“What are you doing?”

Feston had clamped down on his wrist, pulling his hand into the light.
“Your fingerprints,” he said, spreading the man’s fingers like he’d just found damning evidence. “I’ve always wondered what was so special about these hands—until I saw them at the clinic.”

They were a killer’s hands—broad palms, strong fingers. Beyond their perfect proportions, faint scars traced across the pads of his fingers. Skin graft marks, faded but unmistakable to anyone who looked closely. On some people, scars were ugly. On others, they were mysterious—almost like a secret script etched into the flesh.

Feston’s eyes stayed fixed on them. “You don’t have fingerprints.”

“I don’t have fingerprints,” the man repeated slowly. Feng Zhannuo glanced at his own hand and gave a light, easy smile. “So what?”

He half-expected Feston to start laying out a formal accusation, pointing out that no prints had been found on the murder weapon. He could argue those could have been wiped off. And besides, he wasn’t the only person in the world whose fingerprints had been burned away.

“The orphanage fire.” Feston’s grip tightened, stopping whatever retort was forming. His eyes burned like a spotlight. “Your name really is Noy.”

That fire had gutted the orphanage. Some children had died in the blaze; others had lived—only by shedding their old identities.

Feng Zhannuo’s smile faltered. “Kaida, has anyone ever told you you’re not exactly likable?”

“Why not call me Feston? You’ve never been afraid of the law before… have you, Ghost Ian?”

The brief calm shattered. Their grips shifted, each man twisting the other’s wrist, testing strength, testing will. Two forces locked in a silent contest—until the noise from a raid outside bled through the walls. Too loud out there to hear anything in here, but from inside, they could hear the chaos beyond.

At any moment, Chuck’s men could return.

“I’m hungry.”

Feng Zhannuo broke the pointless deadlock. Feston let go as well. The storage room wasn’t big, but it held bread, canned smoked meat, and whiskey under the dim light overhead.

Feng Zhannuo ate carefully. He never wasted food—or good liquor. He savored each bite, each sip, unhurried, measured, and without any hint of pretension.

Feston watched him. “I wonder what kind of environment produces someone like you.”

Whether it was a casual probe or genuine curiosity, it made Feng Zhannuo laugh.

“Someone like me? Is that a compliment or an insult? What do you think I am? Cold-blooded? Out to get revenge on society? Or maybe I’m so jealous of people like you that I just have to destroy everything you have?”

The last line was delivered flat, without any rise or fall. The killer’s eyes carried a killer’s smirk. Feston had once said that kind of look came from criminal envy—but now, he shook his head.

“You’re just trying to provoke me. You’re not the type to give away your real thoughts that easily.”

They’d crossed paths enough times for Feston to understand the Ghost’s greatest skill—masking his emotions. He didn’t need them. But at the right moment, people always revealed their weaknesses.

He’d saved a cat. And that wasn’t even a person.

“You still have feelings. You know what that means? Instead of dying at someone else’s hands, why not do something else? With your skills, you could start over. Unless you’ve killed too many people to avoid the death penalty, even if you turned yourself in.”

Feston’s gaze was steady and unflinching, sharp enough to make people feel seen through. Silence stretched between them.

Feng Zhannuo set down his half-eaten bread and suddenly burst into laughter. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant…”

He clapped his hands. “Feston, are you watching too many TV dramas? Is this your way of getting me to turn myself in? Hate to break it to you, but I’m not the one who needs redeeming—it’s the people outside.”

He tore off another piece of bread, popped it in his mouth, and pointed toward the door with a smile that never faded.

Feston held his gaze for a long moment. The Ghost lowered his head, hiding his expression.

“Don’t waste your time, Kaida. If you want to arrest me—it’s not going to be easy.”

Then his eyes snapped up, sharp as the tip of an icicle. “Cheap talk like that is an insult to me.”

The whiskey was neat—spicy and smooth, cold yet burning. Feston took a slow sip. “I figured as much.” He hadn’t expected to shake a top-tier assassin known as the Ghost so easily.

Feng Zhannuo leaned against a wooden crate, content to maintain this rare peace. “Chaos outside, comfort inside. That’s life. Beautiful, isn’t it?” He patted Feston’s shoulder and reached for the bottle.

“And what would a killer like you know about beauty?” Feston didn’t bother with pretense now—they both knew each other’s game.

“Beauty? You mean snowy mountaintops in Switzerland? A sunrise? A beach in Hawaii?”

