Bronya stood before the door, her eyes downcast.
Was this her life? It seemed so...
In Siberia, the last mission she received was to "assassinate 'The Devil'."
The reason it was her last mission was because the mission had failed...
Since leaving that hellish training camp, it was her first and only failed operation.
Her carefully chosen hiding spot was discovered with a casual glance from the target. Her day-long stakeout was a joke in the other's eyes.
The target mockingly exposed herself in her sniper scope, then appeared behind her. Her final counterattack was casually brushed aside. The knife that had accompanied her on countless missions was knocked away to some unknown place.
She had escaped... She shouldn't have escaped.
"The fate of you tools is only to complete missions, return to report, or die on an uncompleted mission!"
This was one of the things she had heard most from her "instructor."
She was a tool... a tool that didn't need happiness, didn't need fear, and certainly didn't need cowardice.
The result of a failed mission should have been death there, at the hands of the woman called "The Devil," not escaping in such a wretched state, wandering aimlessly in the streets.
Why did she run? Even with a dislocated arm, even without a gun, her knife gone, even if she was cold, hungry, and exhausted...
She shouldn't have run.
But the moment she collapsed in the snow, only one thought arose in Bronya's heart...
"I don't want to die..."
It was the primordial cry of life, the desire of a person to be human.
She exhausted the last of her strength, kicked up a flurry of snow, and then struggled to escape from there.
But where could she escape to?
Although she had had more than one "master," she had been "traded" and "inherited"... She was still that "best tool," the "Ural Silver Wolf" who had never failed a mission.
They could accept a triumphant wolf, but not a dog that returned with its tail between its legs.
She couldn't go back... She had no home.
Realizing this, Bronya hid herself in a filthy corner, keeping company with a giant dumpster.
The stench of the world's decay stimulated her drowsy mind. Not knowing if it was because of the extreme cold or something else, Bronya picked up a crumpled newspaper.
The smell of the ink on it was much better than the stench. Unfortunately, Bronya couldn't understand the characters on it. A tool only needed to know how to do things, not to possess too much knowledge.
Perhaps out of boredom, or perhaps out of some inexplicable sense of ritual, Bronya carefully smoothed out the wrinkles on the newspaper and then covered herself with it.
She had seen her former "comrades" covered with such a white cloth when they were sent back. Sometimes the white cloth even had patterns on it. Bronya considered this a ritual for herself.
Was this... going back?
Bronya knew very well that it was not.
Forget it, let it be... Bronya closed her eyes, wanting to sleep one last time.
Then she was chased out by a scruffy old man reeking of alcohol, because that dumpster was his home, and he didn't welcome neighbors.
Back on the street, Bronya stared blankly at the old man skillfully climbing into the dumpster. In her almost stagnant mind, the first directional question of her life appeared.
What is "home"? Bronya took it as the last question of her life, as her final wish. So she started walking, walking down this desolate street, trying to find the answer to this question.
Now, back before this door, Bronya felt she had found the answer to her question.
This warmth... this must be [home]...
If only I had such a home...
Bronya stood in the cold wind, reaching out her pale, frozen hand, yearning to touch that warmth.
She seemed to see a woman holding a small version of herself by the fireplace, poking her cheek with a finger, making her laugh.
And a burly man whose figure was unclear, gently rocking the rocking chair the woman sat in, leaning his head in to see her, only to be slapped on the head by the woman when the baby cried.
If only... it were like that...
Unfortunately, that warmth didn't belong to her, just as the door before her wouldn't open for her...
Creak—
Bronya's pupils constricted. Her outstretched hand instinctively drew back to protect herself, but the shock of the opening door overwhelmed her consciousness.
She looked up shakily and saw the face of the person who had opened the door.
It was the color of the sea...
"Hello? Excuse me... are you alright?" the short-haired girl who opened the door asked Bronya timidly.
Bronya couldn't answer, just stared straight into those eyes, as if wanting to burn this scene into her mind as the last image of her life.
A happy child... should be like this...
In my next life, I must be such a happy child.
"Is that you?" A slightly surprised voice came from behind the sea-blue-eyed girl. Bronya looked up, and the last thing she remembered was the appearance of the woman who walked over.
It's her... 'The Devil'...
She chased me all the way here?
...
Warmth... it was a warmth Bronya had never felt before... Although it was dark all around, at this moment, Bronya preferred this darkness to the white snow.
Her senses gradually returned. The place she was lying on was not a hard wooden board, but a softness that was unfamiliar to her. This softness enveloped her, making her want to drown in it.
But the vigilance that had long been ingrained in her bones still made her open her eyes immediately.
An unfamiliar but bright room, a style Bronya had never seen before. Even though everything was so unfamiliar, Bronya just felt that this room and the sea-like girl before her were a perfect match.
But she still couldn't stop her subconscious reaction. A conditioned reflex made her throw the sea-like girl off.
"I advise you not to touch her," a cold voice said from the side. This time, Bronya's hair truly stood on end. She struggled to get up.
It was that [Devil]—!
But the feeling of restraint on her body made her movements less smooth. Just as she was about to escape from that soft wrapping, a hand was already on her shoulder.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ural Silver Wolf."