The sunlight spilled through the thin curtains of Rose’s hotel room, turning the dust in the air into a warm, glittering haze. The contrast from the previous night’s tension was almost comical: here, everything was soft, warm, and annoyingly peaceful.

  Rose, already dressed in a trench coat and a skirt, stood with her hands on her hips like she was announcing a royal decree.

  “Leon,” she said, very seriously, “I would like to go shopping. Right now.”

  Leon, who had been sitting on the floor assembling something for her—he wasn’t sure why she needed a makeup mirror today of all days—slowly closed his eyes. A long, resigned exhale left him.

  “You always say that right when I’ve started doing something,” he muttered.

  “Well then,” Rose said, clapping her hands once in satisfaction, “let’s go.”

  Leon pushed himself to his feet, stretching the stiffness out of his back.

  “Fine, fine. Shopping crisis officially acknowledged.”

  Rose’s lips curled into a smug little smirk.

  “Since you’re my bodyguard, you have to pay for me, right?”

  Leon blinked at her.

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.” She crossed her arms and lifted her chin. “Because you’re supposed to be a gentleman.”

  “A gentleman?” he repeated, brows raised. “That’s what we’re going with?”

  “That’s what I’m going with,” she said, matter-of-fact.

  Leon let out a short laugh, shaking his head.

  “You’re quite the interesting one, Mrs. Rose Brook.”

  Rose, unfazed, tapped her foot.

  “Well?”

  Leon stepped past her toward the door, brushing his jacket sleeve. He glanced back at her with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

  “Whatever you say, Mrs. Brook…”

  Rose’s ears went pink instantly.

  “I— that’s not— Leon!”

  But he was already walking out the door, and she had to rush to catch up, swatting his arm while he tried (and failed) not to laugh.

  Outside, the sun was bright, the street warm, and Rose was grumbling under her breath—yet walking close beside him. Her indignation lasted all of forty seconds before she started pointing at a bakery window and rambling about pastries.

  Leon didn’t mind. Honestly, mornings like this were rare. And… kind of nice.

  ***

  The day unfolded in colors Rose hadn’t worn on her face for a long time.

  Amsterdam’s shopping district was alive, with bright awnings, open-air stalls, and the distant sound of a street musician’s guitar drifting over the steady murmur of people. Rose walked like she had been dropped into a wonderland she had only ever seen in pictures, her eyes wide, her steps practically bouncing. For once, her smile wasn’t sarcastic or mischievous. It was real, soft, almost childlike.

  Leon followed a few paces behind, hands in his blazer pockets, observing her with a calm wariness, as if happiness made her more dangerous than usual.

  She stopped suddenly in front of a clothing store with mannequins in bold streetwear.

  “Leon. Leon. We’re going in here. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

  Before he could answer, she grabbed his sleeve and tugged him inside.

  The store was all dark fabrics, chain details, oversized jackets, and shining boots. Rose made a beeline toward a pair of black flashy boots, lifting them with both hands as if they were sacred.

  “Oh my god…” she breathed. “Leon, look at these.”

  He looked. They were boots.

  Rose tilted the boots toward him, eyes sparkling. “Buy them for me?”

  Leon scratched his neck, exhaling through his nose.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Yay,” she said deadpan, but her eyes betrayed her delight.

  After he paid, she did a little spin in the exit doorway, the bag swinging from her wrist.

  “Next store!”

  “Rose—”

  But she had already spotted another one. A designer boutique with a glowing sign and a mannequin wearing a coat worth more than Leon’s monthly salary.

  He sighed. “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes,” Rose said as she marched in.

  Inside, everything was white, gold, and painfully expensive. Coats, scarves, silk gloves—Rose grabbed whatever she liked with zero hesitation. She piled them into Leon’s arms with the cold efficiency of someone feeding laundry into a machine.

  “This one. And this one. And this one. Don’t drop that one, it’s real alpaca, Mr. Gentleman.”

  Leon stared at her over the mountain of fabrics.

  “Rose, this is—this is an entire ecosystem you’re burying me under.”

  “Shh,” she said, patting a scarf on top. “Bodyguards shouldn’t complain.”

  He muttered a curse under his breath. But he still paid. Again.

  And again, and again, and again.

  The scene began to repeat: Rose saw a store → Rose walked in → Rose grabbed Leon → Leon groaned → Rose gave him a bag → Leon paid.

  By the fourth store, Leon was visibly irritated.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  By the seventh, a muscle in his jaw twitched every time she said his name.

  By the ninth, he was smiling despite himself.

  Somewhere between her excited chatter, her dramatic gasps, the way she clutched a pink sweater to her chest like it was a lost treasure, something in him softened.

