In the days following the party, Kieran deliberately forced himself back into the track of “normal life”: attending classes, going home, eating cold bento, lying in bed staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Occasionally, he would run a few dungeons with Jasper in the game, letting the sounds and effects fill the emptiness in his mind. Ivy no longer reached out to him, and he didn’t see her during lunch—perhaps she was busy with exams, busy socializing, busy being Ronan’s “girlfriend,” or busy editing the awkwardness from that day in the second-floor corridor into a memory that didn’t need to be recalled.

  Kieran thought things would just fade away like this.

  Until that night, when he was in the kitchen drinking water, the familiar, clean, almost sterile female voice suddenly cut in.

  ‘Kieran. Vale.’

  He put down the cup, and his Adam's apple moved slightly. The signal from the micro device pierced the nerves like a fine needle; it didn't hurt, but it was enough to make one instantly alert.

  “I’m here,” he replied.

  Sabrina skipped the pleasantries, and the information poured into his mind like cold rain: photos, schedules, security arrangements, entrance and exit blueprints, recent public itineraries, medical records—along with the target's name.

  —Edmund Castellan.

  Kieran's vision seemed to be yanked back by someone, the entire room pulling away from him just a bit. He didn’t even need to look at that face a second time: by the fireplace in the party hall, silver hair, a deep gray double-breasted suit, dry palms during the handshake, and eyes as heavy as a scale.

  Ivy's father.

  The mayor of Caelora.

  “Mission: eliminate the target.” Sabrina's voice showed no signs of wavering, “Deadline is one week. Method is up to you, but it must be discreet, avoiding any traceable supernatural evidence.”

  Kieran's fingertips turned cold, and the water droplets on the rim of the glass slid down his fingers. He had been silent for too long, and Sabrina added:

  “You’ve received the information. Confirm.”

  He instinctively wanted to reply “Confirm,” just like every other time in the past, locking away his emotions in a drawer and closing it according to procedure. But that face was followed by another face—Ivy's polite smile that bordered on exhaustion, as if she were forced to play the role of “the daughter of the Castellan family.”

  He didn't want to admit it, but his chest did tighten for a moment. It wasn't a sense of morality or pity, just a feeling of disgust at being pulled into the center of trouble.

  ‘Sabrina.’ For the first time, he didn't immediately follow the command; his voice sounded particularly low in his mind, ‘I want to know the reason.’

  The other end of the communication fell silent for half a second, as if some system was judging whether this statement crossed a line.

  ‘The reason is outside your scope of responsibility.’ Sabrina replied as always.

  ‘But this time is different.’ Kieran insisted, ‘The target is a relative of someone I know. This could expose my identity.’

  ‘Your contact with the target's daughter is limited to being classmates; the risk is manageable.’ Sabrina's tone remained steady, ‘Moreover, because you know his daughter, it makes it easier to approach the target. This is actually an advantage.’

  Kieran felt a wave of nausea. He recalled the mayor standing by the fireplace, warmly hosting guests at the party that night; he remembered the pride and love in Ivy's eyes when she mentioned her father.

  ‘I need to know the reason.’ He insisted again, his voice echoing in his mind with an unusual stubbornness.

  This time, the silence lasted longer. Kieran almost thought Sabrina wouldn't respond, but eventually her voice came through again: ‘Edmund Castellan is pushing for an anti-money laundering bill, and if passed, it will severely impact the interests of certain... important figures. He must be removed before the bill reaches the final vote.’

  ‘So his crime is wanting to do the right thing?’ Kieran scoffed.

  “Right and wrong have never been our criteria for consideration.” Sabrina's voice was devoid of any inflection, “You should be well aware of this. We are not the enforcers of justice, Kieran. We are merely tools.”

  “Tools...” Kieran murmured the word repeatedly, a wave of helplessness washing over him.

