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Jinsol wakes up with a knife to her throat.
It would be a startling revelation, all things considered, if not for the fact that she’s been living in a constant state of danger and suspicion for the past six months, and all things considered, a slashed windpipe isn’t a bad way to go. So her first thought is relief. Her second is fear. And her third, unfortunately, is recognition and the annoyance that comes with it.
“Heejin.” The name tumbles from her mouth before she can catch herself. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”
The knife presses just the slightest bit deeper. And although Jinsol can’t see her attacker's face, she knows that frightening strength well enough.
“Cut the jokes, Jinsol. And choose your last words carefully.”
She can’t help herself. “You could have at least bought me dinner first.”
It's surprising that Heejin doesn't kill her right then and there. Jinsol's seen her do worse for much, much less.
But instead, Heejin lets out an irritated scoff. "Dinner. Of course you’re talking about dinner. You haven’t changed at all.”
“What can I say? I’ve developed a Pavlovian response to death, and it makes me hungry.” Jinsol’s stomach growls. She remembers late-night fast food with Heejin, laughing over fries and forgetting about the bodies stashed in the trunk or thrown in the sea or left in a bloody apartment for the cleaners to take care of. Good times.
Heejin doesn’t seem to care. She adjusts her grip on Jinsol’s head, twisting her chin into a rather uncomfortable position. “A last meal. Is that what it’ll take to get you to shut up?"
"Depends," she says, because even in the face of imminent death, Jinsol has her priorities straight. "Are you paying?"
For a moment Jinsol worries that she's gone too far, because Heejin’s grip tightens and inexplicably all Jinsol can think about is the prime minister whose skull she once crushed with a single hand. But finally Heejin swears under her breath. "You're about to die and you still won't pay for food. Classic."
"Hey," Jinsol protests. "I did pay, once. On our three-year anniversary."
"That was not ," Heejin growls, "an anniversary . That was a company dinner."
"For two people?"
"For the instructors." Heejin digs the knife in again, just because she can. "Before Haseul, or Vivi, or anyone else arrived. Or have you forgotten how it was just the two of us for so long?"
As a matter of fact, Jinsol has not forgotten. She thinks about Heejin more than she’d like to admit. For seven years, they lived together, trained together, carried out missions together. They were the first students and then the first instructors of the criminal underworld’s finest assassin academy. How could she forget something like that?
Heejin, to her credit, is surprisingly calm given the weight of their shared history. Without removing the knife, she flicks open a phone and holds it in front of Jinsol’s face. “What do you want?”
“What do I want?”
“For dinner.” Heejin scrolls to an apps folder full of food delivery services. “Or have you changed your mind?”
Jinsol laughs. “As if I’d ever turn down a free meal.”
They eventually decide on a combo of chicken wings and fries, which is significantly more difficult than it should be given Heejin’s desire to simultaneously hold a phone and a knife and Jinsol’s desire to not nod so vigorously that she accidentally slices her trachea open. It also just so happens to be the same meal-for-two they always used to order after missions together.
Jinsol pretends not to notice how Heejin’s thumb trembles as she hits the order button. “You know,” she says, “It’s kind of hard to eat in this… position.”
“And it’s kind of hard to make sure you don’t escape if you’re not in this position.”
“Can we compromise? Maybe try a gun to the head instead?”
Heejin doesn’t laugh, which almost hurts more than being shot. But finally, she sighs, lets go, and pushes Jinsol and the chair she’s tied to over towards the kitchen table. She flicks on a light. “Happy now?”
In the dim orange of the fading lamp, Heejin looks even more beautiful and deadly than Jinsol remembers. Her eyes have hardened in the time since Jinsol’s been gone, and she’s definitely been working out.
“You changed your hair,” is all Jinsol manages to say.
“Covert ops,” says Heejin, flicking a blond strand over her shoulder. “Had to blend in.”
To Jinsol, there’s no way Heejin could possibly blend in when she looks so drop-dead gorgeous, but she keeps her mouth shut. Heejin pulls off the blond better than she did, anyways.
Heejin regards Jinsol coldly. “So. I take it the last few months were hard for you.”
Jinsol doesn’t know what prompts Heejin to say such a thing, but she suspects it might be the dirty laundry scattered all over the floor and the pile of dishes in the sink. “I’ve been doing great, actually. Never been better.”
“Of course,” says Heejin, “seeing as you’re still alive.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” asks Jinsol, as innocently as she can.
“Don’t be stupid. I’m the third agent they sent out to get you. And I know you survived the first two attempts, because Hyeju and Yerim came back looking like that .”
Jinsol suppresses a wince when Heejin says their names. It was a shock, to say the least, when she found herself facing off against her former students. Even worse was when she managed to easily dispatch them, exploiting the weaknesses and vulnerabilities she saw as their instructor all those years.
