Ren felt the foreign liquid in his mouth. It was the first time he had ever tasted red wine, at an age when he was not even legal to consume it.
Before swallowing the liquid, Ren saw a golden opportunity. He would not let this emotional fracture go to waste. It was the perfect opening: loneliness, desire, and sheer desperation. The vault was hidden in the dressing room, and he knew General Aslan secured the Fake Drawing with something deeply sentimental.
Ren responded in a voice so low it was like a whisper in the heart of a battlefield. "I do not care for this method, Madam. But for tonight... I will do whatever is necessary."
Ren took control. Forcing Lilith back onto the sofa, his gloved hand gripped her wrist. He pressed firmly but subtly on a sensitive pulse point, holding her there. It was a touch meant to bind, not to caress.
Lilith gasped at the sudden, dominating coldness of the gesture. Her free hand clutched Ren's arm. "Why are you... hurting me?"
Ren lowered his voice to a whisper that was almost inaudible yet saturated with authority. "I will hurt you much deeper than this. I will not ask; I will take."
Ren leaned in. He did not hesitate to kiss her—a horrific act of pure manipulation. The kiss wasn't romantic; it was a tool for information absorption. As his lips met hers, he did not release his grip on her wrist.
Lilith began to respond to the surge of passion. On the other side, Ren increased the pressure on her pulse point, inflicting a subtle but constant pain. The conflict between pleasure and pain left Lilith utterly entranced and psychologically vulnerable.
Ren whispered against her lips, his voice a cold command. "What is it that you keep protecting from the husband who cages you? Is it truly so precious?"
Lilith winced, her consciousness and desire at war. The kiss felt like a forced betrayal. She panted, eyes squeezed shut. "Nothing! Just... just the day we stop pretending! The day I... I lost myself here..."
Ren inhaled, searching for the key buried within her emotions. He shifted his kiss from her lips to the hollow of her neck, near her ear—the most private of whispering points. He coaxed the memory.
"Give me that date, Lilith," he said, using her name for the first time. "The day Aslan bound you here. Give me that day, and I will take you away from this place."
Lilith's voice shattered, surrendering to his cold manipulation. "Seventeen... Nine... Nineteen-oh-nine... Seventeen-Nine!"
1709.
Ren slowly pulled away. He had the key. His face instantly reverted to a rigid mask. Lilith's smile, born of passion, froze as her hands remained draped around his neck.
Without his daggers, Ren swiftly pressed an acupoint beneath Lilith's ear—a trick learned from his Master. "Sleep, Lilith. Erase and forget this night of betrayal from your memory when you wake."
Lilith collapsed onto the sofa, unconscious, appearing as though she were in a deep slumber. No bruises, no noise. Only a forced silence.
Ren did not look back. Walking down the hallway, he swallowed an alcohol antidote pill from his utility pouch. Though he had consumed very little, he had to ensure his body remained at peak efficiency.
He successfully entered General Aslan's room. With the key in hand, he moved to the dressing table, shifted the painting above it, and entered the code: 1709. The vault clicked open, and he retrieved the Fake Drawing.
Mission accomplished. As Ren exited the residence, he felt the metallic tang in his mouth. He had used his body—and a kiss—as the cruelest of blades. A new trauma was etched into his soul: the intimacy he had mastered was merely a path toward horrific, total manipulation.
As Ren made his escape, the satisfied voice of the Older Man echoed through his earpiece. "Good. Emotion is a lethal tool, and you used it efficiently. Now you know the price of a perfect result. The price is yourself."
Ren walked beneath the dim moon, discarding his beret. He knew. The price of that kiss was a permanent loathing for intimacy. A betrayal he had to commit to survive, a psychological scar he would carry into his future.
Eye Tower, Present Day
The flashes of Lilith and the red wine vanished as Ren kicked the body of the final agent at the top of the emergency stairs. The man collapsed from a lethal strike to the carotid artery. Ren returned to the reality of the silent, blood-stained staircase. Even after two years, the disgust felt raw.
Ren reached down to take the agent's pistol, checking the magazine. Only one bullet left. Enough to finish the mission, but no room for error.
He reached the top-floor exit. His arms and legs were grazed by bullets in several places; his breath came in ragged gasps. He had endured thirty minutes of hellish pain, but the "reset" effect of the antidote was finally fading, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. He adjusted his aching left shoulder and ensured the blood-stained glove was still secure.
He couldn't go up without notifying the Cube. This was a dead-end. His left hand touched his earpiece, requesting a limited signal.
"Isaac, Vera," Ren's voice was low and urgent. "Give me ten minutes."
Silence on the other end.
"If I haven't reached Extraction Point A after ten minutes, immediately release an anonymous report about the coup at Eye Tower. By any means necessary, get the police here, but don't let them trace the source."
"Ren, what do you mean ten minutes? Why—?" Vera's voice was thick with worry.
"It's Plan B if I fail." Ren paused. "Isaac, make sure you've cleared the digital firewall for my extraction path from this lockdown. Because I'm cutting the connection."
"What? It would be easier if I guided you out—"
"The rest is personal. You are not to be involved." Ren's voice left no room for negotiation.
Ren disconnected. He pulled the earpiece from his ear and tucked it into his suit pocket. Now, there was only him, the pain, a pistol with one bullet, and Aslan. He would not let Vera and Isaac hear the words that would come out of Aslan's mouth. He would not let them hear the truth about the Shiroi Hitsuji.
Ren slid the metal emergency door open. The cold wind from the roof slammed into his face.
On the helipad, Aslan stood, his luxury coat billowing in the wind. A small helicopter sat ready, its blades spinning slowly in anticipation. Aslan glanced at Ren as he emerged from the doorway, wounded but still standing.
Ren staggered out, his shoulder protesting. He held his breath; the dried blood from Frey felt stiff on his glove.
"You took your time, Shiroi Hitsuji," Aslan said casually, as if waiting for a coffee. He didn't turn around, yet his dominant presence filled the rooftop. "I was worried your internal reset would make you faint on the stairs. I was almost bored of waiting."
"You wouldn't leave after seeing me," Ren replied, his voice hoarse but steady. "That's why I relaxed without my daggers. And you waited here to kill me."
Aslan laughed softly—a sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. I know your pride is too great to let a clean coup like this become a terrorist case blamed on you. I need a witness to see this pistol."
Only then did Aslan turn around. His smile vanished. The wind whipped his blonde hair, revealing eyes filled with pure hatred—a hatred far deeper than politics.
"You know, after that night, Lilith lost her mind to psychological trauma. She cried every night. At first, I knew nothing. I was patient, I looked for the root... and it turned out to be you."
The statement was more painful than any bullet. It was a challenge to Ren's dignity as a human being.
"I have no wish to deny it, Mr. Aslan," Ren countered, his voice now as cold as lethal ice. "But the reality is your wife kissed me first. She invited the alcohol into my mouth. In such a situation, what could a seventeen-year-old Shiroi Hitsuji possibly do?"
The barb hit home. "You..." Aslan growled, his face contorting.
Aslan was done with words. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and drew his pistol—the same weapon that had ended Frey's life.
Ren responded by raising his own pistol, with its single remaining bullet.
"Guns are not toys for children," Aslan hissed.
Ren looked at the gun. The modified muzzle, the engravings on the grip—it was the evidence he needed. The provocation had worked. Aslan had brought out the murder weapon that would link him directly to Baron Frey's death.
Now, Aslan was only fifteen meters away. The helicopter waited behind him. Ren had one bullet in his gun, and his twin daggers waited in his harness.
Ren did not wait for Aslan to fire first. With a burning resolve in his eyes, Ren pulled the trigger.
BANG!