  “You have a week to prepare. The target will attend a public meeting at the town hall next Friday, and afterward, he will head to the underground parking lot alone. That’s the best time.” Sabrina continued to relay the detailed plan, “The reward for this mission is three times the usual amount. If you succeed, the organization will consider promoting you.”

  Promotion. The word meant nothing to Kieran. He had never done this job to climb the ranks within the organization; he just... needed money, needed to survive.

  But now, the inheritance left by his father had given him new options. For the first time, he realized that he might be able to refuse.

  “What if I refuse?” he asked tentatively.

  This time, Sabrina's response was almost immediate: “You won’t refuse, Kieran. You know the consequences of refusal.”

  She was telling the truth. The organization’s control over its members was not just through the device implanted in their brains, but also through countless leverage points, threats, and those inescapable bindings.

  They knew everything about him—where he lived, who he associated with, his daily schedule. If he refused the mission, he would be seen as disloyal at best, and at worst...

  Kieran dared not think further.

  “I understand.” He could only respond this way in the end.

  Kieran slumped on the sofa, his hands clutching his head after the call was disconnected. The room was silent, with only the ticking of the clock on the wall, as if counting down to something.

  One week. He only had one week.

  In a week, Ivy would lose her father, just as he had lost Doyle. She would experience that heart-wrenching pain, that overwhelming despair, that sense of loneliness as if the whole world had abandoned her.

  And all of this would be caused by his own hands.

  Kieran recalled the night of the party, the image of Ivy standing in the center of the garden, cutting the cake. She was smiling so happily, surrounded by her parents and friends, like a true princess.

  That was a happiness he could never possess.

  And now, he was going to destroy her happiness with his own hands.

  “I’m sorry...” he whispered to the empty room, unsure if the apology was for Ivy or for himself.

  He walked back to his room, closed the door, pulled the curtains tight, and turned on the computer.

  As the screen lit up, his gaze regained that familiar calmness—like a surgeon before an operation, like a hitman before a mission.

  He began organizing the information: the mayor's public schedule, donation gala, hospital inspections, media interviews; the security shifts; the fixed route from home to the city hall; and the simplest, cleanest, least conspicuous plan.

  Myocardial infarction, cerebrovascular accident, or—triggering the fatal point of an existing disease without leaving any supernatural traces.

  He stopped at the page of Edmund's medical records: mild hypertension, a history of arrhythmia, family history of cardiovascular disease.

  That's enough.

  As long as it is "reasonable" enough, death will be accepted by the world.

  *

  In the following days, Kieran began to prepare according to the plan. He studied the architectural structure of the town hall, the locations of the surveillance cameras, and the security personnel's shift schedules. He noted the mayor's daily habits, the configuration of his entourage, and possible escape routes.

  Everything proceeded step by step, just like countless missions in the past.

  But this time, his hands were trembling.

  At school, he deliberately avoided Ivy. Whenever he saw her figure in the hallway from a distance, he would turn and leave. During lunch, he no longer went to the student cafeteria but hid alone in a corner of the library.

  Jasper noticed his unusual behavior.

  "Are you hiding from someone lately?" One day after school, Jasper stopped Kieran, who was about to leave, and asked directly.

  “No.” Kieran denied, but his tone lacked conviction.

  “Don't lie to me,” Jasper frowned, “You've been acting strange since the party. Is it because of Ivy? She actually asked me about you; she said you seem to be avoiding her.”

  Kieran didn't answer, just looked down at the tips of his shoes.

  “Listen,” Jasper sighed, “I know that night was terrible. That guy Ronan really crossed the line, and Ivy... well, I don't want to comment on her choices. But you don't need to distance yourself from her; she actually cares about you.”

  “I just need some time.” Kieran forced out this sentence and then walked away quickly, leaving a confused Jasper standing there.

  He couldn't tell Jasper the truth. He couldn't tell him that he was about to kill Ivy's father; he couldn't tell him that he wasn't the person he thought he was.

