Walking. Running. Walking again. The world shifts and bleeds around me, nothing stays still, and nothing makes sense.

  NOTHING!

  Have to find her.

  Need to find her.

  MUST FIND HER!

  Walking. Running. Searching. The ground turns to liquid then solid then nothing at all.

  Everything changes but I keep moving.

  I CANNOT STOP.

  A girl.

  There's a girl I need to find. Why? Who? Doesn't matter.

  Just need to find her. Everything will make sense once I find her.

  How long? Been searching for so long. Too long…

  Not long enough.

  My body feels heavy.

  Look down - pte armor weighing me down, heavy and… rusty? The rust spreads as I watch but I can't stop it. Doesn’t matter.

  "Where is she? Where? WHERE?"

  A cottage appears.

  Made of cake? Candy?

  Doesn't matter.

  She must be there. Has to be there.

  Sprint towards it. Armor creaking.

  Getting closer.

  "Where is she? WHERE?"

  Reach for the door. Grasp the knob.

  Stop. STOP. STOP!

  Wait.

  Who am I looking for?

  Who?

  WHO?

  And everything swallows me whole.

  ...

  ...

  .

  I violently jolt awake with a sharp gasp that morphs into a jarring scream as something plunges deep into my shoulder. Panic floods my system for a split second before my eyes lock onto a pair of glowing green goggles hovering above me in the darkness. The faint green glow only makes this situation more fucked up than it already is.

  Because he stabbed me.

  HE FUCKING STABBED ME!

  This motherfucker actually had the balls to try and kill me in my own fucking bed!

  I don't even get a chance to spit out a curse before the bastard wrenches the knife free, causing my blood to spsh everywhere. The burning pain that follows makes my vision blur for a moment, but I can't let that slow me down. Not if I want to live through this shitshow.

  My hands instinctively shoot out, grabbing his attacking arm and shoulder as I wrestle with every ounce of strength I can muster. The pain in my shoulder screams at me to stop, but I've been through worse. Much worse. And I'm not about to die to some masked freak in my own bedroom.

  After a brief standoff where neither of us gains the upper hand, I manage to get my legs under him. With a snarl, I kick hard into his stomach, channeling all my rage into the strike. The satisfying crunch and crack as he crashes against my bedroom wall almost makes up for the stabbing.

  Almost.

  I don't waste time admiring my handiwork. Instead, I roll out of bed and spring to my feet, ignoring the throbbing pain because of the sudden move. Just in time too, as my would-be killer recovers with disturbing speed, knife still clutched in his grip, those creepy goggles locked on me like some demented predator.

  The casual way he switches the knife to his left hand before drawing another with a jagged edge sends a chill down my spine. The slow tilt of his head reminds me of a curious cat - if that cat was a psychotic murderer.

  That's when the eerie silence hits me. The only sounds in my room are his mechanical breathing through that gas mask I just noticed and my heart trying to break out of my chest. Not exactly the wake-up call I was expecting tonight.

  I spare a quick gnce at the fresh wound on my shoulder - my sleeveless pajama is already soaked red with blood.

  Fuck.

  At this rate, I'll paint everything red.

  I'm going to bleed out if I don't end this fast. Getting stabbed once was bad enough - I can't afford to let him get lucky again.

  With that reality driving me, I summon my cws. They materialize quickly in my hands as I raise them and drop into a fighting stance, and my senses go into full attention.

  This bastard wants to kill me?

  I will make sure he regrets missing his only fucking chance.

  The masked freak takes this as his cue, raising his dual knives in front of him. There's something practiced about his stance that sets off warning bells in my head. I don’t know why but the way he positioned his feet and arms screams experience.

  My bedroom isn't huge but it's not cramped either. Thank fuck for small mercies. I have enough room to maneuver as I start taking measured steps to my right, keeping my wounded shoulder away from him. My killer mirrors me, sliding left just as slowly like we're caught in some twisted pattern.

  The masked psycho suddenly lunges forward, knives fshing directly into my eyes.

  Shit.

  My instincts kick in and I meet his charge head-on, my cws cshing against his bdes. Sparks fly as metal scrapes against metal, briefly illuminating his expressionless goggles.

