The gun did not waver.
Boran kept his eyes locked on the barrel, then shifted his gaze to Johan, and back to the dark opening of the muzzle. The air in the alley felt entirely stagnant.
"You're the one we have to eliminate," Boran said, his voice dropping into a tight, defensive register.
Johan tilted his head slightly, the scarred tissue of his cheek pulling his mouth into a grotesque semblance of amusement. "You can try."
His knuckle began to whiten as his finger drifted backward against the trigger.
Before the mechanism could click, a sudden, heavy impact struck the back of Johan's knee. The strike was solid, delivering enough force to buckle his leg. Johan dropped to one knee on the damp asphalt.
Elara stepped past him instantly. She had already retrieved a length of discarded iron pipe from the debris, swinging it in a flat, lethal arc aimed directly at the side of his skull. There was no hesitation, no warning cry, and no variance in her expression.
Johan's left arm shot upward with mechanical precision, his forearm absorbing the blow with a heavy, hollow crack. Simultaneously, his right hand pivoted, bringing the handgun back into alignment.
Boran lunged forward, driving the sharp points of the golden-handled scissors straight toward the exposed skin of Johan's neck.
With a brutal surge of leverage, Johan shoved Elara sideways, twisting his torso away from the incoming blades in a single fluid motion. Before Boran could reset his stance, Johan brought the heavy iron slide of the pistol down across the side of Boran's head. The impact didn't fracture the bone, but it was violent enough to turn the alley white, sending a high-pitched ring through his ears.
"Alright," Johan said, rising slowly to his feet, his breathing entirely controlled. "I suppose now I can shoot you down, boy."
He leveled the sights at Boran's chest.
From behind him, Elara's boot drove upward, connecting squarely between his legs with clinical accuracy.
Johan collapsed back to the ground, a low hiss escaping his teeth. Elara instantly closed her fist, drawing her arm back for a follow-up strike to his temple.
Boran grabbed her wrist, his fingers clamping hard over her skin. "Run!"
He didn't look back. He tore out of the mouth of the alley, dragging her behind him, his boots skidding on the slick pavement. They ran until they were half a block away, their lungs burning against the crisp air, Boran's heart hammering violently against his ribs.
He finally slowed near a brick corner, spinning to face her while still keeping a grip on her jacket. "Are you INSANE?!"
Elara looked back at him, her green eyes perfectly wide, perfectly vacant.
"He has a GUN," Boran hissed, his voice raw as he pulled her into the shadow of a doorway. "He could have killed us at any second—it was pure luck we're still breathing. What were you THINKING going for the finishing punch?"
Elara said nothing.
"Why don't you just TALK?!"
She offered no response, merely turning her head to look down the street, her expression entirely undisturbed. Boran let out a sharp, frustrated breath that wasn't quite a word and pushed forward toward the safehouse.
***
Johan rose to his feet with deliberate care.
He brushed the gray dust and alley grime from the fabric of his jacket, checked the alignment of his firearm, and peered toward the empty street where the two teenagers had vanished. He had fully expected them to press the advantage; most combatants, once they secured momentum, attempted to finish the engagement. These two had calculated the risk, broke contact, and fled.
Interesting.
He took a step toward the alley exit to track their trajectory, but a sharp voice cut through the damp air.
"HEY!"
Johan stopped, turning his head.
A man was standing near the rusted fire escape at the entrance of the alley. His suit was badly wrinkled, a half-empty green bottle was clutched in his right hand, and his eyes carried the specific, unfocused glaze of someone who had been drinking heavily since before noon. A plastic name tag was pinned crookedly to his lapel: *Anal.*
"I SEE YOU," the man shouted, his voice slurring heavily as he swayed against the brickwork. "YOU THINK I'M A JOKE, RIGHT?! MY NAME IS A JOKE TO YOU?!"
Johan observed him in absolute silence.
Anal swung the green bottle in a wild, uncoordinated arc. It connected cleanly with the scarred side of Johan's head. The glass shattered with a loud report, sending fragments catching the low light as they rained onto the pavement. A mixture of cheap alcohol and dark blood instantly began to track down Johan's melted cheek.
Johan didn't flinch. He didn't move away.
Taking the complete lack of retaliation as a sign of submission, Anal stepped closer and began slapping Johan across the face with his open left hand, his movements clumsy and repetitive.
"PEOPLE THESE DAYS HAVE NO RESPE—"
Johan pulled the trigger.
The round took the man squarely in the center of his chest. It wasn't a rushed movement, nor was it theatrical; Johan simply raised the weapon and fired, the same way a person closes a door that had been left unlatched.
