Silence was never empty.
It pressed against the room like a held breath, thick enough to taste—oil from old lamps, iron from blood that hadn't yet spilled, the faint sweetness of cheap alcohol soaked into the floorboards of the inn. Time itself seemed reluctant to move.
Marin stood still at the center of it all.
Veron sat behind her, relaxed in the chair, head slightly tilted as if asleep. Dren lay on the bed before her, broad chest rising and falling slowly beneath the sheets. The knife in her hand was small, practical, its edge clean and eager. Candlelight slid along the steel, flashing once—like an eye blinking open.
Her lips trembled.
"…I'm sorry," she whispered, voice thin, almost childish. "For lying to you both. I'm just… a killer."
She stepped forward.
One step. Two.
Her shadow stretched over Dren's throat.
The blade descended—
Dren's eyes were open.
Not startled. Not confused.
Awake.
At the same instant, fingers like iron closed around Marin's wrist before the blade cut.
The knife was ripped from her grasp and lifted effortlessly into the air, spinning once before stopping inches from her face.
Veron was standing.
He hadn't risen in a rush. He hadn't even looked angry. His movements were calm, economical—like a man correcting something inevitable.
"Three," Veron said quietly.
His voice was low, measured, almost bored.
"We killed three already," he continued, eyes locked onto hers. "Before you finally decided to act."
Marin's breath hitched. Her pupils shrank.
Dren turned slightly on the bed, propping himself on one elbow. He looked at the scene with half-lidded eyes, yawned—and then let himself fall back onto the pillow.
Uninterested.
As if the knife, the confession, the danger… were nothing more than noise interrupting his sleep.
Marin screamed.
"Let go of me!" Her voice cracked. "Three?! What did you do to my sister?!"
Veron's grip tightened—not painfully, but with unmistakable authority.
"I didn't hurt her," he said flatly.
Then he leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear.
"But I will," he added, "if you don't calm down right now."
That was when it hit her.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Understanding.
She stared at him, lips parting, tears gathering but refusing to fall.
"…How?" she whispered. "How did you know?"
Veron didn't answer.
Instead, he raised a finger to his lips.
Silence.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
Footsteps.
Too many.
Too fast.
The room exploded.
Seven men stormed the room in a blur of motion and killing intent—boots pounding, blades flashing, suppressed gunfire coughing through the air.
Three seconds.
That was all it took for hell to arrive.
Two went for Dren.
Three rushed Veron and Marin.
Two crashed through the window, glass spraying like frozen rain.
The room erupted.
Dren sat up.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His eyes were no longer sleepy.
They were empty.
"…" He exhaled through his nose.
Then spoke, his voice deep, heavy, carrying a quiet, terrifying weight.
"This," he said, rising from the bed, muscles rolling beneath his skin, "is the second time tonight someone wakes me up."
A man lunged at him with a blade.
Dren moved.
He grabbed the attacker by the face and slammed him into the wall.
The impact sounded like a bomb going off.
Cracks spiderwebbed through the stone. The man dropped, unmoving.
The second attacker swung wildly.
Dren stepped inside the arc, snapped the man's arm with a short twist—clean, efficient—and ended it with a single strike that caved his chest inward.
No rage.
No roar.
Just overwhelming, merciless force.
The monster opened its eyes.
Across the room, Veron moved.
A gun appeared in his hand as if it had always been there.
Bang.
The man's head exploded.
The first man died before his feet fully crossed the threshold.
The second charged.
Veron sidestepped, fired once, precise.
The third hesitated.
That hesitation cost him everything.
Veron closed the distance in a blink. No sword. No flourish. A single brutal strike to the throat dropped the man gasping to the floor.
The third one used the chance to attack.
He pointed his gun at Veron's head.
"Eh…" the sound came from Dren laced with anger.
The tension cut the air.
The assassin turned with fear, but that was his end—a bullet from Veron's gun penetrated his skull.
Marin shrank back against the wall, chest heaving.
Her shirt clung to her body, thin fabric outlining the curve of her waist, the rise and fall of her breathing. Her eyes were wide, glossy, reflecting not men—but monsters.
Not cold.
Terrifying.
She forced herself to move.
Forced herself to think.
Chaos.
Smoke.
Blood.
She lunged.
The knife flashed again, aimed for Veron's back—
He kicked her.
Not hard.
Just enough.
She flew back, crashing onto the floor.
"If I wanted you dead," Veron said calmly, turning to face her, "you would've died the day that man walked into your room."
Her heart froze.
"Or," he continued, eyes sharp as knives, "when you exchanged looks with your sister at the tavern."
Marin's mouth opened. No sound came out.
"You said you didn't know anyone here," Veron went on. "That you stole from a merchant out of desperation. But your eyes told a different story. Your posture changed when you lied. Your breathing shifted."
He stepped closer.
"I collect threads," he said softly. "And you left many."
She broke.
A sob tore from her throat.
That was when Wols entered.
He stood in the doorway, gun raised, face twisted with fury. The last two assassins flanked him, weapons ready.
"So," Wols spat. "You really are monsters."
Veron raised his hands slightly. Not in surrender—just acknowledgment.
"Your plan failed," he said.
Wols gestured.
Both assassins attacked at once.
Dren met the first.
A sword slashed toward him.
He twisted, deflecting the sword. A gun went off by accident—loud, useless. Dren drove a fist into the man's throat.
The assassin collapsed, choking.
Dren kicked the gun away.
Then crushed the man's skull against the floor with one kick.
On the other side, at the same time, Veron moved.
He pushed Marin aside with one hand, caught the blade of the incoming sword with the other.
Bare-handed.
Steel bit into his palm.
He didn't flinch.
With a smooth motion, he disarmed the assassin, took the sword, raised an eyebrow in mockery.
A gunshot screamed past his head.
Wols.
Veron turned his gaze.
For a fraction of a second, the world slowed.
Then—
Veron vanished.
He appeared in front of Wols, low and coiled, fingers wrapped around his sword's hilt, blade poised to carve the man in half.
And behind Veron.
Dren drove a brutal uppercut into the assassin's stomach, lifting him off the ground before dropping him unconscious in a heap.
Blood dripped.
Two monsters stood revealed.
And just before the sword came out—
The world cut to black.