  We exchange a flurry of strikes.

  Left, right, below, left, right.

  He's fast - too fast. Not only fast but each swing has precision and power behind it that no ordinary person should have.

  Wait.

  That's when it hits me.

  This bastard has aura.

  The realization catches me off guard for just a split second, but that's all he needs. His fist connects with my jaw in a brutal punch that has me staggering back. Before I can recover, his boot sms into my chest in a vicious dropkick that sends me flying through my bedroom doorway.

  I roll across the floor before crashing into my couch, which thankfully breaks my momentum. The impact still knocks the wind out of me and twists my tail, but I force myself up anyway. Can't afford to stay down with an aura-enhanced killer on my ass.

  My shoulder throbs in protest as I push myself to my feet, blood still seeping from the wound. Just my fucking luck - not only do I have to deal with an assassin, but one with aura.

  This night just keeps getting better and better.

  ‘Css change: Gdiator!’

  I mentally command the switch, my cws dematerializing as my sword and shield appear in their pce. The living room offers plenty of space to work with this css and much better defense and reach.

  The killer steps into the living room with that same deliberate slowness, tilting his head again like some demented puppet.

  Almost like he is just mocking me.

  I raise my shield and snarl, charging forward with a shield bash. But instead of dodging like any sane person would, the bastard takes it head-on. Before I can process what's happening, he grabs the shield with one hand and delivers a precise strike to my elbow with his free hand, hitting it at just the wrong angle. I yell in pain, my grip failing as my arm goes numb.

  Instinct takes over and I swing my sword at his neck, but he's already moving. The bde cuts through empty air as I back away, trying to create some distance.

  I charge in again, but this psycho moves like he's reading my mind. His daggers fsh again before they start blocking and deflecting every swing with unnerving precision no matter the angle I aim for.

  So I press the attack with three quick thrusts aimed at his chest followed by a powerful cleave, but somehow he manages to parry even that with those damn daggers.

  The deflection throws me slightly off bance. Yet that is just enough for him to grab my wrist and deliver another crushing blow to my elbow.

  Pain shoots through my arm like lightning, forcing me to drop my sword before I stumble back, rubbing my throbbing arm as I try to shake off the numbness.

  If I didn’t have aura that would have broken my arm.

  I scowl at the masked bastard, but inside my stomach is turning to ice. This isn't some random assassin - his technique is too refined, too precise. Every counter, every strike... he knows exactly what he's doing.

  And that terrifies me more than I want to admit.

  'Css change: Dancer!'

  The chakrams materialize in my hands as I shift into a more fluid stance, my body naturally falling into the familiar rhythm of this css. My muscles rex… no, my whole body seems to rex as a new calm floods me.

  The bastard now is the one who charges with a flurry of quick strikes.

  But just like I've practiced, I weave between the attacks like they're coming in slow motion. His bde whistles past my ear as I bend backward, the chakrams spinning in my hands to deflect his follow-up strike.

  I twist my body, letting momentum carry me into a graceful spin that brings my weapons up to meet his next attack. The csh of metal rings through my apartment as I use the force of his strike to fuel my own movement, flowing around him.

  Using my newfound speed, I dance away to create distance, then unch my chakrams. They slice through the air in deadly arcs, ricocheting off the walls with precision before striking him from the sides. And much to my satisfaction they tear through his hood… only to reveal armor underneath the fabric.

  Shit. So much for ranged attacks.

  With that armor I won’t be able to do much, forcing me to be close and personal again.

  I close the gap in a blur of motion, but this time I'm different. My body moves with a fluid grace that seems to throw off his timing. Each thrust of his daggers meets empty air as I sway just beyond his reach, doing my best to keep my movements smooth and as unpredictable as possible.

  Where he's all sharp angles and direct strikes, I'm using curves and misdirection just like Neo moves.

  His frustration becomes evident in his increasingly aggressive and wild swings, yet still, no sound coming from him, not even a growl. But that won’t distract me as now it is me who can read the bastard.

  I duck under a wild ssh, spinning past his guard. My chakram deflects his second dagger while I pivot on one foot, using his own momentum against him.

