I wake up to the soft whisper of Jennifer's voice against my ear.
"I'm leaving for the office now, Babe. You should get up and move to the bed before you catch a cold," she murmurs before pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek. "See you tonight."
I keep my eyes closed, listening to her footsteps fade away before the front door clicks shut. Only then do I let out a long sigh.
She's acting so natural this morning, as if nothing happened—as if we hadn't confessed to loving each other last night. And somehow, that makes me feel even more awkward.
Did she really mean it when she said she loves me?
Because… well, I don't.
I mean, she's not just a one-night stand—that much is obvious. She's been living here for over a month now, and I've gone out of my way to keep her safe. We're exclusive. We're… together.
But to love her?
That's a big responsibility.
I rake my fingers through my hair, exhaling slowly before pushing myself up from the floor.
On my way to the bathroom, I grab the four used condoms from last night, tossing them into the trash bin.
When I reach the mirror, I place my hands on the sink, steadying myself, my mind still foggy.
Then—something catches my eye.
I freeze.
My neck.
The scar is gone.
My breath hitches as I remember—one of those star blades sliced me last night. I felt the pain. I even remember wincing when I moved my head.
And my arm.
I quickly turn my body, checking my left upper arm.
Last night, the blade pricked deeper into the muscle. The wound should still be fresh—still hurt like hell.
But instead, all that remains is a faint, healed scar.
I touch it.
No pain.
I frown, heading toward the laundry basket. I grab my jacket and T-shirt from last night, inspecting them.
The sleeves are torn, just like I remember. Bloodstains mark the fabric.
So I was wounded.
Then how the hell did I heal this fast?
"It's amazing!"
Dr. Lamos, the surgeon who operated on my spine, holds up an X-ray with a look of pure astonishment.
I stare at him, unimpressed. "What's amazing?"
"Your spine. It's completely healed." He turns the X-ray toward me, pointing at the image. "Look! Even the surgical scars are gone."
I barely glance at the film. I wouldn't understand it anyway.
"Is that… normal?"
He shakes his head, still gaping at the image. "Not at all. A recovery like this should take at least three to six months—with physical therapy. My patients usually struggle to walk for weeks after this type of surgery."
"So… I'm not normal?"
"You are exceptional," he corrects, his eyes gleaming with fascination.
I narrow my eyes. "Has this ever happened before? I mean… do I normally heal this fast?"
Dr. Lamos strokes his chin, considering. "I don't think so. The injuries I've treated before—gunshots, stab wounds—they all healed at an expected pace, right?"
"Yeah," I mutter, thinking back. "A bullet wound took about a month. A stab wound, maybe two weeks."
"But this?" He holds up the X-ray again. "This is something else."
I hesitate, then finally say, "It's not just my spine."
His eyebrows raise. "What do you mean?"
I sigh. "I had fresh wounds last night. A deep cut on my arm. A slash on my neck. This morning? Gone. Just a faint scar."
Dr. Lamos leans forward, intrigued. "Have you consumed anything new? Medication? Supplements?"
I shake my head. "Nothing."
He taps his fingers on the desk. "What about other symptoms? Nausea? Depression? Anxiety? Anything psychological?"
I hesitate, then nod.
"Actually… yeah."
His eyes gleam with curiosity. "Go on."
I rub the back of my neck. "I feel like… everything is moving slower. Like right now—you're talking, but it sounds sluggish."
Dr. Lamos sits up straighter. "And yesterday?"
I exhale. "I dodged a bullet."
His jaw drops.
"It was fired from less than two meters away," I continue. "I saw it coming… and I had enough time to move."
Dr. Lamos stares at me, speechless.
"But it's not always like that," I add quickly. "It doesn't happen when I'm at home. Or when I'm with Jennifer. Only when I'm… out there."
For a full minute, Dr. Lamos studies me. Then, he sighs.
"I have a friend," he says finally. "A neurologist—specifically, a brain neurologist. I think you should meet him."
I nod. "That would be great."
"So, when will you meet this brain expert?" Thief asks over the phone.
"As soon as Dr. Lamos can reach him," I reply.
"What's the hold-up?"
"Well…" I lean back on my chair. "Turns out, he's a fugitive."
Thief snorts. "Cool."
I roll my eyes. This girl… I swear.
"Anyway, my art exhibition is set," she says, smoothly changing the subject. "It's next week. That enough time for you to prepare?"
"I've been prepared. You're the only one left unpaid. Andy and Bob already have their cuts."
She clicks her tongue. "You know I'd do this for free."
"I hate unpaid debts," I say simply. "Work is work. Keep friendship and business separate. That's professionalism."
She chuckles. "Well, those kids' prayers will protect you for a lifetime."
I smirk. "They should be praying for you, not me."
She hums. "So, who's the buyer for my artwork?"
"Edward Kho. Representative of one of my shell companies in Country S."
"And he's buying everything?"
"Him or Agatha Scholl from Country N. Depends on who wins the auction."
"Let the lady win," Thief declares immediately.
I smirk. "Feminist."
She laughs. "Always."
Paying Thief is always the most complicated part. She insists she doesn't care, but I have to make sure the transactions are untraceable—for her own safety. Usually, I pay her in bitcoins, bouncing the money through multiple channels before it reaches her.
This time, she wants cash—to donate to neuroblastoma research for kids. So, we're running it through an art auction.
As I pull into my apartment's basement, Thief updates me.
"Your ninja assassin? Albert Dwight?"
"Yeah?"
"His real name was Hector Sebastian."
I pause. "Sebastian? The RG Bridge bomber?"
"The one and only. He disappeared after that… some say he became an informant."
Before I can respond, my attention snaps to my apartment door.
It's wide open.
I grab my gun, stepping forward quietly.
Inside, I hear a bubbly voice.
And then—
"Quint!! You finally came!!"
What the hell?