"How truly… heartbreaking… of a fairytale."
Both Assad and Mya froze.
The air became thick with tension as if the entire world was holding its breath. A voice, calm yet laced with quiet mockery, shouldn't have been so close. Assad's gaze flicked to the reflection in the shop's cracked mirror. Behind him stood Mischa, perfectly poised, one hand resting over the other.
Her maid uniform was immaculate, as if she hadn't just emerged from a battlefield. Not a speck of blood, not a wrinkle in sight. Her black hair shimmered softly in the dim light, her eyes reflecting an unsettling, sharp calm.
Noticing their tension, she tilted her head slightly… and bowed.
"My apologies," she said softly, her voice smooth like silk. "I didn't mean to startle you."
Assad's jaw tightened. "You have a strange way of showing that."
Mischa straightened, her smile polite, her eyes unblinking. "Old habits die hard. I sometimes forget how easily humans can be startled."
Her gaze drifted to the small, cluttered table between them.
Two black briefcases sat there silent, heavy, and buzzing with unspoken tension.
Her smile widened just a fraction. "Ah… the young master's briefcases are here."
She waved a gloved hand dismissively. "But we'll get to that later."
Her sharp, icy eyes shifted to Mya.
"For now…" she said softly, taking a single step forward, "let's focus on you."
Mya flinched at her tone. Assad tensed, subtly positioning himself between them.
Mischa's expression remained unchanged. Her voice was sweet, but her words dripped with venom.
"I heard your story," she said. "Truly, it was heartbreaking."
She clasped her hands together in front of her chest, tilting her head slightly as if in prayer.
"If the man holding your sisters hostage were here right now…" her tone dropped, colder than winter steel, "he would've regretted ever crawling out of his mother's womb in the first place."
Mischa's gaze lingered on Mya a moment longer before she shifted her attention, scanning the room. Her voice came out calm, almost casual — but it had that subtle authority that made both of them instinctively straighten up.
"By the way…" she started, tilting her head slightly, "where's the other one? I could have sworn there were two of you."
Mya's eyes flicked down to the floor. The question hit her like a knife — sharp and sudden. Assad could feel her tense up beside him.
For a brief moment, silence enveloped them, heavy and suffocating.
Mischa's eyes narrowed just a bit, a glimmer of curiosity shining through. "Hmm?" she urged, stepping a little closer. "Where is she?"
Mya's throat constricted. She could sense Assad's presence next to her — the man who had listened to her story without judgment, who had saved her — and the truth felt like fire on her tongue.
Her fingers trembled in her lap. "She's… dead," Mya finally managed to whisper.
Mischa blinked once, her expression unreadable. "Dead?"
Mya nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "Yes."
"How unfortunate." Mischa's tone was devoid of sorrow, almost clinical, as if she were simply cataloging information rather than mourning a life. Then, slowly, her gaze sharpened. "And… who killed her?"
Assad froze, every muscle in his body tensing.
Mya's heart raced so loudly she could barely hear her own words. "I… I don't know," she blurted out, the lie trembling on her lips.
Mischa's eyes stayed fixed on her face, searching for any cracks. The silence that followed stretched on, heavy enough that Mya could feel the weight of her lie pressing down on her chest.
Then Mischa smiled. Not a warm smile, but one that felt knowing. "Hmm. I see."
Assad could feel his pulse quickening. He wasn't sure if Mischa believed her… or if she was just playing along.
Mischa's smile softened, and she offered a polite little nod. "Well, if that works for you," she said smoothly, "I suppose I shouldn't pry any further."
Her tone had a deceptive lightness to it like a hidden blade beneath a layer of silk.
"Now then…" she continued, her gaze drifting toward the table. "Let's get to what really matters, shall we?"
With a slow, deliberate grace, Mischa walked over and pulled out a chair across from Assad. The legs made a soft scraping sound against the floor as she sat down, crossing one leg over the other with quiet elegance.
Her eyes flicked between the two briefcases and then back to Assad. Her expression was unreadable, a blend of composure, confidence, and something sharper lurking just beneath the surface.
"As you might already know," she began, her voice low yet commanding, "I should be the one holding those briefcases."
Assad remained silent, his silver eyes narrowing just a bit.
Mischa offered a faint smile, resting her chin lightly on her gloved hand. "Let's skip the awkward formalities," she continued, her tone calm but laced with authority. "I'm Mischa Chikae the personal maid to Young Master Zheng Yan."
The name hung in the air, cold and deliberate, like the sound of a verdict being pronounced.
"And I've come," she said, her eyes darting back to the briefcases, "to reclaim what rightfully belongs to my young master."