  As he stumbles slightly, I spot my opening. My hand shoots out to grab his shoulder, using it as an anchor point. In one swift motion, I unch myself up, my body twisting like a coiled spring before releasing into a devastating spinning kick that connects squarely with his chest.

  The impact sends him crashing into the wall hard enough to crack the pster. A smirk spreads across my face as I nd in a graceful crouch, chakrams still spinning idly in my hands.

  After all his earlier dominance, the tables have finally turned. The bastard might have aura and skill, but he can't hit what he can't touch.

  So this is what Neo feels like.

  I quite like it.

  My attention snaps back to the now-trapped killer as he pushes himself off the wall. His legs wobble before giving out completely, sending him face-first onto the floor as his green aura shatters like gss and dissipates into the air.

  “What?” My ears perk up in surprise.

  Just one kick was enough to break his aura?

  Either he had pathetically weak aura reserves, or I hit him harder than I thought.

  Not that it matters now, I need to end this before he comes up with new surprises.

  Part of me wants to interrogate him, find out why he tried to kill me, but then it clicks. This has to be the same piece of shit who tried to ambush me outside Junior's club earlier. The timing's too perfect to be a coincidence.

  That realization sends a chill down my spine. I made damn sure to take different routes home, doubling back and mixing up my path to throw off any tail. The fact that he still found me is... fucking scary as fuck.

  I step closer, pnning to stomp his head until I'm sure he won't be getting up again. But just as I get within range-

  The bastard suddenly springs to life, lunging at me with frightening speed.

  "SHIT! SHIT!"

  We crash to the floor in a tangle of limbs, and suddenly he's on top of me, both hands forcing a dagger down toward my throat.

  I barely get my hands up in time, muscles straining as I hold the bde at bay. The cold steel hovers inches from my neck, trembling with our combined effort.

  The muscles in my arms burn as I struggle to keep the knife away from my throat. Every second feels like an eternity as the dagger inches closer, my strength slowly failing against his.

  Sweat drips down my face as panic starts to cw at my chest. The mechanical breathing from his mask seems to grow louder, more menacing. Those green goggles stare down at me, emotionless, watching as the knife draws ever nearer to ending my life.

  I can feel my arms trembling, starting to give way. The tip of the bde is close enough now that I can feel its cold kiss against my skin.

  Is this it?

  This is how I die? After everything I went through, and all the effort to keep going, I am going to be stabbed in my own apartment by some masked freak?

  No.

  NO!

  I REFUSE!

  Something primal erupts from deep inside me. A roar tears from my throat as I summon one st desperate surge of strength. I twist my body violently, redirecting the bde just enough that it plunges into the floor beside my head.

  The killer's momentary surprise is all I need. I sm my forehead into those creepy goggles with everything I have. The impact sends pain shooting through my skull, but I barely notice it. My hand moves on pure instinct, grabbing the embedded dagger and wrenching it free.

  One move.

  That's all it takes and the bde sinks deep into his throat with a wet bloody sound.

  His body goes rigid, hands clutching uselessly at his weapon buried in his neck.

  Hot blood spills over my hands as the now-dead bastard makes a horrible gurgling sound behind his mask.

  Those glowing green goggles stare down at me, but I simply kick him off me.

  I roll to the side and scramble to my feet, staring at my now bloodied hands.

  And why are they shaking?

  The man writhes on the floor, making horrible gurgling sounds through his mask as he desperately gasps for air. The distortion from the mask makes it sound even more grotesque like some broken machine slowly winding down. Each wet gasp for some reason gives me nausea.

  Eventually, his movements become weaker, more sporadic, until they stop altogether. Those glowing eyes dim until they go dark, like someone flipping a switch.

  And just like that, he is dead.

  Only then do I let out a long, shaky sigh as I stumble back against the wall. My legs give out and I slide down until I hit the floor, my whole body trembling.

  I sit there panting as everything crashes down on me at once. There's a dead body in my apartment.

  Sure, it was self-defense - the bastard tried to murder me in my sleep - but still... I've beaten people before, left them bloody and broken, but never... never like this. Like, maybe the guys I beat up died ter, but I didn’t kill them directly… probably, maybe?