  He wasn't sure if he was protecting Jasper or protecting himself—he couldn't form any 'connections'; connections would become weaknesses.

  And what he needed the least right now was weakness.

  He could only continue wearing the mask, continuing to play the role of an ordinary high school student until the moment the mission was complete.

  *

  Friday soon arrived.

  That morning, Kieran went to school for class as usual, but he felt like a zombie. The teacher's voice on stage became a blurred background noise, and the laughter and chatter of his classmates felt distant and unreal.

  He had only one thought in his mind: tonight, he was going to take action.

  When the last class of the afternoon ended, Kieran saw Ivy in the hallway. She seemed to be waiting for someone, and when she saw him, her eyes lit up, and she quickly walked over.

  “Kieran!” she called out to him, a somewhat awkward smile on her face, “Have you been avoiding me lately?”

  Kieran froze in place, unsure of how to respond.

  “I... haven’t,” he lied.

  “Really?” Ivy tilted her head, looking at him with doubt in her eyes, “Then why do you disappear every time I try to find you?”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “I just happened to be busy,” Kieran continued to weave his lies while avoiding her gaze.

  Ivy was silent for a moment, then softly said, “I know that what happened at the party made you uncomfortable. Ronan... he can sometimes speak without thinking. But he’s not a bad person, really.”

  Kieran couldn’t help but look up at her, seeing the sincerity in her eyes. She truly believed that.

  “You don’t need to explain for him,” Kieran said lightly, “Your choice has nothing to do with me.”

  “But I care about your feelings.” Ivy suddenly said, her voice soft yet firm, “You are my friend, Kieran. I don’t want things to become awkward between us because of Ronan.”

  Friend.

  This word pierced Kieran's heart like a knife.

  “I have to go.” He turned to leave, but Ivy grabbed his sleeve.

  “Wait,” she said, “My dad has an important city council meeting tonight, and after the meeting, our whole family is going to a restaurant to celebrate. Do you want to come? Consider it a way to make up for the regret of the last party.”

  Kieran's blood ran cold in an instant.

  She was inviting him, inviting him to dinner during the last few hours of her father's life.

  “No.” He almost shouted, his voice loud enough to startle even himself.

  Ivy was taken aback by his reaction, letting go of his sleeve, a look of hurt flashing in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry...” Kieran took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, “I mean, I have something to do tonight. Maybe next time.”

  “Oh... alright.” Ivy lowered her head, her voice becoming very soft, “Then next time.”

  Kieran turned and walked away quickly, a soft sigh from Ivy came from behind.

  He didn't dare to look back.

  *

  Seven o'clock in the evening, City Hall.

  Kieran stood in the shadows across the street, gazing at the imposing building. The meeting had been going on for over an hour, and according to plan, it would end in thirty minutes.

  His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, feeling the chill of the winter night. The street was sparsely populated, with only a few cars passing by, but no one noticed the boy in the black hoodie lurking in the corner.

  ‘The target is about to leave the conference room.’ Sabrina's voice echoed in his mind, ‘Prepare to enter the underground parking lot. The security has been temporarily diverted by our people; you have a five-minute window.’

  Kieran did not respond, simply crossing the street silently and entering the City Hall building through a side door. He knew every corridor, every corner, and every blind spot of the surveillance cameras.

  Everything had been meticulously calculated.

  He arrived at the underground parking lot, hiding behind a pillar. It was quiet here, only the low hum of the ventilation system could be heard. A few dim bulbs barely illuminated the space, casting long shadows on the concrete floor.

  The mayor's car was parked in area B3, the black sedan glimmering with a dark sheen under the lights.

  Kieran looked at his watch: seven twenty-eight.

  According to the schedule, the mayor would arrive at the parking lot around seven thirty. He was accustomed to walking to the car alone, while his entourage would wait at the elevator entrance, ensuring the surroundings were safe before escorting him away.

  This brief moment of a few seconds was Kieran's opportunity to act.

