Chapter Text
This is a day when Anya is allowed to skip her homework.
In the small apartment, usually filled with the scent of burnt food, tea, and children's toys, a cold silence reigns. Not the silence created by the absence of people; not the silence created by a lack of topics for conversation; this is a silence created by the absence of any need to speak.
Loid sits, elbows resting on his knees — the smile on his face is the smile of a stone statue, and every stone statue must eventually shatter. He was always ready to die, always walking the edge where, with every step on one side, he changes identities like tarot cards in a fortune teller's hands; and on the other — an endless, deep, terrifying, dark abyss, horribly close. And this evening, he feels himself slowly tipping over the edge.
Yor, for the tenth, for the fiftieth time, runs the sponge over the same plate, and from the spot where her fingers grip it, a spiderweb of cracks spreads — and she continues to trace the same pattern. It resembles infinity. No one would guess that something is wrong — she is certain; she is just such a bad hostess.
The porcelain crunches in her hand.
The plate falls.
A clatter against other dishes.
Will she be a bad hostess if she doesn’t return tomorrow?
Loid lifts a hollow gaze and tries to speak in a voice full of cheer:
"Is everything alright, Yor?"
...but the record skips, the audio track glitches, and program "Twilight" encounters a critical error.
He wheezes, coughs, quickly says "must be coming down with something," faster than he can even process the decision, simply preserving the image out of reflex. The cover.
"Of course," she lowers her eyes and bares her teeth in an attempt to smile.
How fortunate that they are both drowning too deeply in their own thoughts to notice these details.
Before Loid’s eyes hung the mission description he had been handed, as always: disregarding the pity in his Handler’s eyes. She had assured him it was nothing terrible, that he would surely handle it, but the black letters on the yellowed paper said otherwise.
The Garden assassin syndicate — an organization so hidden that even he, one of the best spies, a master of his craft, had missed its existence. And he would like to say that it is too small, petty, unworthy of attention, that its actions affect nothing, but no. He cannot.
Every one of its killers is a small dagger raised over a peace barely stitched together by a thin thread. Miss it, ignore it, let it fall—and everything you have dedicated your life to will collapse, Twilight.
And now he must meet one of them, engage in combat with a killer who can turn a military squad into a dead sea of blood. Her code name is the Thorn Princess.
Yor leaves the dishes, throws the shards into the trash — and exhales. Will Twilight throw away her body the same way? Will he force her through torture to make her give up everything she knows?
She takes a step into the living room. Sits quietly on the sofa next to Loid, peering into his features—so handsome in the rays of the sun, so serious, so smart — he is probably worried about his work, where he saves lives.
Yor is worried about the work where she takes them.
Loid doesn't even realize when he made this decision for himself — it’s just that there, far ahead, lies danger, but here, nearby, is peace in which there is no pain. And he leans — falls — resting his head on Yor’s shoulder.
From her hair comes the scent of oranges and pine; he draws it in, inhaling the scent of the life he must abandon for the greater good—and which he so desperately does not want to leave. Especially after her long fingers bury themselves in his hair, and their warmth transfers from skin to skin.
"Is something troubling you, Yor?" Loid asks, his voice filled with care.
Yor falls silent, not even breathing, sorting through options for an answer.
I’m sorry for being such a bad wife — she did not say.
I am glad you appeared in my life and became the support around which I could grow — she did not say.
I am so sorry that I might not return tomorrow and leave you alone with Anya again — she did not say.
"Oh, just a toothache — it’s terrible."
She knew that sooner or later her path would cross with the SSS or intelligence services — like two travelers walking toward the same destination. She knew that sooner or later she would have to fight something bigger than just a corrupt official with a handful of guards.
She just didn't know it would be one of the best spies, who always completes his mission. Whatever stood in the way. Whoever stood in the way.
Twilight might become the plant that poisons its gardener.
And she runs her palm over the back of Loid’s head, touches his neck — he gives her the feeling as if tomorrow’s deadly battle won’t happen. As if everything will be fine, and the next day, and in a week, they will portray a marriage happier than a real one. But tomorrow he will go to work, to speak with patients, and she — to kill and to die.
"We need to pick Anya up from school," Yor says, not removing her hand. It is soothing because it is how things should be.
"Do you want to go together?" Loid asks, and catching himself, adds: "I mean, I can go myself, I don't want to burden you."
Perhaps he will die tomorrow, but if not, if he is lucky enough to win — Operation Strix must continue. Fear for the family cannot be allowed to destroy the family.
"I would be very glad to," Yor answers with a smile — not a grimace.