  Yeah, I didn’t kill before.

  This is the first time and this bastard was asking for it.

  HE FUCKING TRIED TO KILL ME FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

  Yet, that doesn't matter because one thing… one small fucking detail.

  I won. I fucking won.

  Like before I survived what this shitty world threw at me.

  I grab my head and let out a hysterical ugh that borders on madness. It echoes through the room until it quickly turns into a pained gasp as my shoulder reminds me that I still have a fresh bleeding wound. My sleeveless pajama top is completely soaked red - I can barely tell where the original color ends and the bloodstains begin.

  Cursing under my breath, I yank it off and ball it up, pressing it against the wound. I take deep breaths through clenched teeth, hissing at the pressure. Maybe that's why I'm not freaking out over… well everything that just happened.

  Still hurts like a bitch, but at least I'm ALIVE to feel it.

  Unlike the piece of shit over there.

  So why are my hands still shaking?

  The thought makes me ugh again, but it comes out hollow. My ears fttened against my head as I tried to stop my hands. This isn't how I expected my night to go. Not even close.

  "I shouldn't have picked that shard..."

  The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. All this shit started with that damn shard. This bastard must have thought it was some precious gem worth killing for.

  Instead, all I got was that fucking nightmare and a knife in my shoulder.

  "Now what am I even supposed to do now?"

  [Congratutions you have leveled up!]

  ?

  "What?"

  WHAT?

  I stare dumbfounded at the notification, my mind struggling to process what just happened. Then my eyes drift back to the corpse, and the pieces click together with sickening crity.

  I leveled up... from killing him.

  The implications hit me like a bucket of ice water. Killing people gives experience points - there's no other expnation. And since I was far from leveling up before... this must have given me a shit ton of experience.

  Or am I just assuming?

  ‘Status’

  Ma’iq Rakhan

  Race–Feline Faunus

  Age 18

  Css: The pugilist

  Level–19 (87%

  )

  Mentor – (Neopolitan)

  Apprentice– Jeanne d’Arc

  HP – 661/900 [80 regen per minute]

  MP – 1211/2330 [350 regen per minute]

  SP – 1876/3410 [270 regen per minute]

  STR–73

  END–62

  DEX–72

  INT–46

  WIS–43

  CHA– 51

  LCK–10

  Status:

  [The Big One protects yes, yes!]

  BLOCKED [Y????o???????u????????? ????????????c??????????????a???????????????n????????????????’????????????????t???????????????? ???????????????e??????????????s????????????c?????????a???????p????e?? (PERMANENT)

  Apprenticeship: 25% of exp gained from apprentice actions.

  I scan through my stats, and the blood drains from my face.

  No, that... that can't be right.

  Killing this bastard didn't just level me up - it nearly gave me TWO levels.

  TWO!

  I cannot help but wonder what to do.

  If killing him gave this much experience, then all those Grimm-hunting expeditions were a waste of time. I should have just killed that bald bastard months ago and I wouldn’t have suffered that much back then. Hell, I could head to the slums, and take out some thugs. Nobody would miss them. People might even thank me for cleaning up the streets and-

  "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

  I shake my head violently, trying to clear these twisted thoughts. The blood loss must be getting to me. Yeah, that's it. I'm just confused, or something about shock. Need to focus on what matters right now.

  My eyes drift back to the corpse, just lying there in a pool of now-dried blood.

  I need help, and fast.

  The wound in my shoulder is still bleeding, but I can't exactly walk into a hospital. They'll ask too many questions, and probably call the VPD. Next thing I know, Ozpin's breathing down my neck again, and that's a mess I really don't need right now.

  I press the reddened cloth harder, hissing through my teeth.

  Fuck…

  Think, damn it. Think

  Who can help me clean up a body and patch a stab wound without asking too many questions?

  Neo.

  I fumble for my scroll with my free hand, trying not to smear too much blood on the screen as I type out a quick message.

  Just the essentials.

  Need help, and my new address.

  She's never been to this pce before after all.

  Fuck, I regret not telling her. If I did then she would have stayed for the night and none of this would have happened.

