07:32 AM | N.P.U. Headquarters, Metro City
Morning cut through the blinds like a scalpel, slicing Adrian's office into strips of gold and shadow. Cold coffee sat untouched on his desk, a forgotten casualty of another night spent chasing ghosts.
He hunched over the case files, eyes raw, the Hello Kitty bandage on his cheek a stark, almost absurd contrast to the shallow graze it covered. Too childish. Too vivid. Too her.
A sharp knock fractured the silence.
"Come in," he rasped.
The door opened. Elias entered without preamble, carrying a manila folder heavy with consequence. His expression was carved in stone.
"We need to talk," Elias said, closing the door behind him. "About your partner."
Adrian lifted his head, fatigue weighing down every movement. "What about her?"
Elias crossed the room, dropping into the chair opposite Adrian. No small talk. No ease. Just gravity.
"I pulled her psych evaluations," he said, sliding the folder across the desk. "After last night? Yeah, I pulled them."
Adrian's hand hovered over the folder. The label read: Psychological Profile – Agent "Aveline" [REDACTED].
"Elias—"
"Just read it," he cut in. "Please."
Adrian opened the folder.
The first page read clinical and detached, the kind of language used when someone wants to explain horror politely.
Subject: Agent "Aveline" [Last Name Redacted]
Evaluation Date: [REDACTED]
Evaluator: Dr. Helena Cross, Ph.D., Clinical Psychology
Summary:
Subject demonstrates patterns of emotional detachment, lack of empathy, and interpersonal manipulation. High-functioning traits consistent with antisocial personality disorder (psychopathy spectrum). Views relationships transactionally—individuals assessed for utility, not intrinsic value.
Notable Observations:
No genuine emotional bonds.
Frustration when operational variables deviate; no remorse for harm caused.
People viewed as tools or obstacles.
Exceptional operational efficiency in high-stress environments.
Assessment: High-functioning psychopath. Recommended for roles requiring emotional detachment and tactical precision. Not suitable for positions requiring empathy, cohesion, or ethical nuance.
C.R.I.M.E Division Recruitment Status: APPROVED. Traits align with mission requirements.
Adrian's hands trembled. Page after page repeated the same conclusions:
"Lack of genuine emotional response…"
"Views relationships as transactional…"
"No capacity for empathy…"
"High-functioning psychopath…"
Elias leaned over his shoulder. Quiet, careful, like diffusing a bomb.
"Every evaluator notes the same patterns," he said. "C.R.I.M.E didn't reject her for this. They recruited her because of it."
Adrian's throat tightened.
"So she's… diagnosed?" he asked.
"Not officially," Elias replied. "Too controlled. Too good at masking. But—" He paused. "Psychopaths don't feel love. Closest they get to intimacy is ownership."
The word hit like a punch.
"What are you trying to say?" Adrian asked, though the answer clawed at him from inside.
"Unless you want to become her possession, her trophy you keep your distance. She's effective, useful, but not human the way we are."
Adrian touched the Hello Kitty bandage on his cheek. She gave me this. But it means nothing. Just… efficient wound care?
"She saved my life," he said, defensive.
"Because you're useful," Elias shot back. "The second you're not? You're irrelevant. Or worse, you become what she wants to own."
Silence filled the room like smoke.
Adrian stared at the psych evaluation: High-functioning psychopath. Ownership, not love.
Elias's voice softened. "I'm not saying don't work with her. Just don't trust her. Not the way you're starting to."
Adrian began to reply. "I'm not—"
"You are," Elias interrupted. "Looking for humanity there will only get you hurt."
He stood, chair scraping. "Dursley's apartment. Nine o'clock. Don't be late."
The door closed. Adrian remained, staring at the folder, at the bandage, at the truth. Ownership, not love.
09:00 AM | Dursley's Apartment, South Metro
The drive was suffocating. Aveline sat in the passenger seat like a statue of ice. Adrian picked her up from the curb, punctual as ever. Her coat remained pristine despite drizzle misting the streets.
"You sleep okay?" he asked, straining for casual.
"Sleep is a biological necessity. I achieved optimal REM cycles."
He almost laughed. Almost.
"Of course you did."
She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a lab specimen. Silence returned heavier than before.
"About last night… the gun. Twice."
"Error in threat assessment," she said flatly. "Your intervention corrected the miscalculation."
"You would have killed him."
"Yes."
"Without hesitation."
"Hesitation is inefficient."
He clenched his jaw, forcing out the question gnawing at him.
"Do you ever… regret things?"
She considered it thoughtfully, like an equation to solve.
"Regret implies emotional attachment to past outcomes. I experience frustration when projections fail. But regret? No. That would be counterproductive."
Right. Counterproductive. Elias was right.
They parked outside Dursley's building.
The hallway was the same mildew-scented tomb: peeling paint, buzzing fluorescent lights, the ghost of old smoke.
Too quiet. No baby cries. No rattling pipes. Just silence.
"Something's wrong," Adrian said, hand drifting toward his sidearm.
"Agreed. Probability of hostile presence: moderate," Aveline replied.
The door was unlocked.
It swung open.
Orren Dursley sat tied to a chair. Single gunshot wound to the back of the head execution style. Blood pooled beneath him, dried to dark brown crust. Eyes open, staring at nothing.
Adrian froze. The world tilted. Flashback slammed into him: Marcus. Same shot to the head. Same blood. My failure again.
Aveline stepped past him, clinical, detached. Examining bindings, bullet trajectory, blood spatter all data.
"Time of death: six to eight hours ago. Bindings: nylon cord. No struggle prior—ambush likely."
"I got him killed," Adrian whispered hollowly.
"You accelerated the timeline," she said matter-of-fact. "Statistically, he was already dead."
Her words cut clean. No empathy. None.
Adrian moved deeper, training taking over.
"Who does this?" he asked.
"La Sangre Nera," she answered. "Execution-style, bodies left on display. Psychological warfare."
He narrowed his eyes. "You know them well."
"C.R.I.M.E requires proficiency in organized crime. La Sangre Nera: public executions. Varonola: clinical efficiency, targets disappear. Fear through uncertainty."
She dialed her phone. Anonymous tip. Twelve minutes before Metro PD would arrive.
"We leave now," she said, pulling him toward the hallway.
Cold. Efficient. Detached.
Adrian's voice cracked in the hall. "Everyone I touch dies. Marcus. Dursley. Who's next?"
"Statistical inevitability," she replied. "We require a new witness. Lower profile. Harder access. Repeat until evidence threshold is met."
She spoke of people like chess pieces. Elias was right: there's nothing human here.
Driving back, silence stretched.
"Do you feel anything? About Dursley?" he asked finally.
"I feel frustration the asset was neutralized before optimal utilization. Concern for accelerated response. Grief? Inefficient."
Adrian whispered, "Jesus."
Aveline frowned. "You keep invoking religious figures, is that a cultural coping mechanism?"
He didn't answer. Just drove.
N.P.U. Headquarters
Elias waited, arms crossed. Adrian's voice flat: "Dursley's dead. La Sangre Nera."
Elias exhaled. "Shit."
Aveline stepped forward: "Alternative witness required. Cross-reference Marcus's contacts for low-profile assets."
Three names: Dr. Sarah Chen, Miguel Santos, Yuki Tanaka.
"Tanaka. Data analyst. Friend of Marcus. Emotional leverage via loyalty. Optimal target."
Adrian snapped. "She's a person, not a target."
Aveline looked genuinely confused. "She's both. Not mutually exclusive."
Silence. Elias whispered to Adrian: "You see what I mean?"
He nodded. Yeah. He did.