***
Stepping over the threshold of the house, Anya starts to cry. She wraps her arms around her shoulders, shivering as if in the deepest frost, and does not believe, as a child does not believe — she is a child — what she saw in the minds of her parents, who were smiling happily at each other.
"Mama! Papa! Don't kill each other!"
Yor drops to one knee to pat Anya on the head. Loid stands as a tall figure, worriedly cycling through thoughts — Anya hears his concern that if this were heard on the street, it could cause concern for the family's welfare.
"What is it? Did one of your classmates say their parents would kill each other? Oh, don't worry, it's just a figure of speech! They probably just argue a little, it happens," says Yor, taking Anya's small hand with her other hand. Anya feels tension in her mother's fingers, ready to hold a dagger, not a daughter.
Anya swallows her tears. The images appearing in her parents' heads were not of a small argument at all.
"If you kill each other, Anya will be left alone again!" she screams with all the strength of her childish voice, throwing Yor's hand off her head, and runs to her room. The blanket covers her head as she pulls knees to her chest.
In Mama's head — images that she will die or kill Papa; in Papa's head — that he will die or kill Mama. Neither of them imagined a happy future — and Anya couldn't imagine one either. She had no idea what to do — and cold pierced her body. As if she were back in the lab. As if she were alone again.
She had such a happy three years, earned five Stella Stars, tried as hard as she could so she wouldn't be thrown out again — and now she can fix nothing.
Yor and Loid enter half an hour later — knocking on the door, peeking in carefully, and, like spies, slipping into the room. They pretend to be the main characters of the Bondman cartoon — but Anya hears something sounding like "how not to drop dead, lest it look too realistic" echoing in both their minds.
Yor sits on the edge of the bed, Loid turns a chair toward it.
"He-ey," Yor places a hand on where Anya's shoulder should be in that lump of blankets, "Agent Anya, you can drop your cover now, only your allies are here."
"You aren't allies!" Anya presses her knees even tighter to herself, and despite trying to hold back tears, sobs loudly.
Yor and Loid exchange bewildered glances.
During that half-hour, they had concluded that she must have seen some bad news, and then came home where both parents were tense — and didn't understand it was just because of work problems, not each other.
"We are the closest allies, no spy has allies like this," Loid says firmly. He is confident in his words. He is not lying.
And Anya pokes her head out. Her hair is tangled, scattered on the pillow, and her eyelids are red from tears.
"Really?"
"Really!" Yor smiles with relief.
Loid carefully kisses Anya on the forehead, stands up – when he stands, it seems that nothing in the world can offend those he has undertaken to protect.
“I will never offend you and I will not let anyone offend you and your mother,” he promises.
***
Loid wakes up first — two hours earlier than he should. The edge of the sun's disk is just slipping out, flooding light into the windows, and he is already fastening the buttons on his shirt cuffs.
His movements are slowed — he told himself it was to save energy for the battle: Agent Twilight couldn't admit he was afraid of some assassin. Even if that assassin doesn't hide her face, simply because everyone who has seen it is dead. Even if all information about that assassin boils down to [FLEES ON SIGHT] and [EXTREMELY DANGEROUS]. Even if...
Agent Twilight could not afford to be afraid.
But he doesn't manage to leave the apartment before anyone wakes up — and Yor comes out of the room. Tired, exhausted, as if she had a bad night — and for a second Loid wants to stop, to stay, to catch her in his arms if she falls. But her stance is firm, and her body is tense. She stands so confidently, as if laced with whalebone, no matter how her face betrayed her fatigue.
"Leaving already?" she asks quietly and approaches the door. She places her hands on his chest, leans toward his neck — citrus and pine. One could drown in her gentle touches, and Loid knows — if he doesn't leave right now, if he doesn't break from the embrace, he will be the happiest man. But the worst spy.
"Yes, I have to."
The world's happiness is more important to him than his own — because in a happy world, Anya and Yor will be happy. This is the price he must pay — as he always paid before and will pay after.
He allows himself a single weakness, wrapping his arms around Yor's back, feeling the strong muscles beneath the fabric of her dress. Yor presses closer, carefully, timidly, and he likewise brings his forehead to hers.
They stand like that for a minute.
Barely breathing — absorbing what thin air they do have through their skin. Yor doesn't understand why Loid agreed to this hug; Loid doesn't understand why Yor initiated it; they both simply want one more minute, one more second, so that dying won't be quite so sad.
"It’s probably time for you to go," Yor says quietly, reluctantly stepping back. Looking at this man with tired eyes but the kindest smile, she decides: to return to him, she must kill Twilight.
"It is time," Loid doesn't want to let her go: his hands slide down her back, shoulders, and his fingertips brush the fabric as Yor slips from his embrace. He is glad she let him go: he wouldn't have been able to do it himself.