  The scroll slips from my trembling fingers as soon as I hit send. I lean back, my head thudding against the wall as I try to steady my breathing. Long, slow breaths.

  In and out.

  Just like Jeanne and I practiced many times together.

  But it's hard to stay calm with a corpse staring at me from my living room floor. Those dark goggles feel like they're still watching me, even though I know the lights are out. Even though I know he's dead.

  I killed him. I actually killed someone tonight.

  The thought keeps circling in my head as I wait for Neo.

  What else can I fucking do?

  -Neopolitan-

  Neo stalked up to her kitten's new apartment, absolutely fuming that he'd moved without even telling her.

  The nerve of that cat!

  A proper spanking was definitely in order - maybe even two, since nobody kept secrets from her, especially not her precious pet. She had half a mind to make him sleep on the couch tonight if she wasn't feeling merciful.

  But that message... something was very wrong. Her kitten would never write so curtly, so... un-kitten-like. Her grip tightened on her spike as various scenarios - each more unpleasant than the st - fshed through her mind.

  If someone had touched what was hers…

  She rapped sharply on the door, every muscle coiled like a spring, heterochromatic eyes narrowed and scanning for any movement in the hallway.

  "Just open it!" Her kitten's voice strained with pain.

  Her heart skipped a beat, and not in the usual fun way it did when he made those cute little sounds.

  The second she stepped inside, the copper stench of dried blood assaulted her nose. A body sprawled near the entrance, knife still lodged in its throat. The face was vaguely familiar, but that didn't matter because her kitten-

  Her kitten was slumped against the wall, shirtless and pressing what looked like a torn shirt against a nasty shoulder wound, his face twisted in pain. Those fluffy cat ears she loved to pet were ft against his head.

  Neo was at his side in an instant, her earlier anger temporarily forgotten but carefully filed away for ter punishment.

  Someone had hurt what was hers.

  Someone had made her kitten bleed.

  Someone was going to die. Slowly. Painfully. And she would enjoy every second of their screams.

  But first, she had a kitten to patch up.

  She gently grabbed his hand, moving it and the blood-soaked cloth aside to examine the wound properly.

  Not too bad once she got a good look - nothing vital had been hit, just unfortunately pced to bleed a lot. His aura was already working on it, the edges slowly knitting together, but it needed stitches and proper cleaning if she wanted it to heal faster and cleaner.

  "It's bad, isn't it?" he breathed out through clenched teeth, his cat ears twitching erratically.

  Neo patted his good shoulder before darting to the bathroom - first aid kits were always there, and she'd already spotted this apartment's yout. Throwing open the medicine cabinet, she found the red cross box and quickly rifled through it. Alcohol, bandages, and - oh, how convenient - a sealed needle with surgical thread. Someone had come prepared.

  She always approved of convenience.

  Racing back to his side, she grabbed one of the couch pillows that had been knocked to the floor during whatever fight had happened here. She knelt in front of him, making sure to catch his eyes with hers.

  Her kitten needed to understand exactly what was coming.

  'This will hurt.'

  She stuffed the pillow in his mouth, waiting for his nod of understanding.

  Her kitten was so brave, even when hurting. She'd have to reward him ter - after she found out who needed to die for this, of course.

  Then she started cleaning the wound.

  The reaction was instant as he screamed, but it was muffled by the pillow.

  She'd caused enough pain in her life, and enjoyed it, to know exactly how this felt, but it needed to be done.

  The stitching was even worse - every pass of the needle made him jerk and grunt, his muscles tensing under her hands. A thin sheen of sweat covered his skin now, and she could feel him trembling slightly. She worked as quickly as she could while staying precise - no sense leaving ugly scars on her pet. She liked his skin just the way it was.

  Finally done, she wrapped the bandage around his shoulder with practiced care. She'd had plenty of experience patching up injuries, though usually they were ones she'd caused herself. Or helped Roman with after particurly rough jobs. Still, the principle was the same - clean, stitch, wrap, and make sure her patient stayed still long enough to heal.

  Neo leaned forward to pnt a soft kiss on his head, followed by a quick pat and a grin.

