Your Move, Assassin (Rules of the Game, Book 1)

CHAPTER 1

The first rule of killing is simple: don't look them in the eyes and look too long, and you’ll start wondering who they were, who they loved, who's waiting for them to come home.

And that’s when you hesitate, that's when you die, but I don’t die.

The man beneath me is already halfway gone, throat open, breath gurgling, blood leaking into the cracks of the alley floor, his eyes wide, but not from fear.

Surprise, maybe he didn’t expect me to smile before I slit his throat.

Amateur.

I wiped the blade clean on his coat and stood, heart steadily breathing even another name off the list another order was fulfilled. Another night I get to survive.

Somewhere, a comm buzzes in my ear.

“Confirmed kill,” says a voice I don’t bother naming. "Next coordinates incoming. Be ready.”

I’m always ready until I hear the next name.

Arzhel Keiran Arsenio.

My fingers are still just a second, just one sharp, traitorous second enough to let the past slip through.

Arzhel.

Dead-Arzhel. Ghost-Arzhel. The boy who bled beside me in the training pit and disappeared before I could hate him properly.

They told me he’d been executed. Burned. Erased so they lied.

I clench the blade tighter, knuckles aching. I shouldn’t care that the Syndicate wants him dead, and that should be enough.

But my pulse says otherwise, so does the memory of a crooked grin in the dark of whispered dares under breathless silences of a name spoken like a secret and that's f*****g me Zev.

I bite down on it now, force it away. He's not a ghost anymore, he's a target and I don’t hesitate.

The city greets me with fog and silence. I moved through the streets like smoke was seen, but never caught any uniform or insignia, just black boots, a black coat, and the Syndicate's mark branded somewhere no one could see.

Above me, a drone hums low. Watching. Recording they don’t trust me fully and that's f*****g good. I don’t trust them either.

"Target last spotted near Sector Eleven. Surveillance failed. Proceed with caution."

Translation: He’s better than we expected.

Translation: Don’t screw this up.

I slip into the safe house, a cheap room above a rotting bakery, the kind of place that doesn’t ask questions even if you bleed on the floor.

I don't unpack. Assassins don’t unpack. I sit on the edge of the bed and unsheathe my blade instead, turning it over in my hands.

The same one I trained with. The same one I nearly buried in Arzhel’s back, once. A lot of “nearlys” with him.

Partners nearly died, nearly something more. I press the steel into my palm just enough to feel it. Not enough to bleed.

That’s the thing they never tell you: You can’t kill someone properly if you’re still waiting for them to come back.

My comm clicks again, another voice, this time familiar. Cold. Female. “Zevandra. Directive update: we want him alive for now.”

My jaw tightens alive means interrogation. Torture. Memory extraction: The Syndicate doesn’t do mercy.

I should feel relieved but all I feel is something curling in my stomach. Ugly. Loud.

Hope.

I shut it down, and I shut everything down because I’m not here to remember, because I’m here to finish what should’ve ended years ago and if Arzhel Arsenio is really alive… he’s going to wish he wasn’t.

I’ve been to a hundred cities like this.

Same flickering streetlights. The same stench of rot beneath fake perfume, the same people pretending they’re not already dead inside, but this one feels different. Maybe it’s because he’s here, maybe it’s because I’m not the only ghost walking these streets tonight.

I walk fast, boots against wet pavement, avoiding eye contact. The world doesn’t know who I am, but if they did, they’d run. They should.

“Target sighted,” a whisper in my comm. “Abandoned building. Third floor.”

My breath stills and this is it.

I reached the building. A cracked wall door hanging half off its hinges just chokes the corners. The windows shattered.

No guards, no Syndicate presence trap, too clean, too quiet, but I walk in anyway because that’s what I was made for to face death and never flinch to walk straight into the fire and ask it to burn hotter.

I take the stairs two at a time, no footsteps behind me, no heartbeat but mine.

Third floor. I kicked the door open in an empty room, dust, silence, and then I heard someone.

“Late ka na naman, Zev.” My spine freezes with that low calm, the kind that wraps around your throat slowly, like silk before the snap.

I turn.

Putangina.

He’s leaning against the window, moonlight slashing across his face like a knife with the same eyes, same mouth, same everything except now, he’s got a gun pointed at me.

“Didn’t think you’d actually come,” Arzhel says, and he smirks like this is a joke, like we’re kids again and not two killers standing in the wreckage of what we used to be.

I say nothing. My hand doesn’t shake but my pulse does.

