The door swung open, revealing Mia, and Sanemi felt an immediate surge of adrenaline and nerves. He was standing in the doorway of the woman the system had ordered him to kill, and she was breathtakingly beautiful.
Am I really going in there? he thought, his mind racing. I've never been to a woman's house before. He almost forgot the pretext for his visit, his hand clutching the fruit basket.
"Mom said that I should give this to you," he managed, handing her the basket.
"Oh, thank you so much! You and your mother are so nice," Mia replied, her smile bright and genuine. "Welcome in."
Sanemi stepped across the threshold, instantly engulfed by an atmosphere that felt utterly foreign. He gazed around, his eyes wide. The apartment was profoundly decent and elegant.
Is this how girls' rooms look? he wondered, To be honest, I can't tell since I've never been to one before.
The air carried a faint, expensive perfume—something floral, soft, almost like the memory of spring rain. The living room was perfectly curated. A cream-colored sofa sat plumply in place, its cushions arranged at sharp angles. The small glass table gleamed, holding a single, empty wine glass and a vase of fresh lilies, their stark white petals catching the morning light.
Bookshelves lined the far wall, but these were balanced: novels stacked neatly, photo frames slotted precisely, a candle burning low at the edge. The sheer curtains swayed gently, softening the golden glow of the interior lamps. It wasn't loud or chaotic; it was elegant in the quietest, most intentional way. For the first time in his life, Sanemi realized a home could feel like a deliberate reflection of someone's ordered soul.
"You caught me from the morning," Mia said, noticing his stunned expression. She laughed softly. "I haven't even cleaned the mess around here." She picked up the solitary wine glass from the table, motioning toward the sofa.
"Sit here," she said softly.
He obeyed, almost stiffly, his body tense. She picked up the remote, and with a click, the huge flat-screen TV lit up. "Watch whatever you want," she added with a faint smile.
Before he could offer a coherent answer, she was already heading toward the kitchen. The silk robe she wore moved and flowed with her steps, clinging just enough to reveal the subtle, perfect shape beneath. For a dangerous moment, Sanemi caught himself staring, captivated by the shimmer of the fabric under the soft light. He violently forced his gaze to the screen, but the image of her receding figure lingered in his mind.
From the sofa, he could hear the gentle clatter of pans and the faint hum of the fridge door opening. The scent of dark coffee beans and something warm and savory—breakfast—began drifting out. He leaned back, struggling to focus on the mindless chatter coming from the TV.
How could she have such a wonderful house? What is her job? But that is not what brought me here, his mind screamed. He scanned the room again, looking for anywhere to start. His eyes locked onto the shelves and the dark wooden drawer beneath them.
"Are you okay with eggs?" Mia's elegant voice called from the kitchen.
"Yeah…" The word slipped out, involuntary. He realized he hadn't eaten anything, but he certainly hadn't planned to stay for breakfast.
He glanced toward the kitchen. The soft clink of utensils told him she was busy, her attention fully swallowed by whatever she was preparing. His pulse quickened. This was his chance.
Slowly, he rose from the couch, careful not to make the leather cushions creak. His steps were quiet, almost guilty, as he moved toward the shelves, pretending to admire the neatly arranged books—novels, classics, and even poetry. His fingers traced the spines until he reached the photo frames.
He paused, eyes darting toward the kitchen doorway. Still safe.
The pictures showed fragments of her life: a smiling child with missing teeth, a younger version of her in a school uniform, and one of her standing with friends on a sunlit beach. Each image felt too intimate, too normal, making his murderous task feel monstrous.
Then his gaze fell to the drawer beneath the shelves. The thought hammered at him: What could she be hiding there? His hand twitched toward the handle, but hesitation rooted him to the spot. His chest tightened as if the air itself was warning him.
Still, curiosity pressed harder than fear. He leaned down, heart pounding in his ears.
What if she isn't who she says she is? The thought rattled in his head. Her name was Mia, but the task said Mia Ivanovna. Was this really her, or was he standing inside the apartment of someone merely wearing the name like a mask?
He swallowed hard, forcing his breath to stay quiet. If she catches me snooping, I'm screwed.
The drawer beneath the shelves seemed to pull at him like a magnet. His hand trembled as it hovered above the handle. This was it—the truth might be inside.
Just as his fingertips brushed the wood, a voice cut through the silence.
"Sanemi," it came soft, almost curious, but it felt like thunder crashing in his ears. "What are you doing?"
He froze. His entire body stiffened, heart crashing against his ribs like a trapped bird. Slowly, he turned his head, the air thick in his lungs.
Mia stood at the edge of the kitchen doorway, her silk robe catching the golden light. In one hand, she held a plate of steaming food. Her eyes were unreadable, holding neither surprise nor anger—just a cool, unsettling observation. The warmth of the room had turned cold in an instant.