Yor stands before him — the most beautiful woman; the kindest and brightest; he cares so little that she can't cook and does much of the housework: he can do it himself; but he cannot fill the void in his heart by himself, where this woman has comfortably settled and healed the scorched edges.
"Have a good day at work," she kisses him on the cheek and picks a stray hair of hers off his light jacket.
Loid knows: if this woman wished him luck, then he simply has no other choice.
He will definitely kill the Thorn Princess.
***
Twilight puts on his disguise — the one that felt like hell on his face the first few times. The one that burned indescribably, the one he wanted to rip off; the one in which it is hard to breathe and sense the space around his head; the one that is now like kin, becoming a part of him.
He checks his weapons, adding a knife at his belt and a needle in his shoe to his pistol. He looks at his hands — and they are trembling.
"Are you getting old?"
He slaps himself on the face and takes a deep breath — if he is afraid, he won't return home. He checks his clothes and gear one more time, his eyes darting over the papers he just received from his Handler. As a result of a skirmish between WISE and the SSS, an exchange of information occurred — and no one knew exactly what they had lost.
But they know what they gained.
Now Twilight knows that experiments were conducted on animals and children in Ostania. Children. From this, a fog fills his head, and everything around him doubles, and he crumples those papers in his hand as if it could fix something. He can fix something.
"Twilight," Nightfall appears out of nowhere, "we are ready for the mission."
They have been here with the whole team since morning — discussing, arguing, and building plans.
"Is there a chance to handle this before the Thorn Princess appears?" he hides the papers and shakes the fog from his head. Rolls his shoulders.
"I don't think so," Nightfall leads the way. "But that is good, two birds with one stone. We'll return our papers and get rid of the danger. She's a one-hit kill for you."
Twilight does not think so.
Everything Twilight knows about the Thorn Princess makes him irrationally feel a primal terror.
"So be it."
"The SSS is already there."
The corridor erupts into chaos. There are five of them — a standard patrol, too overconfident, too loud. Twilight doesn't stop; he dives under the trajectory of the first shot, closing the distance. The crunch of bones sounds louder than the snaps of the silencers. An elbow strike to the throat. A sweep. A shot to the third one's knee — so he screams, so he distracts the others.
A smoke grenade rolls across the floor, filling the space with gray, acrid fog in which Twilight moves like a predatory shadow. He doesn't waste anger on them; on them, he spends only the necessary minimum of movement. The last one falls, not even having time to realize when night had fallen. Twilight steps over the body.
Ahead — another silhouette in the darkness, and he confidently rushes forward. His strike is parried — and before he can orient himself, the person before him clicks the safety and points the barrel of a pistol. Twilight is not afraid of this — he knows what to do with this, it's not the first time, not the tenth, not the hundredth. But the person on the other end of the pistol is Yuri Briar.
"I shouldn't have spared your life in that sewer, Secret Police boy," says Twilight in the voice of the man whose mask he wears. But Yuri's face does not change.
Twilight knows he must provoke him into emotion — and then he can knock the weapon away. But Yuri has a completely different look in his eyes: not predatory. Filled with pain.
He holds the pistol with a steely hand, tracking Twilight's every movement — and they both know: if external circumstances do not intervene, Twilight will lose.
"Secret Police boy, are you really so angry that I beat you?"
Yuri doesn't blink and doesn't look away.
With his left hand, he reaches into his pocket, where a piece of paper folded in four lies.
Twilight takes a breath, ready to attack at the exact moment Yuri shifts his gaze — he needs just an instant. One instant — and he will break his arm, leave him lying here, and move on.
But Yuri unfolds the paper with his fingers, staring into Twilight's eyes — and then with one motion shakes out the sheet.
Twilight looks at himself.
At his real photograph.
Where next to "Agent Twilight" there is a handwritten note in blue pen and clumsy handwriting.
"A.k.a. Loid Forger."
Yuri draws in air to say something — Twilight reads the verdict in his eyes anyway — and blinks.
"We all must do what we must," is all Twilight answers to the unspoken accusations, lunging forward. The bullet flies, barely grazing his shoulder — it burns, but no stronger than his throat is burning right now — and he tackles Yuri to the concrete. Strikes. Strikes again.
Yuri doesn't even resist him, just clutches that paper in his hand while his face increasingly becomes a bloody smear.
"She loved you," he wheezes, refusing to lose consciousness.
And Twilight strikes on.
"She trusted you so much that even I started to trust you."
Twilight wants only for him to finally shut up — and strikes again.
"When she finds out — it will break her heart," Yuri continues with a broken face, when not a single light spot remains on his skin. "And I don't know how to save her from this. It's too late."