  ‘See? All better. ‘

  Though she'd be keeping a close eye on that shoulder tomorrow, she was pretty sure it would be fine but just to be sure.

  Her kitten dropped the pillow from his mouth with a relieved sigh.

  “T-Thanks. Fuck, didn’t think it would hurt this bad.”

  Only then he was nudging his head toward the body behind her.

  Ah yes, their uninvited guest. She sauntered over to examine the corpse, rolling it over for a better look. The familiarity that had been nagging at her suddenly clicked - this was that creepy masked guy Cinder had brought along days ago.

  Or was it a week? Time got fuzzy when you were having fun.

  No, focus. Weird mask guy. Dead on her kitten's floor.

  So why had he tried to kill what was hers? Had that fire-breathing bitch actually ordered this? The thought really pissed her off, just another reason to just slit that bitch throat.

  She gnced back at her kitten, then at the body again. Questions could wait until her kitten had rested. Right now, she needed to deal with their little dead problem, and she knew exactly how.

  Fill a barrel with acid, rocks, and some metals, pass it off to those mindless trash boats, and let the ocean take care of the rest. Child's py really - she'd done it enough times to have a favorite acid supplier.

  Neo paused her pnning as she noticed his hands trembling slightly.

  Ah, first kill jitters. She'd seen it before - remembered when she'd made her first kill too, though she couldn't say she'd had the same reaction. If anything, she'd been disappointed it was over so quickly.

  But her kitten... well, she wasn't surprised. Not after he'd stopped her from finishing off that thug at the warehouse.

  Still, he was handling it better than most. No hysteria, no crying, no dramatic moral crisis. Just quiet shaking. Nothing some company couldn't fix, and she was more than happy to provide.

  The dead body could wait. Her kitten needed her more right now.

  She slid down next to him, settling on his left side where the shoulder wasn't injured. Leaning her head against him, she felt some of the tension leave his body before she sneaked her hand to grab his, and much to her delight he responded in kind!

  Her presence always did have that effect on him.

  The corpse wasn't going anywhere, and she had all night to deal with it. Right now, this was exactly where she needed to be - next to what was hers, making sure he was okay.

  However she did make a mental note to teach him how to kill cleanly. If he was going to start taking lives, he might as well learn to do it efficiently.

  Like her.

  Bonus scene: Something isn’t right

  -Roman Torchwick-

  Managing operations had always been his forte - the art of the heist, the thrill of outsmarting everyone. But those were retively small-scale jobs, the kind where he could personally orchestrate every dramatic flourish. Now he found himself drowning in multiple rge-scale smuggling operations, and the irony wasn't lost on him.

  The great Roman Torchwick reduced to paperwork.

  The thought of being chained to a desk, micromanaging every tedious detail to ensure nothing went wrong, made him want to put Melodic Cudgel through the nearest wall. But that was his reality now, courtesy of that fire-wielding psychopath Cinder and her oh-so-subtle threats to reduce him to ashes. His fingers drummed irritably against the mahogany desk as he remembered the good old days - pnning eborate heists, making the VPD look like the incompetent fools they were, and giving those self-righteous Huntsmen a show they'd never forget as he made his theatrical escapes. Back when he was the one calling the shots, not some megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur.

  But those were just memories now, weren't they? Just another reminder of how the world loves to kick you when you're down.

  His present consisted of mind-numbing paperwork and endless calls to subordinates who couldn't tell their elbows from their asses. The only thing keeping him from losing what was left of his sanity was the profit from his newest venture - that mysterious client who paid handsomely for Atlesian scrap. And being the paranoid survivor he was, he'd naturally done some digging into why anyone would want such quantities of garbage.

  Cheap materials and electronics.

  Every single shipment was headed straight to Vacuo, the same dustbowl where the initial Dust shipments and weapons had gone. A pattern was forming in his mind, and he didn't like it one bit. Was that witch Cinder pnning to spark an insurrection in Vacuo?

  Wouldn't be the first time that it happened due the anarchist nature of that kingdom.

  He took a long drag from his cigar, watching the smoke curl upward. Sometimes he wondered if prison wouldn't have been the easier option.

