with the seatbelt. Sorry," she explained when she saw his wide-eyed stare.
Her arm, inked with a black dragon, pulled the seatbelt across and clicked it into place. Her hand brushed his neck, sending chills across his skin. She calmly pulled away.
Drenched in the sensation of freedom, his head soon slumped to the side, asleep. The driver took hold of the wheel, her foot pressed the brake, and a wicked smile spread on her lips, painted in red lipstick.
"He's with me," she confirmed over the phone. "I'll take him to the same place. Wait for me, darling."
Maxin, innocently believing he was safe, didn't glance into the back seat—where a carbine rested, wrapped in a cloth stained with something red.
Two o'clock in the afternoon, Viktor was watching a soccer game, his eyelids heavy with sleep. The TV stayed on the sports program, and a bowl of popcorn rested on his lap.
"VIKTOR! VIKTOR IVANOV!" The loud banging on the front door startled him awake.
He jumped, popcorn spilling over him, as the door trembled from the force of the knocks.
"Viktor…!" Nox's voice came loud and anxious.
Adjusting his glasses, Viktor stood speechless at the sight of the anxious expression on her face.
"Maxin'smissing."