As Mischa strolled toward the outskirts of the streets, both briefcases in hand, the sound of her heels softly clicked against the cracked tiles. Just as her shadow reached the threshold, she paused.
The silence felt thick in the air.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze drifting back to Mya calm, deliberate, and unreadable.
"My dear," Mischa said gently, her voice smooth like honey over a sharp edge, "why don't you come with me?"
Mya's eyes widened in confusion. "W-What…?"
Mischa offered a faint smile, the kind that could make you trust her even when you knew better. "I can tell my young master about your situation," she continued, her tone both delicate and commanding." With the right persuasion and payment... he could make your problem disappear."
The words hit Mya like a spark in her chest. For a moment, it felt like time stood still.
Her sisters. Ano. Nui. The faces she thought she'd lost forever.
"You mean…" her voice quivered, a tear rolling down her cheek, "…he can really help me get them back?"
Mischa tilted her head slightly, her eyes shimmering in the flickering light. "With the right persuasion," she replied softly, "my young master can achieve almost anything."
Assad's expression turned steely. He could sense the hook hidden beneath her sweet words—the subtle, silent tug of manipulation—but Mya's fragile hope was too delicate to dismiss.
Mischa stepped closer, her presence both calming and suffocating. "Come along, dear," she whispered. "It's better than just sitting here waiting for ghosts."
Mya hesitated, her hand hovering in the air, trembling just inches from Mischa's gloved palm. The flicker of hope in her eyes began to overshadow all reason maybe this was it, maybe this was how she'd finally reunite with her sisters.
Then—
A low, rasping chuckle sliced through the air.
It wasn't loud, but it pierced the room like a knife through glass.
Both women froze.
Mya blinked, confusion washing over her face. Mischa's expression sharpened, her eyes darting toward Assad.
He sat still, his head slightly tilted forward, a shadow cloaking his features. The corner of his mouth twitched once, then again, until it morphed into a smirk.
"Heh…"
The sound came again, that same eerie, detached laugh, but his eyes were cold, distant, almost as if he were unaware.
"Assad?" Mya whispered, her voice quivering.
Mischa's fingers tightened around the briefcase handle, her body tensing just a bit. Something felt off—unnatural.
Inside Assad's mind, chaos erupted like thunder.
Not again…
Why is my mouth moving on its own?
He fought to stop it, to clamp his jaw shut, but the muscles refused to listen. It felt as if something else had taken control of his body.
Toon Horst's voice the voice that lingered in his fractured mind—echoed faintly, trembling with urgency.
"Assad… stop it… whatever's taking over, don't let it—"
But the words were swallowed by the next sound that escaped Assad's lips—a low, distorted chuckle that didn't belong to him at all.
Mischa's eyes narrowed. "Interesting…" she murmured, her tone a mix of curiosity and predation.
Assad's hand twitched on the armrest, his eyes rolling slightly, his breath uneven. He wanted to scream, to warn them, to stop, but the laughter came again deeper this time, as if someone else was wearing his voice.
Assad's head tilted slightly as the unsettling laughter faded into a silence so thick it felt like it was suffocating the air. Then, a smirk crept onto his lips.
"So that's how you play your cards," he remarked, his voice oozing with amusement. "I wish I could say I'm joking when I tell you… you nearly had an ace up your sleeve."
His tone had shifted now smoother, darker a calm that felt far more menacing than any rage.
Mischa blinked, a hint of a smirk returning to her lips. "Almost had?" she echoed, her voice playful yet laced with caution.
Assad leaned in just a bit, the glint of an unseen flame dancing in his cold eyes. "But it's a flip over…" he continued, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "When I lay a joker on the table."
For a fleeting moment, Mischa's smile wavered not from fear, but from curiosity. She tilted her head, her golden eyes examining him like a scientist with a specimen. "And why," she asked softly, "are you suddenly so bold?"
A heartbeat passed in silence. Then, the real Assad or whatever version of him this was smiled.
"Nothing much," he said, shrugging nonchalantly. "Just some good old-fashioned speech. Mixing it up a bit."
His words lingered in the air, playful yet poisonous, like a serpent's tongue brushing against bare skin. Mya shivered. She couldn't quite tell if the man sitting in front of her was the same one from just moments ago or something entirely different wearing his face.
Mischa's smile faded, her gaze sharpening. "What exactly do you mean with that tone?" she asked, her voice steady. "Are you upset because I'm taking this girl to my young master for help?"
For a moment, Assad was silent. Then, he burst into laughter.
It was a low, drawn-out chuckle that bounced off the walls, twisting the air with its mockery.
"Funny… the way you say it — 'young master.' You talk about independence, but you let yourself be pulled like a puppet by someone half your age." A smirk moved with grace on Assad's face as he stated the fact.
"How can a depressed little bitch like you, who talks about independence, be controlled like a puppet by someone younger?"
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Mischa's composure shattered. Her hand twitched toward her sleeve, where she usually concealed her blade. "Take that back," she said, her voice quivering, not from fear, but from rage.
Assad remained still. He just grinned wider, his tone turning even colder. "Why? Did I hit a nerve?"
Mya could feel the tension between them, thick like a storm about to break.
"How about this: let's play a game to pass the time," Assad suggested with a smile.
He stood up slowly, like a man who had all the time in the world. The shop seemed to hold its breath as he rose from the cracked seat, every small sound Mischa's soft heels, the faint buzz of the light —suddenly amplified.
He walked past her, close enough that the scent of her perfume brushed against his cheek. He kept his expression calm, that sly smirk still tugging at one corner of his mouth.
From her left, so close she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, he whispered, low and chilling. "Gun to your head. Don't move an inch if you're wearing black and white."
The shop froze.
Without a second thought, Mya stopped in her tracks. She already knew the game, as Nui had explained it to her. If she wanted to meet Ano and Nui and avoid an early grave, she had to follow the rules especially since she was also dressed in black and white, the bodyguard suit.
Why did I have to wear this if it was leading to my death?
Assad glanced at Mya, who was completely still, and remarked, "Looks like someone figured it out pretty quickly."
His voice remained steady. "Let me break down the game for you since your young master's is almighty lookin' maid is new here. Just a single twitch or step, and things will go south for you. It's a simple game."
Mischa smirked slightly, her lips curling. "How charming," she replied, clearly entertained. "And where exactly is this 'gun' of yours?"
"You don't need to worry about that part; just stick to the rules."
The air didn't move. The clock didn't tick.
Only the sound of three hearts waiting to see who would break the rules first.
But Assad could actually move as he was not wearing any black and white, so he was in the clear.