Evening sun spilled across Eira's tiny apartment, casting long shadows over the pale walls.
She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the collar of her suit with slow, precise fingers. Her white hair, loose and sharp against her back, caught the last strands of light. The silence in the room wasn't heavy. It was familiar. Like breathing.
Her phone vibrated once.
She picked it up, eyes scanning the encrypted message.
XUX - Hit Level: 5
Target: EIRA [Moon-1]
Put by: 999 MEGABYTES
She didn't blink.
Didn't curse.
Didn't flinch.
She just locked the screen and slipped the phone into her jacket pocket.
"Level 5," she muttered under her breath, grabbing her bag. "Took them long enough."
The school day passed like any other.
She arrived early. Sat in her usual seat. Daniel was absent, but no one knew why. Not that she asked. She didn't care for chatter, and the others knew better than to poke her.
She ignored the stares, the hushed whispers, the curious glances from classmates still trying to figure her out. None of it mattered.
The bell rang.
Students poured out of the building, laughing, stretching, unlocking bikes and scooters.
Eira walked alone, her steps quiet but steady as she turned into the alley behind the school—an old shortcut she always used.
Then—
Click. Clack. Shuffle.
The sound of feet.
Six masked figures emerged from behind trash bins and shadows.
All in black. All armed with knives.
One stood in the center, shoulders broad, blade glinting under the orange sky.
Eira stopped.
She slowly let her school bag slip off her shoulder, hitting the ground with a soft thud.
Then, without any urgency, she pulled a thin, obsidian-handled blade from behind her hip—like it was part of her body.
"Are you sure you want to die for some money?" Her voice was soft. Flat. "Life's worth more, you know."
They laughed.
"Yo, she thinks this is a joke," one of them snorted.
Two masked men rushed at her from opposite sides.
The others stayed back, thinking it'd be over in seconds.
But they forgot who she was.
CHUK—!
One blade slashed clean across a neck.
SPAK—!
Another buried straight into a chest.
Two men hit the ground, twitching.
One gurgled.
The other didn't even scream.
Eira stood between them, knife dripping, calm as still water.
She looked up at the remaining four, who suddenly weren't laughing anymore.
"Think practically," she said.
One of them gritted his teeth. "I don't care how fast you are. We're four. You're one. No amount of training can save you now."
Eira tilted her head, her white hair falling over her eyes.
"Training to defend yourself is martial arts," she whispered.
"I didn't learn that. I learned how to kill."
That was the last thing they heard.
The first lunged.
Too slow.
Eira spun under his strike, slicing upward through his ribs. He dropped before he could scream.
Another came from behind.
She twisted, caught his arm mid-swing, slammed her elbow into his jaw, then drove her knife under his chin—into the soft part.
The fourth tried to run.
She kicked his leg out from under him, pinned him down, and slit his throat clean.
Three seconds.
Four bodies.
Blood splattered across the alley wall like art.
Only one was left.
He froze—shaking.
"F-Fuck this," he whispered, and bolted down the alley.
Eira didn't chase him.
She crouched down, wiped her blade clean on one of the dead men's sleeves, and stood up.
Pulled out her phone.
Dialed a secure line.
"Five down. One escaped. Level 5 confirmed," she said. "Send cleanup to the back alley of West High."
The voice on the other end simply said, "Understood."
Night hit hard.
The sky above her apartment was bruised purple and black.
Eira tossed her blood-specked clothes into the sink and let them soak.
Then, she collapsed onto the bed, arm over her eyes.
It wasn't over.
She knew better.
A Level 5 hit never came alone.
This was just the opening act.
But still… she let herself close her eyes.
And the memories returned.
Ten years ago
-----
She was Eight
Her limbs were thin, wiry from hunger and training. Her knuckles were wrapped, bleeding.
Her hands clutched a dull combat knife—too big for her fingers, but she held it like it was all she had.
Because it was.
The camp was buried in a mountain forest, silent except for distant screams and the clinking of metal.
Children sparred, trained . Some ran away the next day.
Mercenaries barked orders. Food was earned. Sleep was a privilege.
She didn't flinch.
"Again," came the low voice behind her.
Sun-4 stood there, tall and masked in grey.
His arms crossed as he watched her movements.
She slashed. Parried. Lunged. Over and over.
Every wrong movement, he corrected by starving her with no food.
Every correct movement was met with silence.
Eight years old, knuckles scarred, mouth stitched shut by choice. Speaking meant weakness. Crying got you punished. Begging?
And food?
If you could call it that.
Mornings started with a metal bowl of boiled oats. Not warm. Not sweet. Just… oats. Mushy, grey, tasteless. Sometimes with insect bits. If you complained, you went a day without. Some kids tried to sneak extra from others. They disappeared.
Lunch was usually burnt meat scraps—chicken, maybe rat. No one asked. You were too hungry to care. Dinner? Broth. Watery, salty, sour broth with floating green things. Might've been weeds.
But you ate. Because you needed to fight.
Training began at sunrise. No alarms. Sun-2 expected you up before light hit the tents. If you were late, you got dragged out by your ankles and forced to run until your legs bled.
Combat drills lasted 10 hours.
Hand-to-hand, knife work, takedowns, escape kills, throat targeting, pressure points.
And no fake hits. You stabbed real pigs, snapped real bones—on dummies or the weak. Sun-4, another merc, trained her.
Once, Eira hesitated before slashing a tied-up dummy meant to simulate a hostage kill.
He screamed.
"Moon-1, The moment you hesitate, you die. Again. From the top."
And she did it again.
She never hesitated again.
The other kids?
They came and went. Most didn't make it past a month. Either ran off into the woods to starve… or broke. One girl bit her own finger off to avoid a drill. They sent her to the Pit. Eira never saw her again.
Showers were cold hoses. Sleep was on metal cots with no mattresses. Rain leaked through the tin roof. They were kept cold, kept tired, kept angry.
And weirdest of all — Sun-4 never called her Eira. Not once.
Just Moon-1. Not out of cruelty. But because that's what he was too — Sun-4. Not a person. A designation.
And that stuck.
Because you stop being a kid when you're forced to strangle someone twice your size just to get a blanket.
That's what made her into what she is now.
Not power. Not fate.
Just… survival. Grit. Training. Misery.
And the fact that she never died when the others did.
Praise was weakness here.
"Do it again. Faster. You're Moon-1 now. That name means something."
Moon-1.
It was the first time she'd been called anything other than "girl."
She remembered seeing another kid—older than her—get beaten for collapsing mid-run.
His face bruised, teeth missing. The next morning, he was gone. No one asked where.
Eira had stayed up all night, hands shaking from training. She stared at her knife, wondering if she'd ever make it out alive.
But she had.
Not just alive.
She became the blade.
-----
She opened her eyes in the present. The ceiling above her was cracked, dimly lit by a flickering bulb.
"Moon-1," she whispered.
Outside her apartment, the city moved on.
Kids laughed. Dogs barked. Neon lights buzzed in the distance.
But for Eira, the real night had only just begun.
Because a Level 5 hit?
That was war.