Assad's face remained impassive, but his thoughts were racing.
A personal maid? he pondered. What would make someone send their own maid to deal with something like this?
Deals like this, especially when it involved something as unpredictable as JABE, were never left to mere attendants. It felt off. Too off. Either Zheng Yan had an unusual level of trust in her… or she was more than just a maid.
Mischa sat with perfect poise, her hands neatly folded in her lap, as if she were in a drawing room rather than a dingy backstreet shop thick with tension.
Assad leaned back a bit, narrowing his eyes as he scrutinized her.
Her voice, her precision, even the way she inhaled everything about her seemed calculated. Like someone trained to kill while maintaining a pleasant facade.
He tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
"Interesting," he remarked, his voice laced with quiet amusement, "I didn't realize personal maids were involved in drug dealings."
Mischa's gaze flicked to him, sharp yet courteous, like a hidden blade behind a smile.
"Oh?" she replied softly. "You must be wondering… why would someone send their own maid to handle something so perilous?"
For just a moment, Assad's smirk wavered.
How did she
She lowered her gaze respectfully, brushing off an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve before continuing,
"It wasn't my Young Master's decision," she said with calm assurance. "But since the exchange needs to happen, let me take care of the trade the money and the JABE."
The atmosphere in the room grew denser.
Assad remained silent, his expression inscrutable, but his fingers began to tap the armrest subtly a habit that revealed the calculations swirling in his mind.
Mischa's smile remained steady as she clasped her hands together. "If there are no more questions, let's make a straightforward deal," she said, her voice smooth like polished stone. "You allow me to take the briefcases to my Young Master without any trouble, and I won't kill you. And—" she tilted her head, her gaze locking onto Assad's — "don't answer the call that's about to come in."
Assad blinked in surprise. "Call?" he echoed, confusion etching lines on his forehead.
Before Mischa could respond, the small projection on Assad's wristwatch flickered to life, crackling with the familiar static he dreaded. The hologram stuttered, and a sharp tone rang out, slicing through the silence.
Assad's hand moved instinctively. He stared at the watch, his breath hitching, his heart pounding in his ears. "Taura—"
Mischa tilted her head slightly, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "See?" she said softly. "It was bound to ring. You could have picked it up, but I suggested against it."
"How—?" Assad began, but the question faded away. He felt exposed, like a child whose sleeve had been tugged by a stranger in a crowded place.
The watch vibrated insistently, flashing the name: TAURA.
Assad's thumb hovered over the side button. He glanced at Mya, who looked as pale as a ghost, her fingers digging into her sleeve in fear. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears, and his mouth felt dry.
When he finally pressed the button, Taura's voice broke through the static. "Assad? Where are you? Answer—" The transmission was ragged and urgent, then a crackle interrupted it, the connection tearing apart. The hologram flickered and distorted.
Mischa's smile turned sharper, colder, as patient as frost. "You see," she said softly, leaning in closer, "there are ways to render a call useless. When you answer, you give away your signal. You reveal your hiding place."
Assad's jaw clenched. "You lied to me before," he said, his voice low. "You said you wouldn't—"
"I said I wouldn't kill you," she corrected, her eyes glinting. "I didn't promise you a pleasant chat with your allies."
A hush settled over the room. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance before fading away.
Assad's mind raced: should he answer and risk Taura being traced, or ignore the call and jeopardize the only backup he had? He wasn't one to linger in indecision. He usually made choices based on instinct rather than contemplation. His thumb hovered over the button, then moved but not to hang up. Instead, he did the only impulsive thing that came to mind: he switched the watch to transmit, connecting Taura at low power, opting for a whisper instead of a shout.
"Taura," he breathed into the mic. "We—"
The connection flickered again, and a wet, metallic sound intruded, like rain on a tin roof — then a single, light footstep echoed from the aisle behind Mischa.
Both Assad and Mya turned in unison. Mischa's expression shifted her polite facade slipping just enough to notice. Her gloved hand reached toward the table.
"You are quite… brave," she said, her voice soft as a promise. "Or perhaps foolish. Either way works."
Her fingers curled around the handle of the nearest briefcase.
The shop seemed to drop a degree in temperature. Mya let out a small sound, like air escaping from lungs. Assad lunged forward.
But just as his fingers brushed against Mischa's glove, the watch died, the hologram collapsing into a blur of blue static, and the lights in the shop flickered violently, plunging everything into a dim half-light.
Mischa's smile remained fixed. Her grip tightened on the briefcase as if it were already hers.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For your cooperation."
And then, with a motion so smooth and final it felt like the closing of a chapter, she lifted the case.