  The sound of the elevator ding echoed from a distance.

  Kieran's heart began to race, and cold sweat formed on his palms. He took a deep breath, trying to enter that familiar state—calm, precise, and devoid of any emotion.

  The elevator doors opened, and a figure in a dark gray suit stepped out.

  Edmund Castellan.

  The mayor looked somewhat fatigued, holding a briefcase in one hand and loosening his tie with the other. His footsteps echoed in the empty parking lot, growing closer.

  Kieran held his breath, watching him walk toward the black sedan.

  Now is the time.

  His right hand slowly rose, and his palm began to heat up. He saw the beating heart within the mayor's chest, saw how blood flowed through the coronary arteries, and saw how that fragile life system operated.

  It only takes a single thought.

  Kieran's fingertips trembled slightly, the warmth in his palm had already coalesced into form—like an invisible thread, ready to shoot towards the target's heart at any moment. He saw Edmund Castellan pull the car keys from his briefcase, press the unlock button, and the car lights flashed twice.

  At that moment, the mayor's phone rang.

  He stopped, took out his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and a gentle smile appeared on his face.

  "Hello, Ivy?" His voice was particularly clear in the empty parking lot, "The meeting just ended, I'm about to drive over... What? You said Kieran?"

  Kieran's body went rigid.

  "Yeah, I remember that kid," the mayor continued, his tone gentle, "You say he's been acting strange lately? ... It might just be puberty; kids that age often have some worries... You're so concerned about him, is it that..."

  The mayor laughed, a kind of teasing laughter unique to fathers.

  "Alright, alright, I won't say anything reckless. But Ivy," his voice became serious, "if that kid encounters any difficulties, you can tell Dad. I've seen his records—his father passed away not long ago, right? Living alone must be really tough. If he needs help, we can..."

  Kieran couldn't listen any longer.

  His hands dropped down, the warmth in his palms dissipating. He leaned against the pillar, feeling as if something was pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

  Edmund Castellan hung up the phone, opened the car door, and sat in the driver's seat. The sound of the engine starting echoed as the car slowly pulled out of the parking space, passing by the pillar where Kieran was hiding, then disappearing down the exit ramp.

  ‘Kieran.’ Sabrina's voice echoed in his mind, cold and questioning, ‘Why didn’t you take action?’

  Kieran didn’t respond. He slid down to the ground, leaning against the cold concrete pillar, his hands cradling his head.

  ‘Kieran Vale!’ Sabrina's voice turned stern, ‘Answer me! Why did you let the target go?’

  ‘I…’ Kieran's voice trembled in his mind, ‘I couldn’t do it.’

  After a brief silence, Sabrina's voice rang out again, this time with a coldness he had never heard before:

  ‘You know what this means.’

  “I know.”

  ‘You disobeyed orders. The organization will not tolerate this kind of behavior.’

  ‘I know.’ Kieran repeated, his voice hollow.

  “You have twenty-four hours to reconsider. Tomorrow night, the target will attend the charity dinner at the hospital. This is your last chance. If you fail again…”

  Sabrina didn't finish her sentence, but the threat was already very clear.

  After the communication was cut off, Kieran still sat there, like an abandoned statue.

  Kieran sat in the parking lot for a long time, until the numbness in his knees crawled up his thighs like ice, and only then did he slowly stand up. The only sound in the air was the hum of mechanical ventilation, like some endless whisper, reminding him of what he had just done—or more precisely, what he had just "not done."

  As he walked up the stairs, there was no more sound from the device in his head, but that silence was more terrifying than any reprimand. The organization didn't need to say anything immediately; they just had to wait and see him collapse, or—be forced to remedy the situation.

  When he got home, the house was still as cold as an empty can. He took the beer out of the fridge and put it back, staring at the droplets of water on the can, remembering the night his father had aimed a shotgun at him. That instinct of "I could die any second" was exactly the same as Sabrina's earlier words: "the last chance."

