Betray Me or Kill Me
A grimy sleeve was rolled up to the elbow, revealing several abrasions of varying depth, yet the fingertips still squeezed hard, as if trying to press that scrap of food into the palm.
I stopped in my tracks; the heel of my boot crushed spent shell casings beneath me, clinking sharply in the silence.
The boy abruptly raised his head, eyes still stained with fresh tears, yet he had already assumed a defensive posture, like a young beast cornered by a hunter.
His face was filthy, but his eyes gleamed with startling intensity, locked unwaveringly on the gun at my waist.
"Where are your parents?" I spoke, my voice drifting faintly across the hollow ruins.
He said nothing, curling tighter, his back pressed against a jagged length of broken rebar.
I followed his gaze to a nearby rubble heap, where a half-exposed, bloodstained edge of fabric peeked out—no imagination was needed to know what lay buried beneath.
Just three days ago, this was a bustling commercial district; now only charred beams and the lingering scent of gunpowder remained.
I crouched down to meet his eyes and slowly drew the dagger concealed within my boot.
At the flash of cold steel, he visibly flinched but did not close his eyes.
"Do you want to live?" I asked, my fingers tracing the patterns etched into the dagger.
He finally stirred, his Adam's apple bobbing as he whispered a single word: "Want."
"Then come with me." I sheathed the dagger, stood up, and brushed the dust from my clothes. "From today on, your name is Carol."
He froze, probably not expecting such a demand. After a few seconds, he slowly rose from the ground and followed me cautiously.
I glanced back; his steps were still unsteady, but he clenched his teeth and refused to fall behind.
At that time, I did not yet know that this child salvaged from the ruins would become my sole attachment for ten years—and the sharpest blade, driven deep into my heart.
On the first day back at the safehouse, I threw him into the bathroom and tossed him a clean set of clothes.
As the sound of running water echoed, I leaned against the door, wiping my gun; its metal casing caught a cold, hard gleam.
Ten years ago, I was picked up by my master in much the same way—only then, I was even more silent and ruthless than Carol.
Two hours later, Carol emerged wearing ill-fitting clothes, her hair damp and clinging to her forehead, revealing delicate, clear-cut features.
"Come here." I pointed to the bread and milk on the table.
He hesitated for a moment, then walked over and picked up the bread, nibbling it cautiously, as if afraid of disturbing something.
I watched him, suddenly recalling what the Master had once said:
"The greatest taboo for an assassin is to have a soft spot; once you have attachments, it's like handing the handle of your knife to someone else."
At the time, I didn't take it seriously; only when Carol appeared did I understand the Master's meaning.
But by then, I no longer wished to turn back.
From that day on, I began teaching Carol how to kill.
I taught him how to approach a target silently and unseen, how to strike exactly at vital points, how to survive amid a hail of bullets.
He learned swiftly, even faster than I did in my own youth.
The first time I sent him on a solo mission, I watched from a distant rooftop.
The fifteen-year-old wore a black trench coat, his movements sleek like a panther; when his dagger sliced through the target's throat, he didn't so much as blink.
After the mission, he stood at the alley's entrance waiting for me—blood spattered on his face, yet his eyes were calm.
"Well done." I handed him a damp cloth.
He accepted it, carefully wiped the blood from his face, then looked up at me, the faintest hint of a smile touching his lips.
That was the first time I saw him smile—like a flower blooming in the snow, it instantly lit up my bleak, gray world.
From that moment on, we became the most notorious partners in the underworld.
No one knew that Stella had taken a boy named Carol under her wing.
Nor did anyone know that after every mission, we would return to our hidden safehouse, brew a steaming bowl of soup, and tend to each other's wounds.
I believed these days would stretch on endlessly—until that explosion shattered everything.
That day's mission was simple: eliminate a traitor who had betrayed the organization.
Carol and I split up, agreeing to meet at the old place.
I finished my mission early and leaned against a corner, waiting for him, clutching the sugar cake I had bought.
He always said that having a sweet taste in his mouth during a mission made him feel more at ease.