“That’s nothing.” Feng Zhannuo’s eyes lifted to the swaying light overhead. “Ever spent the whole night in a deserted forest with only wild animals for company? You can’t move. You’re waiting for your target, so you have to become perfectly still, like a corpse. Any sound in that deathly silence is like an explosion. Unknown insects crawl onto you, their antennae testing whether you’re food. And then—bang! The shot rings out.”

“When morning comes, I know I’m still alive. And my target lies dead in the dry leaves. Days and nights of waiting—and that feeling? That’s beauty.”

His eyes gleamed, and Feston couldn’t describe the light in them.

Being a killer wasn’t just about being ruthless. It was one of the oldest trades in the world—and the man in front of him was one of its finest, the Ghost who had never missed. But that came at a price most couldn’t imagine.

Fire. Disaster. Orphans. Training. Torture. Endurance. Living on the edge of death.

No feelings. No trust. No partners. Not even a flicker of mercy.

Killing was the job. Because once you’d become this, there was nothing else you could do.

The fingerprintless hand gripped the bottle. “I think I’ve had too much…” His blue eyes shone brighter with the alcohol. He shook his head. “Why am I even telling you this?”

“Because you’re hypoglycemic, malnourished, and drunk.” Feston took the bottle from him and drained it. Ian Noy was nothing like the purely bloodthirsty killers Feston had arrested before—different enough that Feston couldn’t ignore it.

Footsteps outside.

“Wake up. They’re back.” Feston shoved him lightly. Feng Zhannuo wobbled, nearly falling into the liquor cabinet, and Feston caught him.

Chuck’s men burst in, cursing. “Our boss didn’t put you in here to drink and cuddle! Damn it! We’re the ones busting our asses!”

When Chuck himself appeared, the others shut up. He glanced at the empty cans and bottle but said nothing. “Bring them upstairs.”

The bar was back to normal operations. The cops had come earlier, nabbed a few pill dealers, checked IDs, and left—as if nothing had happened. Music thumped, lights flashed, and bikini-clad dancers shimmied on the stage.

Without his mask, Feng Zhannuo looked around as they walked past. Chuck noticed. “Open the safe for me, and I’ll give you whatever you want—men, women, cash.”

“Must be something important in there,” Feng Zhannuo said, glancing around.

Feston cut in. “Nice offer. But don’t forget—he’s mine. Pick something else.”

He took Feng Zhannuo’s hand naturally, and the Ghost glanced down at it. Whatever escape plan he’d had, he had to shelve it for now. He met Feston’s eyes briefly, then walked forward calmly with Chuck’s men, Feston’s grip still firm.

In the lounge, Chuck’s patience frayed. “I don’t care what your relationship is—your lives are in my hands! Open it!”

Nothing had changed—except that Feng Zhannuo now had food and drink in his stomach. His steps were light, like walking on clouds. “I’ll try my best.”

He began spinning the safe’s dial. The clicks echoed, tense in the room. All eyes were on him. After a few turns, he stopped—and slowly looked over his shoulder.

“Aren’t you going to call them in? Did you really think I could open this thing?” He raised an eyebrow at Feston.

Chuck’s face twisted as realization hit. “You’re a fraud! It’s a trap! Kill them!”

“Move!” Feston barked—whether to his ally or someone else, no one knew—and dragged Feng Zhannuo behind the sofa. The door slammed open. Jonathan and the ST team stormed in.

“Boss?!”

“I’m fine. Arrest them.”

Holding the Ghost fast, Feston grabbed a dropped gun. Gunfire and screams tore through the bar. Then Feng Zhannuo lunged at him. The gun tilted upward, shattering the crystal chandelier, which swayed dangerously.

“So the cops earlier were here to stall or to scout the place?” The Ghost’s eyes were sharp now, no trace of alcohol.

“You figured it out?” Feston didn’t deny it.

“You said things would be different in an hour. Well, the hour’s up. And don’t forget—I’m a smart man.” He threw Feston’s own words back at him, driving a punch toward his throat. The chandelier fell, plunging them into darkness. His punch hit the floor—empty air.

Not good. Feston rolled sideways, a sweep grazing his back.

“You must have known this was my setup. Too bad the transmitter and my ID are gone. I had to buy time for them to find me—and this place.”

“Thanks for that, Ghost,” Feston’s voice came from the dark, close.

Being used wasn’t a surprise. Feng Zhannuo had half-expected it. He laughed instead of cursing. “Don’t celebrate too soon.”

From a corpse’s body, he pulled a gun. In the darkness, his eyes gleamed like a reaper’s.

Bang. Bang. Bang.