  He shook his head, dispelling the thought. Prison wasn't an option - not unless he wanted Cinder to arrange a tragic "accident" in his cell. She wouldn’t even be subtle about it, just a tragic accident where he was burnt to death.

  The creak of his office door interrupted his brooding, and he lifted his gaze to find that same mysterious figure darkening his doorway. The man's getup was as ridiculous as ever - worn-out clothes and knockoff Atlesian armor that wouldn't fool a blind person. But it was those unnerving green glowing eyes and that rasping gas mask breathing that really got under his skin.

  "Well, well," Roman drawled, theatrically spreading his arms. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Can't you see I'm absolutely swamped with your little shopping lists?" His voice dripped with sarcasm as he gestured to the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

  The figure remained silent, walking forward with that mechanical precision that made Roman's trigger finger itch. Without a word, the man pced another paper on his desk, the breathing apparatus making that unsettling wheeze with each step.

  Roman picked up the paper between two fingers as if it might bite, his other hand twirling his cane beneath the desk. "You know, most people make appointments. Or at least have the courtesy to speak when spoken to." He gnced at the paper, then back at those eerie green eyes. "I'm starting to think we need to have a serious discussion about your communication skills."

  Roman skimmed the paper as the masked man simply tilted his head, reminding him of some broken puppet. The list made his eyebrows rise - chemicals, and not the usual kind either. This wasn't some amateur drug operation; these compounds were something else entirely. He'd moved enough illicit substances in his day to know the difference.

  Roman crumpled the paper and tossed it over his shoulder. "You've already got me juggling enough of your little requests, and now you want more?" A predatory smirk spread across his face as he leaned forward. "Well, I suppose I could squeeze this in... if you double the payment for this particur shipment."

  The masked man stared for a moment before giving a simple nod, the wheezing of his respirator the only response. Roman clicked his tongue in annoyance - trying to get a rise out of this one was like trying to rob an empty vault. Still, more money was more money, even if his customer had all the personality of a brick wall.

  The sound of the door opening again drew his attention, and his expression brightened genuinely at the sight of his favorite partner in crime.

  "Neo, my dear! What an unexpected pleasure!" He spread his arms in welcome, but his theatrical gesture froze mid-motion as he noticed something very but VERY wrong.

  Neo, his usually confident and pyful little ice cream assassin, stood there with her face drained of color, mouth hanging open in what could only be described as shock - maybe even fear. Her eyes were fixed on his masked guest, who had turned to face her, that mechanical breathing suddenly seeming much more ominous in the dead silence that followed.

  Roman's hand quietly tightened around Melodic Cudgel. Whatever was happening, he didn't like it one bit.

  The man’s eyes shifted from their eerie green to an electric blue before he turned toward the door. Neo practically leaped aside, her eyes never leaving him until he stepped out and closed the door behind him, that haunting mechanical breath fading down the hallway.

  The moment he was gone, Neo whirled toward Roman, her hands signing frantically.

  'He cannot be alive!'

  "What?" Roman's usual smugness vanished, repced by genuine concern at seeing his normally unfppable partner so rattled.

  'I disposed of his body today at dawn!'

  She jabbed her finger toward the door.

  Roman raised his hands in a pcating gesture, recognizing the dangerous glint in Neo's eyes. "Okay, okay, deep breaths, Neo. Start from the beginning." He'd rarely seen her this unsettled, and that alone was enough to set off many warning bells in his head.

  Neo was quick to give a summary of the events.

  That man had tried to kill her pet project. Said cat had turned the tables rather spectacurly, and Neo had done what she did best - disposed of the body. Chopped to pieces, dissolved in acid, scattered across the ocean before the sun could rise. Her standard cleanup procedure executed fwlessly as always.

  Yet here the bastard was, walking around in one piece and worst of all? Acting like he knew exactly who Neo was.

  Roman took a long drag from his cigar, trying to steady his nerves as he stared at the closed office door. The smoke couldn't quite mask the cold sweat forming on his brow but he wanted to believe that maybe they were twins or just simir looks.

  But Neo didn’t commit mistakes when killing or cleaning up evidence.

  Just what did that woman get them all involved with?

  Choloman