Time passed, second by second; the agreed time had long since passed, yet Carol still hadn't appeared.
A growing unease gripped my heart, a sinister premonition crawling up my spine.
Then, from afar, a deafening explosion rang out; flames shot high into the sky, lighting up half the night.
I ran like a madman toward the blast, my heart pounding wildly, my mind fixed on one thought: Carol must be unharmed.
When I arrived at the scene, all I saw was a sea of flames; the once-familiar warehouse had been reduced to ruins, the air heavy with the acrid scent of burning and blood.
I stormed into the rubble, wrenching away blistering bricks with my bare hands, my fingers raw and bleeding, utterly indifferent to the pain.
"Carol! Carol!" I screamed hoarsely, my voice shattered and barely recognizable.
Only when dawn broke, casting pale light across the sky, did I find the tail ring I had given Carol beneath a splintered crossbeam.
The ring was twisted, still stained with dried blood.
At that moment, all my strength drained away; I collapsed to the ground, tears finally spilling uncontrollably.
I thought he was dead.
Over the next six months, I roamed like an uncontrollable beast, hunting down everyone involved in plotting that explosion, slaughtering them with ruthless cruelty.
For each life I took, I placed a white chrysanthemum before Carol's photograph, whispering that I had avenged him.
I wept until my tears ran dry, leaving only a barren wasteland in my heart.
I thought I would live out my days in lonely solitude, until that day at the corner café, when I saw that familiar face once again.
He sat by the window, wearing a well-tailored suit, his hair meticulously combed—so unlike the boy who once trailed behind me.
My heart clenched sharply, nearly convincing me I was hallucinating.
I walked toward him slowly, my fingers trembling slightly from the effort.
Just as I was about to reach him, he suddenly lifted his head, and our eyes met.
That gaze was cold, utterly devoid of warmth, as if staring at a complete stranger.
I froze; my steps came to an abrupt halt.
Then, he slowly raised his hand, gripping a gun, the barrel pressed squarely against my forehead.
My breath caught instantly, my mind utterly blank.
At that moment, a soft voice echoed: "Carol, what's wrong?"
A girl wearing a white dress emerged from behind him, affectionately entwining her arm with his, her eyes filled with curious intent as she looked at me.
She was strikingly beautiful, her skin pale and flawless, her eyes large—innocent, seemingly harmless.
Yet, I caught a faint, nearly imperceptible flicker of hostility in her gaze.
"It's nothing. A trivial person."
Carol's voice was steady, devoid of any inflection, as if the decade that had passed between us was nothing more than a meaningless dream.
I stared at him, my throat clogged with something, unable to speak a single word.
How could he still be alive?
Why was he pointing a gun at me?
Who was that girl?
Countless questions swirled in my mind, finally coalescing into a single trembling phrase: "Carol, you..."
"Don't call me that name." He cut me off, impatience flickering in his voice. "I'm called Carol Chandler now."
With that, he pulled the trigger.
I closed my eyes, bracing for death's approach.
But the expected pain never arrived—only the whisper of a bullet grazing past my ear.
I opened my eyes to see him already holstering the gun, helping the girl to her feet.
"Let's go, Gloria." He spoke to that girl, his voice bearing a gentleness I had never heard before.
The girl nodded, and before leaving, she glanced back at me, a triumphant smile twitching at the corner of her lips.
I stood rooted to the spot, watching their entwined backs recede, my heart torn as if rent asunder, aching so fiercely I could barely breathe.
It turned out he was not dead, but had chosen betrayal.
When I awoke again, I found myself lying on a familiar bed.
This was the Safehouse Carol and I had once shared; mission maps from long ago still clung to the walls, and on the table sat his favorite desk lamp.
I tried to sit up but found my wrists bound by something, my entire body powerless—not even able to lift a hand.
The door creaked open, and Carol stepped inside, carrying a tray holding a bowl of porridge.
"Awake?" He set the tray on the bedside table, his voice flat, as if discussing the weather.
I stared at him, eyes burning with hatred. "You're the one who brought me here, aren't you?"
