Chapter One

A short silence followed her words, and he let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. He had no doubt that she was wearing a savage smile, the kind that emphasised every syllable of her stressed words—sharp, dangerous, and full of teeth. She might have been toying with him—no, he knew she was playing with him, a cat to his mouse—but there was no denying it; she was deadly.

Still…

"Thanks, I guess," he said, hands reaching out to scratch at the back of his head. An ingrained motion. "For looking out for me, I mean—which I find weird. Don't you want to kill me?"

There was a moment of stretched silence where he could feel her lasered focus on him, and it was unnerving, to say the least. He was struck by the ridiculous yet uneasy notion that she could see under his skin, like she was peeling back his clothes and flesh to examine the framework deep within.

Then, she suddenly stepped in close once more, heralded by displaced air.

"You see, I'm quite fond of the chase," her mouth was close to his ear, the breathless words stirring the hairs not stuck to his neck, "and until a day comes when I've grown bored of you, no one touches you but me."

He couldn't help it; he laughed in her face. "Firstly"—he stumbled away from her, raising a hand to count down with his fingers—"I knew being mysterious and dangerous was your shtick, but I didn't take you as a chunni edgelord. Secondly, that's psychotic; you need serious help. And lastly, how do you keep finding me? Is it through marks?"

"Do you expect me to answer truthfully?"

He resisted the urge to nod a hopeful yes in her approximate direction as it was the least she could do to give him a fighting chance and, going by her intentions, more interesting. After all, she had the backing of a privately funded organisation while he had no one to rely on but himself and some old friends. She said she liked the chase. Well, it wouldn't be much of one if she held all the advantages, now would it?

He sighed, his lips curling down into a frown, before taking several steps away until his heels felt nothing beneath them. Then, he stopped moving, though he left himself teetering precariously on the rooftop's edge. "It seems this night ended up being a bloody waste."

"Oh." The surprise was evident in her tone, faux or not, along with the slightest hint of disappointment. "Are you going to run away now?"

He bit back a scathing remark. She was craving a reaction he wouldn't give her. "There are many ways to find out what I need to know. Asking you outright was just the easiest."

And indeed there were many ways—or there had to be. He just needed to get in touch with the right person or set of people. Easier said than done, maybe, but it was something worthwhile so he was willing to put in the work.

"Really?"

The soft and slow patter of footsteps taken toward him was heard loudly. Intentional.

A shiver escaped from its shackles to dance up his spine, and he found himself stammering out his next words. "Y-yes, and when I do, I'll stop it from happening to me ever again. After I'm done killing you, that is."

"Oh,"

"And believe me, I'll enjoy every second of your demise, you fucking—"

The clanking of chains was his only warning, the sound immediately evoking an image of a pair of daggers attached to long chains, and though he reacted instinctively—throwing all caution to the wind and allowing himself to fall off the building—the weapons still managed to score groves along his sides. Probably also intentional, the skilful bitch.

Thankfully, they were shallow—the burning pain less of a distraction and more of a fuel to feed his concentration—and he was able to brush against the strand (that led to the room in the abandoned warehouse) and tug at it.

"Go ahead and run, Min! It only makes it more fun for me!"

He blinked, and the very world seemed to melt and reform around him instantaneously, though the drastic change in air pressure nearly knocked him off his feet. His body, still feeling the faintest ghost of the chains wrapped around his ribs, was in no condition to stand, much less adjust to the shift from freefall to the thick, stifling silence of the warehouse.

As such, all the adrenaline from the confrontation moments earlier ebbed away, leaving his muscles heavy and mind foggy. He collapsed to the ground, motes of raised dust swirling in the dry air around him and, unconsciously, his hand settled over where his mark ought to be and relaxed.

This was the power of his mark: teleportation. Sudden and jarring, like a punch in the gut from reality itself.

Though, for a moment, he lay motionless on the floor, his hands were sprayed out on either side of his person, the faint ache from his midsection a constant presence even as he settled his breathing. Then, exhaling a sigh of resignation, he struggled up on his forearms before pushing himself up into a sitting position, scooting backwards until his back touched the edge of an object. There, he dragged his shirt free of the confines of his jacket and down his face, hopefully wiping away the worst of the dust on him.

He was exhausted but, with Death somehow able to track his ass, he knew not to remain in one location for long. However, logic couldn't win this time as he was unable to resist the inviting pull of sleep. His eyes closed of their own accord and he found himself falling into sweet oblivion, banking on her being merciful enough to not follow him. She was a bitch, but surely, she wasn't that much of one.

Or so he hoped