  Maybe it was the novelty of seeing her actually happy. Maybe it was the fact that she kept turning around to make sure he was still behind her. Maybe it was because she looked less like Rose Brook, the problem he was assigned, and more like a girl walking freely for the first time in her life.

  Whatever it was, Leon noticed it.

  And he hated noticing it.

  ***

  By the time the sky was streaked with gold, they walked slowly along the Amsterdam canal. Water shimmered beside them, catching the last light like scattered coins. Store bags clinked softly with each step Leon took.

  Rose walked ahead, hugging one of the bags like it was a plush toy. Her cheeks were flushed from excitement, her hair messy from running between stores. She looked… human. Bright. Entirely unlike the girl Leon had been trained to watch carefully.

  Suddenly, she stopped.

  Her face lit up like a lamp turning on.

  “Leon!! Look!”

  She grabbed his wrist before he could ask what she meant.

  “Rose—what—hey—”

  She took off running.

  Right toward a little brick bakery with warm lights and a sign that read:

  Closing for the night soon!

  Leon nearly stumbled trying to keep up as she dragged him.

  “Come on!! Before they close!!” she shouted, almost breathless with giddy urgency. "I'll pay this time!"

  Her fingers were warm around his wrist.

  Her laughter echoed across the canal.

  The bakery’s windows fogged with heat, the smell of bread drifting out as they neared.

  Leon stared at the back of her head, at her blonde hair bouncing as she ran, at the ridiculous bag on her arm, at the joy he couldn’t reconcile with everything he knew.

  Damn you, Rose Brook…

  How the fuck am I supposed to kill you?

  “So you can't kill Mrs. Brook… but killing your own mother was an exception?” A female voice in Leon's ears rang.

  The thought didn’t even have time to echo in Leon’s skull before a voice—sharp, cold, female—cut through him like a hook dragged across bone:

  “So you can’t kill Mrs. Brook… but killing your own mother was an exception?”

  Leon’s breath snapped.

  And the world folded inward.

  ***

  He was small again. Far too small.

  Eight. Maybe younger. A trembling, fragile thing in too-big pajamas, sitting on the dirty kitchen floor with his knees hugged to his chest.

  He was crying—no, screaming—raw-throated, hysterical, the way only a child could.

  His hands clamped over his ears so tightly his arms shook.

  “STOP! STOP! NO!” the little boy screamed. “MAMA! MAMA! I WANT MAMA! N–NO! YOU CAN’T TAKE ME AWAY FROM HER! MAMA! HELP!”

  A hand, rough and shaking, clamped around his tiny arm.

  He was yanked upward so hard his shoulder popped.

  “SHUT UP!!” a woman shrieked. “JUST—just shut your mouth! STOP TALKING!”

  The voice wasn’t just angry.

  It was unhinged, shrill, sizzling with a rage that had been fermenting for days, weeks, years.

  “JUST—just shut your mouth! For once! STOP TALKING! STOP SCREAMING! JUST STOP!”

  The room spun. His little shoes scraped uselessly against the tile.

  Leon twisted, trying to pull away—

  SLAP!

  The noise cracked like a gunshot in a narrow hallway.

  His head snapped sideways violently.

  A burst of pain flared across his cheek, then turned into a numb, buzzing cold. His tears froze midstream. His breath hitched and wheezed in small, animal-like whimpers.

  His vision doubled, then blurred.

  He blinked. And blinked.

  And the woman towering over him slowly came into focus.

  Hair sticking to her face. Eyes sunken deep in her skull, purple with sleeplessness. Teeth grit. Lips trembling. Tears carved down her cheek, but did not soften her expression; if anything, they made her look even more deranged.

  His aunt.

  A woman who used to make him soup, kiss the top of his head, and tuck him into bed when his mom worked late.

  Now she looked like a stranger wearing her skin.

  “A-Auntie… I—”

  THWAP!

  Her hand lashed out a second time—harder, wild, full of adult force and grief and blame. He flew sideways across the room, skidding on the tiles, slamming shoulder-first into the wall.

  He collapsed onto his stomach, mouth open in a silent gasp, tears dripping off his chin.

  He didn’t even get the chance to cry out before—

  KRAA-THUMP!

  A boot drove into his back.

  The weight coming down was merciless.

  Not a push. Not a stomp of anger.

  A press, sustained and deliberate, pinning him like something she was trying to crush.

  The air rushed out of him in a choked, paper-thin sound.

  His ribs creaked under the pressure. His lungs struggled helplessly.

  “I-I—c-can’t… b-breathe…” he whimpered, tiny fingers scraping at the wooden floorboards.