...and then he turns his head, spitting blood onto the concrete, and freezes. Twilight touches his neck — a pulse beats weakly through the skin. Yuri is not only alive — he is still conscious.
But Twilight cannot think about this too much — his ears, just getting used to the painful ringing silence, ache from a scream. Pain mixed with a warning.
"It's the Thorn Princess."
***
Yor walked Anya to the school bus and returned to an empty apartment.
She was just a child when she stepped onto this path, and since then she never turned from it — she walked, removing everyone from her way, following orders, protecting Yuri. Everything is simple — everything used to be simple.
But the empty apartment meets her not with loneliness — scattered toys and left-behind items remind her that everything changed after a chance meeting with a blond man. And his daughter.
They became as inseparable a part of her life as Yuri — and now, instead of one reason to fight, she has three.
Yor has to change, put on her work dress — so she sheds her home clothes at her feet. She stands before the mirror, examining her own naked body—scarred, unfeminine, unattractive. Instead of soft skin—only calluses and muscles.
The light touches her heels but does not encroach on her legs — because she is a child of darkness: she grew up there and became who she is there. So much time has passed since her first mission, her legs have lengthened, her breasts have grown and now also work for her mission, her facial features have changed — but from the mirror, a small, confused girl still looks back at her.
A girl who must go to a place from which there is no return — that is what she thought when she went on a mission for the first time. That is what she thinks now.
Just that there are more scars.
She pulls on the dress and is glad she works only at night — otherwise, the skin would be tanned in these stripes. As it is, only blood lays in even patterns, but blood washes off. Always.
The metal of the stilettos settles into her hand like an extension of herself — and Yor closes her eyes for a second, fusing with her weapon. And, just as the sun begins to set, she steps out into the street.
The darkness of the designated location explodes with flashes of gunfire. There are five or six of them — people in tactical gear moving in sync, a single high-precision mechanism. One that is so easily destroyed by a well-aimed gift. They shoot to kill — but they are aiming at a shadow. Yor flows through the space. Bullets chip pieces from the brick walls where she was a fraction of a second ago. She crashes into their formation like a hurricane, a natural disaster, a lightning bolt.
A glint of metal — and a gold stiletto pierces a bulletproof vest. Yor uses the inertia of his body to spin and strike the second one in the temple with her leg—the sound of the impact is dull and wet; he falls instantly, like a marionette with cut strings. They try to regroup, shouting commands, but Yor is not interested. She is a gardener, and they are merely weeds that dared to sprout in her garden. The third tries to strike her with the butt of a rifle, but she intercepts the weapon, twists it along with his joints, and tosses the broken toy aside. Blood blooms on the asphalt in dark poppies. No one blocks her path forward anymore.
And now before her stands only a silver-haired woman who poses no threat — perhaps she is a good spy, perhaps she disguises herself well, perhaps she is incredibly smart, and everything that Yor is not—but physically, she is weaker.
A pistol appears in her hands — a movement perfected by thousands of hours of training, ideal, mechanical. A shot. But where Yor's head should have been, there is no one. While others learned to live, to socialize, to spy, to clean, to cook, to disguise, to knit, to love — Yor learned to kill. And no matter how her opponent tries to pierce her armor — Yor is faster. More unpredictable. Deadlier.
And then she sees the back of Twilight, who is beating a man on the concrete. She simply knows it is Twilight — by how all the people before had tried to protect him: by the looks the silver-haired woman, whose silver hair was now bloodied, cast at him.
"Slow," whispers Yor. With a knee strike, she knocks the air from her lungs, pressing her into the floor — she is no longer interesting to her. And even less interesting is fighting a person in a mask, so she pushes off, darting like lightning, aiming the first strike at the neck — but Twilight dodges. Not fast enough.
Yor leaves a deep cut on his temple down to the end of his eyebrow.
From the corner of his eye, a red drop of blood runs down.
Twilight discards the no-longer-needed disguise, which hangs like a silicone bag. Blinks.
The Thorn Princess smells of orange and pine.
Yor stops near the opposite wall, dissatisfied with the inability to resolve everything with one blow. She hears Twilight scramble to his feet, ready for battle — so it will be a duel.
And Yor turns around.
She looks into his face — her pupils slowly narrow, and her grip on the daggers tightens.
It's not right.
This simply cannot be.
But before her is —
her best
most gentle
the one who showed her a life without killing, a peaceful life, a calm life, a life full of love and certainty in tomorrow,
Loid
Forger.
And, just as she assumed it was simply a lie, just another disguise she hadn't managed to slice off, that the darkness was distorting what she saw, showing a loved one—the silhouette asks in a painfully familiar voice with a painfully frightened intonation:
"Yor?.."