"Buhay ka?" The words fall out before I could stop them.

He shrugs. “Sorry to disappoint.”

I almost laughed but instead, I raised my blade.

“I have orders,” I say.

He nods. “So do I.”

And just like that, the game begins.

I shouldn’t hesitate, but my blade doesn’t move, yet he hasn’t lowered his gun. I haven’t stepped back, but we’re both standing still, like this room belongs to a memory we never buried.

“Five years,” I say. “They said you were dead.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Maybe I was. A part of me, anyway.”

“Hindi ako nagtatanong para sa kwento mo.” Gigil ako neto.

“Then why are you still here?” His eyes meet mine, no mask, no armor, just that infuriating calm he always wore like a second skin.

I hate that he looks the same and I hate that part of me remembers how he used to say my name like a secret.

“Zev.” Putangina, I hate this.

“I should kill you,” I whisper.

“Then do it,” he says, stepping forward slowly and deliberately.

One step….. Two. The barrel of his gun is still pointed at me but he’s close enough now that I can smell the smoke on his coat, the same kind we used to train through.

“Sige nga, Zev. Isn’t this what you were made for?”

“Obey. Eliminate. Forget.” My grip tightens on the blade. My jaw clenches, why does it sound different coming from him? Why does it sound like mockery and mercy in the same breath?

“What the hell do you want, Arzhel?” I snap. “Closure?”

“No.” He lowers the gun just like that. “I want you to ask why they want me dead.”

I freeze.

“Alam ko na,” I spit. “You turned your back on them. You betrayed the Syndicate.”

“And you still trust them?” he asks, eyes burning now. “After everything they did to us?”

I open my mouth and nothing comes out.

“Do you even remember who you were before they remade you, Zev?”

“Shut up.” Sabi ko sakanya.

“You used to dream.” Puta.

“I said—”

“You used to feel.” And that’s when I move.

Blade up fast, silently straight to his throat, but he doesn’t flinch, he just looks at me.

“Go ahead,” he says. “Kill me, Zev. But if you do... you’ll never know what they buried inside you.”

I should strike, I should, but my hand traitor won't move because in the silence, something inside me whispers what I already know.

I’m not here to kill him, and I’m here to remember.

I don’t lower the blade, but I don’t press it deeper either his skin is warm under the steel. Steady. Like he’s not afraid to die here, like he’s ready for it or worse… like he knows I won’t do it.

“Say it,” I whisper. “Say something stupid so I have a reason to slit your throat.”

Arzhel’s breath hitches the first crack in his calm.

“What do you want me to say?” he murmurs. “That I missed you? Do I regret leaving? That I should’ve dragged you out with me when I had the chance?”

“Tangina mo,” I breathe.

Because those are the exact words I didn’t know I wanted to hear, my hand is shaking now, not from weakness but from remembrance.

"You don’t get to come back," I say. "Not like this. Not after leaving me in that hellhole to rot."

“I never stopped watching,” he says quietly. “I just couldn’t reach you.”

“Liar.” Sabi ko.

“Then kill me.” So want niya talagang mamatay?

Silence.

His eyes, those same damned eyes, are staring straight into me. Not around me. Not through me Into me, like he still knows where to look.

“Why didn’t you?” I asked, my voice cracking like I didn’t mean it to. “Why didn’t you take me with you?”

His reply is immediately soft but brutal. “Because they would’ve killed you.”

“They still might.”

He nods. “But if I die now, at least I’ll die knowing you’re awake.”

Awake, not obedient, not loyal, awake, my blade lowered just an inch. That’s when the glass shatters behind me.

Gunshot.

I dive, dragging Arzhel down with me. He curses, pulling me under the cover of the broken wall, as more bullets tear through the air.

“They followed you?” he hisses.

“No,” I snapped. “They followed you.”

He looks at me. Then at the bullet lodged in the wall where my head used to be. “Looks like we’re both wanted dead.”

I check my side and graze, and I'm bleeding perfectly.

“Guess we’re partners again,” he mutters.

“Don’t push it.” But I reloaded anyway and this time, I didn't hesitate.

We hit the ground hard. My shoulder scrapes concrete, lungs are burning, and blood’s already soaking through the fabric at my side not deep but enough to sting.

Arzhel drags me behind the cover, a rusted metal table flipped on its side. It won’t hold if they bring rifles, but it’ll buy us seconds.

“Are you good?” he asks, breathing ragged.