  He sat on the living room floor, leaning against the sofa, with a question running through his mind repeatedly:

  —If I don't act, who dies?

  Not just himself. The more troubling part was that the organization didn't need to get their hands dirty to have him killed. They just needed to "throw him back into the human world": remove the protections on his accounts, student status, and residence, turn that implant into a locator, allowing anyone looking for trouble to find him.

  Ronan. The line to Ronan's father. Drug trafficking groups, underground casinos, the old debts left by his father... any one of these could drag him down.

  And Jasper.

  People like Jasper would rush up and ask him, "Are you okay?" They would check in, help out, and show up when they weren't supposed to. For the organization, that is a perfect leverage.

  Kieran closed his eyes, a sour feeling rising in his throat. He didn't want to save anyone; he just knew too well: as long as he chose "kindness" today, someone would make him pay the price tomorrow.

  He reached back to touch the nape of his neck, feeling that tiny, invisible thing firmly embedded in his life through his skin.

  "...Okay." He said to the air, as if bowing to some invisible tribunal.

  The next morning, he went to school as usual. The noise of the classroom, the hallway, and lunchtime all felt like they were separated by a layer of glass. Jasper patted his shoulder after class, wanting to say something, but Kieran shot him a look that sent him back. It wasn't indifference; it was a warning—stay away from me.

  He deliberately took a detour to avoid places where Ivy might appear. But during the break after the third period, she still stopped him in the hallway.

  "Kieran!" Her voice sounded a bit anxious, "Why did you run off like that yesterday? Did I say something wrong?"

  "No." Kieran kept his head down, not daring to look her in the eyes.

  "Then why..." Ivy hesitated, finally just sighing, "Never mind. Actually, I came today to tell you that my dad mentioned you on the phone yesterday."

  Kieran's heart suddenly tightened.

  “He said that if you need help, our family can provide some support,” Ivy continued, her tone filled with genuine concern. “I know your father has passed away, and living alone must be very difficult. If you have any difficulties—financial or personal—please feel free to tell me.”

  “No need.” Kieran almost instinctively rejected, his voice colder than he expected.

  Ivy was startled by his reaction, a hurt expression flashing across her face. “I... I just wanted to help...”

  “I don’t need anyone’s help.” Kieran said, turning and walking away, leaving a stunned Ivy standing there.

  He hurried to the restroom, rushed into a stall, locked the door, and slid down against the wall. His hands were trembling, and his breathing became rapid.

  Why? Why them? Why couldn’t it be scum like Ronan? Why did it have to be someone who showed him kindness?

  He thought of his father’s funeral, the empty cemetery, and the four people who attended the service. Tomorrow, Ivy would go through the same thing—only on a larger scale, with more people attending, media coverage, and political figures expressing condolences.

  But for her, none of that mattered. What mattered was that she would lose her father.

  Just like he lost Doyle.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He silently repeated in his mind, unsure if the apology was for Ivy, the mayor, or himself.

  *

  At 8:40 PM, the charity gala was held at the Caelora Central Hospital's affiliated foundation building. It was brightly lit, the glass exterior reflecting the harbor's night scene, with photographers at the entrance and volunteers and security standing by the red carpet. For the average person, this was a “bright” place: donations, speeches, applause, photos, even sadness was packaged as charity.

  Kieran wore a black turtleneck coat, blending in with the flow of guests and staff, entering through the side door's corridor. He didn't need an invitation; what he needed were the blind spots, the entrances and exits, and where the crowd's gaze would turn.

  Sabrina's voice cut in right on time.

  ‘The target has arrived. Second floor banquet hall, west side, near the floor-to-ceiling windows. You have a three-minute window.’

  ‘I know.’ Kieran replied.

  He walked up to the second floor and saw Edmund Castellan standing in the center of the crowd, shaking hands with a hospital board member. The mayor's smile was gentle, with tired lines at the corners of his eyes, but his shoulders remained straight. He looked like a man who "should live a long time": respected, with a family, and a mission.