Anal looked down at the dark stain blooming through his wrinkled shirt. "You… you… you fucking… weirdo…"
He hit the ground heavily, his boots scraping the dirt as he began to crawl toward the light of the main street. Johan watched the slow, agonized progress for a moment, then stepped forward. He brought his boot down heavily on the man's spine. Once. Twice. He kept his weight there until the movement beneath his sole stopped completely.
He looked down at the body, his voice quiet and genuinely conversational. "People like you confuse me. You could have kept drinking while going to your destination. But no, you decided today was the day to die pathetically in an alley."
He stepped over the torso and walked out into the sunlight.
***
Boran hit the front door of the residential house at full speed, throwing his weight against the wood.
"GUYS."
Mayex and Adam looked up from the sofa. Both of their faces were heavily smeared with white whipped cream, several canisters sitting empty on the coffee table between them.
Boran froze in the doorway, staring at them. The living room remained entirely silent for three long seconds.
"…You cannot be serious," Boran said, his voice dangerously low.
"Hey—" Adam began.
"I WAS FIGHTING FOR MY LIFE AND YOU WERE PLAYING WITH WHIPPED CREAM?!" Boran roared.
The sheer volume of the shout caused both Mayex and Adam to lose their balance, slipping off the edge of the cushions onto the hardwood floor.
Adam sat up, brushing a dollop of cream from his collar, looking genuinely offended. "This couch is extremely comfortable and you made me fall off it."
A thick vein throbbed visibly near Boran's temple.
Mayex pushed himself up, offering a bright, entirely unbothered smile. "Also, to be fair, you went out alone. Nobody told you to do that. That was just…" He paused, searching for the English vocabulary. "Stupid."
A second vein appeared on Boran's forehead.
"I want to punch you both until you choke on your own blood," Boran said, his hands curling into tight fists at his sides. "But unfortunately, I need your help."
Mayex tilted his head, his smile fading into curiosity. "Help? Last time I tried helping you, you were furious at me."
"Because what you did was embarrassing me."
"It was meant to strengthen your mentality," Mayex countered reasonably.
Adam's expression lit up instantly. "Oh, are you talking about the presentation? When Boran chose goldfish?"
"Yes," Mayex said, his grin returning.
"And he explained how they eat, reproduce, and live," Adam continued, leaning forward, "and then Mayex stood up in front of the instructor and yelled, 'Does that mean you watched fish porn for research?'"
"WHY ARE WE TALKING ABOUT THIS," Boran yelled, his face turning crimson.
"Because it was funny," Adam said simply.
"IT'S NOT—" Boran cut himself off. He closed his eyes, forced a slow, deep breath into his lungs, and steadying his posture. "The mission. Can we talk about the mission."
The humor left the room instantly, replaced by the rigid discipline of their training.
"Fine," Mayex said, sitting up straight.
Boran sat down on the edge of an armchair. "I was outside. I saw something shiny near an alley—turned out to be a pair of scissors, painted gold. And then he just appeared. Out of nowhere." He paused, his fingers tracing the bruise forming on the side of his skull. "We had… complications. We got out. Elara saved me at the last second."
Mayex shifted his gaze to Elara, who was standing quietly near the window. "We?"
Elara gave no indication she had heard him.
"Did you at least get anything on him?" Adam asked, his blue eyes narrowing.
"His face," Boran said. "Burns. Not a cut—actual burning, like the skin melted. He looked like melted ice cream." He paused, organizing his thoughts. "And his name is Johan. That's all he gave me. No last name." He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "He reads as a psychopath—no expression, no hesitation. But I don't think he actually is. I think there's something underneath it. I just can't explain how I know that."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "And he's a weirdo. If you see him, you'll understand."
Elara moved silently across the carpet, stopping beside Mayex. She tapped his shoulder once and pointed toward the far side of the room.
The old man was standing in the doorway of his study. The heavy deadbolts were open, and his face carried the specific combination of horror and exhaustion that comes from having overheard an entire conversation about professional killers from the other side of a wall.
Mayex, Adam, and Boran turned their heads, staring at him in silence.
Benny walked out of the kitchen at that exact moment, her arms filled with fresh canisters, her expression entirely cheerful. "Hey Mayex, I got more whipped cream! Different kinds this time!" She caught sight of the old man frozen in the doorway. "Oh. Hi, old gramps."
The client looked at the teenagers, his gaze drifting from the whipped cream on their faces to the golden scissors in Boran's hand.
"I heard worse… but… yeah," the old man whispered.
A heavy silence followed.
The old man slowly covered his face with his hands, his shoulders sinking. "Oh, I am fucking dead! It was a mistake trusting the Brown Organisation… FUCK!!!"