“You’re two seconds later asking,” I mutter, pressing down on the wound. “Try harder.”

He grins. “There she is.”

A bullet smashes into the wall behind him and we both flinch. I checked my pistol with five rounds left. One knife tucked in my boot, no backup, no exits.

“How many are out there?” I ask.

“Three. Maybe four.” Sagot niya sa tanong ko.

“Too many.”

He glances at my hand, at the way I press the blood back into my body with my palm. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ve been worse.” Sabi ko.

“That’s not comforting.” Wala kang pake.

“It wasn’t meant to be.” Another shot ricochets off the floor closer they’re pushing in.

Arzhel looks at me, dead seriously now. “Zev—”

“Don’t.” Babala ko sa kanya.

“You need to let me cover you.” Kala mo naman lampa ako.

“You need to shut up and count the seconds I give you.” He opens his mouth probably to argue, but I’m already moving.

I darted out from behind cover, fire twice both shots clean, fast, and blinding. In the dark a grunt someone falls. Arzhel follows. One fluid motion, two shots, one knife thrown, blood splashes across the wall three down.

The last one runs as a coward we don’t chase. I stagger, legs unsteady, my vision tunnels for a second, then a hand wraps around my waist. “Whoa. Easy.”

“Don’t touch me.” Warning ko sakanya.

“You’re bleeding.”

“So help me stand not swoon.” He smirks. That same arrogant curve I used to hate. I still hate it, maybe he keeps his arm around me, just enough to steady. Nothing more.

“You saved my life,” he says. “Don’t make it weird.” He laughs, breathless and, somehow, that’s worse than the pain.

The room is still there now.

Bodies lie in pieces, the air reeks of gunpowder and blood, the kind of scent that sticks to your lungs long after it’s gone.

I hate that it feels familiar.

Arzhel kicks a rifle away from one of the dead men. He doesn’t look at me right away, and I pretend I don’t notice. I lean against the wall, steadying myself. My side throbs. I’m bleeding more than I should be.

“We need to move,” I say. “Before someone else shows up.”

“You can barely stand.”

“Watch me.” I push off the wall, my legs tremble, but I don’t fall. I never fall.

His eyes flick to the blood trailing down my waist. “You’re still the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re still alive,” I mutter. “Unfortunately.”

He laughs again. Quiet, almost warm. I hate that sound because it does sound warm and safe. Like something I forgot the taste of.

We make it to the exit slowly, cautiously. I scan every corner, every shadow my mind’s still in kill-mode.

But something’s shifted and I don't know what it is, or maybe I do, and I’m refusing to name it.

By the time we reach the safehouse, my body’s starting to betray me.

I slammed the door shut behind us. Bolt drops the duffel bag and collapses onto the nearest chair like gravity just decided I was optional.

Arzhel doesn’t speak. He kneels in front of me. Calm. Focused.

I flinch as he reaches for my jacket. “Teka….wag—”

“I need to see it,” he says. “Zev. Let me help.”

“I don’t need—” Sabi ko ngunit pinutol niya lang ang sasabihin ko sana.

“You’re shaking.” I looked down. I hadn't even noticed my hands trembling, barely, but still not from the wound from the weight.

He pulls the fabric back gently. There’s blood, but it’s not fatal. Grazed muscle deep enough to hurt, not deep enough to kill still, his fingers are gentle, too gentle for a killer.

“You always had a terrible aim,” I mutter, trying to distract myself.

“Sabi mo nga, I’m still alive.” Sabi niya.

“Regret ko pa minsan.”

“No you don’t.” He’s right. I don’t and I hate that, too.

When he finishes dressing the wound, he sits across from me, arms resting on his knees.

“They’re not just after me anymore,” he says. “This isn’t a normal purge.”

“Syndicate’s always cleaning houses.”

“No,” he says, his voice lower now. “This is different. They’re not killing for silence, they're killing to hide something.”

“Like what?”

He hesitates. “Something they did to us. Back in training.”

I feel it like a knife turning in my gut because I’ve had those dreams, the blank spaces, the gaps. I never questioned the pain that didn’t come with memory.

“You think I’ve forgotten something?” I ask slowly.

“No,” he says. “I think they made you forget.”

Silence.

Outside, the wind howls like it knows what we’re not saying. Inside, I stare at him, at the man who left me, who’s now the only one telling me the truth and, for the first time in years, I’m not sure what side I’m on anymore.

“I was built to follow but maybe that version of me is already dead.”