He said nothing, simply scooped a spoonful of porridge and lifted it to my lips. "Eat something."
I turned my head, avoiding his hand. "I don't want to eat."
His eyes grew cold. He put down the spoon and took a syringe from his pocket, filled with a clear liquid.
"You should know what this is." He stepped to the bedside and grabbed my wrist.
"A specially made muscle relaxant. Once injected, even moving a single finger will feel like an effort."
I struggled to push him away, but under the drug's effect, my strength was pitifully weak.
The moment the needle pierced my skin, a chill spread through my veins, as if all my strength was instantly drained; even the thought of resistance faded.
"Why?" I looked at him, my voice barely a whisper, "Do ten years of our relationship mean nothing to you?"
He put away the syringe, expressionless. "I owe Gloria Silva my life. Whatever she desires, I will give her."
"Gloria Silva?" I recalled that girl's name. "Just because she saved your life, you're going to betray me?"
He said nothing, merely picked up the tray, turned, and left the room. The sound of the door closing was piercing in the deathly quiet house.
From that day forward, we entered into a daily silence, a standoff without end.
Every morning, he would come in carrying food. When I refused to eat, he would inject me with a muscle relaxant without hesitation.
I tried to communicate with him, to uncover the truth, but he always remained silent or silenced me with Gloria Silva.
I looked at the man I had once risked my life to protect, who had now become the jailer imprisoning me. The hatred in my heart deepened, mingled with a pain I could scarcely express.
That day, after Carol injected me with the muscle relaxant, he did not leave immediately but sat in the chair beside the bed, staring out the window.
Sunlight streamed through the window, outlining his tall figure, yet only deepening the coldness carved into his face.
My consciousness blurred, the drug lulling me toward sleep, but images of our past still rose unbidden in my mind.
It was the winter five years ago, on a mission in the snow-capped mountains, when we were caught in an avalanche.
Carol and I lay buried beneath the snow; his leg crushed by a stone, blood pouring freely.
Summoning every ounce of strength, I dug him out from the snowdrift and carried him on my back, trudging through the frozen wasteland for an entire day and night.
The weather was bitterly cold then; my hands and feet were numb from the frost, yet I carried him tightly on my back, not daring to relax for a moment.
At last, when I spotted the cabin, I could no longer hold on and collapsed into the snow beside him.
When I woke, I found him gently holding my finger in his mouth, trying to share the faint warmth he had left.
He saw I was awake and smiled, saying, "Stella, I thought we were going to die here."
On another occasion, during a mission, he was bitten by a venomous snake. The poison took hold rapidly, and he fell unconscious in an alley.
When I found him, his face was pale, and his breathing weak.
The situation was desperate, and with no antidote available, I had no choice but to suck the venom from his wound with my mouth before carrying him on my back to the hospital.
The doctor said that if we had arrived ten minutes later, he would have been lost.
When he woke, he grasped my hand, his eyes brimming with gratitude: "Stella, thank you. From now on, I will protect you."
Those scenes are as vivid as if they happened yesterday, yet now, the one who once vowed to protect me points a gun at me and holds me captive.
"Carol," I watched his departing silhouette, my voice catching with a thread of anguish, "have you forgotten the days we kept each other warm in the snow?"
"Have you forgotten that I sucked out the poison for you? Just because Gloria Silva saved you once, are you truly willing to cast away everything we shared over ten years?"
His body stiffened momentarily, but he did not turn around; he merely said coldly, "The past—I have already forgotten it."
I stared at his indifferent back, and the last fragile spark of hope within me was extinguished.
Rage and hatred burned within me like wildfire as I searched tirelessly for an opportunity to take my revenge.
The opportunity had finally come.
That day, after Carol delivered food to me, she hurriedly left the room because she had received a call, forgetting to put away the fruit knife on the table.
I stared at the knife, a ruthless gleam flashing in my eyes.
Though the drug still coursed through my veins, leaving me weak, I summoned every ounce of strength to inch toward the table, grasp the knife's handle with my fingers, and slowly conceal it beneath the pillow.
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