The Verdict of Love: The Reaper’s Bodyguard

The rain in Tan Lan City was never clean. It carried the scent of exhaust fumes, rusting metal, and the foul stench of sewers that never slept. The heavy night pressed down upon the skyscrapers, turning the entire metropolis into a colossal beast exhaling thick, murky fog. On the rooftop of an abandoned high-rise opposite The Grand Hotel, a dark figure lay motionless. Not a wasted breath. Not a single twitch. He blended perfectly with the shadows, his eyes the only things that betrayed life—sharp and cold, like a predatory reptile. Hac Thien. Codename: Viper. Assassin Number 7 of The Faceless. Before him lay a modified M24 sniper rifle, its black barrel pointed directly at the floor-to-ceiling window on the 32nd floor of the building across the street. Through the optical scope, the world was reduced to a deadly circle. The red crosshair hovered, waiting to settle on a single point: the center of the forehead of the girl sitting at the grand piano. Lam Ha Vi. She was beautiful. A beauty that did not belong in this rotten city. Under the amber glow of the crystal chandelier, her skin was porcelain white, so fragile that Hac Thien felt a mere touch would shatter her like sea foam. Her fingers glided over the keys, not just playing music, but caressing invisible wounds. He couldn't hear the melody through the thick soundproof glass, but he felt the rhythm. He had been watching her for two weeks. He had memorized the way she tilted her head fifteen degrees during a crescendo. He knew she lightly bit her lower lip when her pinky struck the low A key. "Number 7, report status." The voice crackled in his earpiece, dry as sandpaper rubbing together. Hac Thien frowned slightly. He hated being disturbed while admiring his "work." It was the twisted Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder that Old K often mocked him for. Everything had to be perfect. The angle had to be perfect. The lighting had to be perfect. And the death had to be as beautiful as a painting. "Visibility clear. Southeast wind, four meters per second. Target acquired." Hac Thien replied, his voice deep and cold, void of emotion. "Finish it. Old K doesn't like waiting." The voice on the other end commanded. It was the Handler, the man sent to ensure Hac Thien didn't go rogue, or to clean up Hac Thien himself if the mission failed. Hac Thien's index finger rested on the trigger. Ice cold. This familiar sensation had been with him for ten years. Take the money, take the life, leave no witnesses. The rules of The Faceless were carved into his marrow, deeper than his own name. With just a gentle squeeze, seven grams of lead would tear through the air, pierce the tempered glass, and embed itself in that beautiful skull. Blood would spray onto the pristine white keys. A bloody but artistic conclusion. But his finger didn't move. Through the scope, he saw Ha Vi pause. She looked up and out the window, toward the pitch-black darkness where he was hiding. That look. Crystal clear, sorrowful, and utterly lonely. It resembled the eyes of a stray cat he had once fed in a back alley years ago, before thugs beat it to death. Was it a plea for life, or was she waiting for release? A shiver ran down his spine. A sense of wrongness coursed through him. The perfection he worshipped was wavering. If he blew apart that face, the painting would be ruined. His OCD surged violently, choking him. He couldn't destroy something... so incredibly clean. "Number 7! Why haven't you fired?" The shout in his earpiece turned harsh. "Wind shift." Hac Thien lied, his eyes never leaving the girl. "Don't play games with me. I'm watching you through thermal binoculars. You're hesitating. Rule Number 4: Hesitation is betrayal." The metallic click of a weapon c*****g echoed from behind him, about ten meters away, in a blind spot on the rooftop. The Handler had revealed himself. He wasn't just monitoring via radio; he was right here. A silenced pistol was aimed at the back of Hac Thien's neck. "Shoot that b***h now, or I'll put a bullet in you and finish the job myself." The Handler growled. Hac Thien took a deep breath. The smell of rain, wet concrete, and imminent death was close. Two scenarios played out in his mind. One: He shoots Ha Vi, completes the mission, takes the money, and continues his life as a hunting dog. Two: He turns the gun. The second scenario was madness. It was suicide. It was declaring war against the most powerful underground empire in the world. But looking into Ha Vi's eyes through the scope one last time, he saw a reflection of his own soul—something that craved protection, not destruction. "I hate flawed paintings." Hac Thien muttered. "What?" The Handler asked, caught off guard for a split second. That was all Hac Thien needed. His body no longer obeyed reason but moved on survival instincts honed through a thousand close-quarters battles. He didn't stand up; instead, he rolled violently to the right. The arm holding the sniper rifle swung up like a lever, the long barrel sweeping a deadly arc. "Bang!" The explosion tore through the curtain of rain. It wasn't the soft whisper of a suppressor, but the roar of the reaper. The bullet didn't fly toward The Grand Hotel. It slammed straight into the center of the Handler's chest just as he peeked out from behind a concrete pillar. His eyes went wide, unable to believe what had just happened, before he collapsed, his blood pooling and swirling with the black rainwater. Hac Thien exhaled sharply, his hot breath visible against the cold cement. What the hell had he just done? He had just signed his own death warrant. Killing a Handler meant declaring war on The Faceless. From this moment on, every assassin in the city would be hunting for his head. He turned his head back toward the opposite building. Lam Ha Vi seemed to have heard the noise; she stood up, startled, looking bewilderedly out the window, her hand placed over her heart. She was alive. Intact. Perfect. "Welcome to hell, Viper." He smirked bitterly to himself, a rare expression on his sun-weathered and scarred face. He quickly disassembled the sniper rifle. Every movement took less than fifteen seconds. Each part was wiped clean of fingerprints and packed neatly into an old guitar case. He couldn't stay here. The police would arrive within five minutes, and The Faceless's cleanup crew would be even faster. Before leaving, Hac Thien pulled a burner phone from his jacket pocket and punched in an encrypted code sent to headquarters. The message contained only two words: "Contract Void." He picked up the case and stood, a tall dark silhouette against the backdrop of Tan Lan City's flickering neon blue and red lights. The wind whipped his face, biting cold. He pulled his collar up to cover half his face, revealing only his razor-sharp eyes. Now, he was no longer an assassin. He was the prey. But more importantly, he had assigned himself a new mission, one that paid nothing, the most insane mission of his life: Keep that girl alive. Hac Thien stepped into the shadows of the fire escape, leaving behind the corpse of his colleague and a blood-soaked past. The rain outside seemed to fall heavier, washing the blood from the floor, but it could never wash away the treacherous path that lay ahead.