  His aunt leaned over him, hair falling into her face, breath hitting his neck hot and ragged, voice cracking into a jagged storm:

  “WHY DID YOU DO IT?!”

  “YOU LITTLE FUCKING BASTARD!”

  “YOU—YOU DISEASE! YOU GODDAMN PARASITE!”

  Her scream tore through the room like broken glass.

  Leon’s eyes stretched wide in terror. His small body trembled under the crushing weight on his back.

  He didn’t even realize he was crying anymore—his face was wet, his nose running, the salt of tears and mucus mixing with the dust on the floor.

  Her spit flecked his cheek as she screamed again:

  “WHY WOULD YOU KILL YOUR OWN MOTHER?!”

  “WHY WOULD YOU TAKE THE ONLY PERSON WHO EVER LOVED ME!?”**

  “ANSWER ME!! ANSWER ME, YOU LITTLE MONSTER!”**

  Her voice hiccuped, cracked, and then—

  A laugh.

  A broken, choking, high-pitched giggle that didn’t sound human.

  A laugh that said she had finally snapped.

  Leon screamed under her boot, voice raspy:

  “WHAT!? WHAT—!? MAMA ISN’T DEAD!! WHERE IS SHE?! WHERE’S MAMA?! MAMA—MAMA—MAMA!!”

  His aunt froze.

  Something inside her face twisted—grief, guilt, rage, hatred—into a vicious, feral expression.

  “You—” she said, pointing a shaking finger down at him like a curse. “You took mama from me.”

  He choked on tears.

  “N-no—no, I didn’t—Auntie, please—I want her—I want—”

  “SILENCE!!!”

  The word ripped through the air like a blade.

  “You’re the one who took her away,” she hissed. “YOU.”

  Her boot finally lifted off his back.

  He sucked in a desperate, rattling breath.

  His little voice trembled:

  “Auntie… where… where is my—”

  CRACK!

  Her fist punched straight into his face.

  His head whipped sideways. Pain exploded around his eye. A thin line of blood trickled from his lip and dripped onto the floor.

  He curled into a ball without thinking, a tiny animal trying to protect what little he had left.

  He didn’t scream.

  The sound was stuck somewhere deep inside him, swallowed whole by terror.

  His aunt stood over him, chest heaving, hands trembling violently, face twisted into something no child should ever see.

  She opened her mouth, silent.

  Closed it.

  Turned sharply away.

  Her footsteps stumbled as she walked out of the room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the wall.

  The world snapped back into place like a rubber band.

  Leon's breath caught.

  The gloaming sky on the Amsterdam street.

  The river glinted gold.

  Rose tugged him by the wrist, laughing breathlessly as she pulled him toward the bakery.

  For a second, none of it looked real.

  His vision tunneled.

  His legs felt hollow.

  His face went pale, drained, bloodless, eyes blown wide like he’d just crawled out of a grave.

  Rose turned back toward him mid-stride, grinning, her dark blonde hair swaying behind her.

  “Come on, asshole!” she teased. “They’re closing in ten minutes!”

  Her smile, bright, carefree, drunk on the simple joy of pastries, crashed violently against the screaming memory still ringing in his skull.

  Leon swallowed.

  But before he could even answer her—

  Another memory hit him like a blunt weapon.

  The stench of cigarette smoke.

  A cheap motel ceiling stained yellow.

  A phone is vibrating on the bed.

  “Anders?” he whispered.

  A cold, low voice crackled on the other end.

  “You know what happens if you don’t complete the job.”

  Leon’s throat tightened.

  Anders continued, calm as ever—too calm:

  “You get to die in the most brutal way imaginable.”

  Leon flinched, clutching the receiver closer.

  “I’m sure you’d rather keep all that money than choke on your own teeth in an alley somewhere.”

  Leon squeezed his eyes shut.

  “And Leon—one more thing.”

  His stomach dropped.

  Anders’ voice softened in a way that made the hairs rise on Leon’s neck:

  “Don’t grow a conscience.”

  “It won’t save you.”

  “It never has.”

  "Never connect with your targets."

  A blink.

  A gasp.

  Leon jerked back to the present like someone had pulled him up from underwater.

  Rose was still looking at him, head tilted, brows raised, her lips parted in a half-smile.

  “Mr Hendricks? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

  He forced a breath.

  Then another.

  Then another.

  And somehow, miraculously, he pulled the edges of his mouth into a careless smirk.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, voice only slightly shaky. “Something like that.”

  Rose tightened her grip on his wrist.

  “Come on,” she said warmly. “I want a chocolate croissant.”

  Leon let her pull him along through the crowd.

  But the thought echoed in the back of his skull like a whisper with teeth:

  How the hell am I supposed to kill you… Either you die, or I die...