  Kieran stood in the shadow of the corridor, his gaze passing through the half-open door. He didn't need to get close; he just needed to "see." The heat began to build in his palms, that familiar power flowing like water against the current in his veins, pushing from his chest to his fingertips.

  He mentally broke down the process into segments—calmly, like dissecting the structure of the human body: heart rhythm → coronary artery blood supply → local hypoxia → fatal arrhythmia.

  There would be no external injuries. In the end, it would only be written in the medical report: sudden cardiac event. High-pressure work, dinner alcohol, pre-existing conditions—all of it "reasonable."

  He raised his hand.

  In that instant, it was as if Edmund sensed something; his gaze lifted from the crowd and looked toward the entrance—not seeing him, but that instinct politicians have for changes in their environment.

  Kieran's breath caught for a moment. He forced himself not to look away, as looking away would mean wavering; wavering would lead to a second failure.

  He let that invisible "line" extend out.

  In the banquet hall, Edmund's smile was still on his face, but in the next moment, it seemed as if someone had pulled away his support. His fingers curled slightly, the grip on the champagne glass lost control, and the glass tilted in his hand, spilling the liquid onto the cuff of his suit.

  He frowned, as if he thought it was just a moment of discomfort in his chest, still trying to swallow that unease back down—an instinct of someone who is used to maintaining an image in front of others. He turned to the person beside him, seemingly wanting to say "I'm fine," his lips moved slightly, but only a vague breath escaped.

  Then, his knees went weak.

  The crowd's reaction was half a beat slow, and then it ignited like gunpowder: gasps, screams, some rushed to support him, while others shouted for a doctor. Under the lights, Edmund's face quickly lost its color, his lips turned blue, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead.

  Kieran stood in the shadow of the corridor, watching that body fall, watching the medical staff push through the crowd to enter.

  He felt no sense of victory.

  Only a hollow, clean sense of completion—and a deeper disgust, disgust at how he could remain so steady in such a moment.

  ‘Confirmation complete.’ He replied to Sabrina in his mind, his voice sounding as if it came from a great distance.

  ‘Good. Evacuate.’ Sabrina said, pausing before adding, as if pronouncing a sentence, ‘You have redeemed your worth.’

  Kieran turned and walked down the corridor towards the side door. He walked steadily, steady enough to seem like an ordinary guest just heading to the restroom. It wasn't until he stepped out of the foundation building, the cold wind filling his lungs, that he realized his fingertips were trembling.

  He looked down at his hands, as if seeing them for the first time.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket. It wasn't a message, but a news alert—an unexpected incident at the hospital charity gala, Mayor Edmund Castellan was rushed to the hospital.

  Kieran stared at the line of text, his chest feeling as if something had lightly tapped it.

  Rushed to the hospital.

  This meant he wasn't yet "declared" dead, but he knew the outcome. Once that line was drawn, no one would pull it back, unless a peer intervened—and there was no Order of Solace here.

  He shoved his phone back into his pocket and walked back along the sidewalk. The sea breeze was cold, and the streetlights stretched his shadow long, like a stranger following behind him.

  He recalled Ivy's words, "Take care of yourself."

  Then he thought: tomorrow she would be in the school corridor, receiving a call, just like he had years ago when he was called to identify a body. She would hear the words "We regret to inform you," and in that moment, she would suddenly understand that the world could change color in just one night.

  And he—would stand beside her, wearing a mask, pretending to be shocked, pretending to be sympathetic, pretending to be just another classmate caught in the tide of fate.

  Kieran stopped in his tracks and looked up at the pitch-black night sky of Caelora, devoid of stars.

  He took a deep breath, suppressing the acidity in his throat, and continued walking forward.

  Because he had already made his choice.

  Also because he knew: the real punishment was not what the organization would do to him, but that from now on, he could no longer say he was merely "forced."