“You’re pretty brave, Heejin. What makes you think you won’t end up like them?” Jinsol pushes down images of Hyeju’s head hitting the pavement, of the sickening snap of Yerim’s arm. She’ll do whatever it takes to make it out alive.
In response, Heejin cocks and aims a pistol. “You never could hurt me, Jeong Jinsol.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
Jinsol locks eyes with Heejin, daring her to deny it. Because while Jinsol could never raise a fist to Heejin, could never pull the trigger, she managed to do the most painful thing of all: leave her behind.
In the days leading up to her escape, she tried so hard to make it up to Heejin. Jokes, sentiments, late-night stargazing. A cone of ice cream bought well after curfew. She even left a letter in her quarters despite knowing they’d use it to track her down.
She did all of this, created all these small mercies, without ever telling Heejin she’d soon be gone. All to cushion Heejin from the inevitable blow.
“You never should have left,” says Heejin, her voice low and guarded. “What did you think was going to happen?”
“I couldn’t do it anymore. Murdering people, day in and day out, just because I was good at it and just because someone else told me to. That’s no way to live.”
“It was,” insists Heejin. “It was a way to live. It was our way to live.”
“It shouldn’t have been.” It breaks Jinsol’s heart, to have to be the one to tell her, to know that Heejin would never understand. “I wanted to try making my own decisions for once. Is that so bad?”
“Yes.” Heejin’s finger curls around the trigger. “You made a choice when you knew there weren’t choices to be made. We were born to be killing machines, with no chance at a normal life and no one to trust but ourselves. And you broke that contract.”
“I know. I made my choice because I thought it was worth it.” Jinsol won’t look away. “Even if it means this.”
She knows her attitude isn’t a surprise to Heejin. From whispered doubts in the barracks to disgruntled complaints in the training hall, Heejin’s always known of Jinsol’s dissatisfaction. It caused a silent rift between the two of them: Heejin, the perfect soldier, and Jinsol, the brilliant rebel. One relentless, focused, and willing to take orders, the other creative, unconventional, and too dangerously disillusioned for the academy’s liking.
“You didn’t need to do it,” Heejin says. “You don’t need to die.” She lowers the pistol, looking more conflicted than Jinsol’s ever seen, and adds, “What are any of us going to do without you?”
Jinsol swallows. “You’ll carry on. You already have.”
There’s a barely perceptible shake in Heejin’s voice. “But you were supposed to be better than me. You were supposed to be the greatest instructor we’ve ever had. And look at you now.”
It’s true, how Jinsol was supposed to be the academy’s finest. She graduated top of her class and was poised to shape all future classes to perfection. It must have been something about her innate cunning, her ability to memorize all manner of poisons and weapons and easily breakable bones. But she never quite managed to get rid of her humanity.
The conversation is far too tense for her liking, so she punctures her guilt with a stab at humor. “Speaking of instructing, I’ve been neglecting my job. Tell Hyeju I’ll give her a D minus for her assignment. Yerim gets a solid C.”
An unreadable expression crosses Heejin’s face. Her shoulders slump just half an inch downwards. “They miss you, you know.”
There’s a distinct sinking pit in the bottom of Jinsol’s stomach. “So do I.”
And before Heejin can say anything else, she adds, “I miss you, too.”
It’s the wrong thing to say; Jinsol can tell immediately from the way Heejin flinches like she’s been stabbed. It was like that, too, the one and only time Jinsol kissed her, drunk on adrenaline and exhaustion and horrible, dangerous love.
“Don’t.” Heejin spits it out like venom. “Don’t make me feel this way.”
Jinsol wishes Heejin would let herself feel at all.
Perhaps in another life, they could have meant something. These emotions, the ones that haunt Jinsol and burden Heejin, wouldn’t have to stay locked away. But this is the hand they’ve been dealt, and if Jinsol knows anything, it’s how to play her cards right.
“Tell you what,” she says, “let’s make a deal. I pay for the food, and you let me go. Fair and square?”
Heejin scoffs. It’s a halfhearted attempt at her usual bite, but Jinsol will gladly take it. “Is that all your life is worth? The price of some chicken wings and fries?”
“I think most of the directors would agree.”
If Heejin remembers the yelling, the long nights spent outside of their offices, waiting for them to finish berating Jinsol, she doesn’t show it. “Your life must be worth something,” she says. “That’s why I’m the only person qualified to take it.”
Jinsol grins, despite herself. “Have you been working on one-liners while I’ve been away? They’re almost as good as Sooyoung’s.”
“Maybe.” Heejin gives her a sideways glance. “Had to blend in. You know how it is.”
“Come on, you can’t just say that and not tell me what’s up. Now I have to know where you’ve been working. Who’s your target? How long have you been there?”
“I’ll tell you over dinner,” Heejin decides.
“All right, fine.” Jinsol pauses. “Wait, which sauce did you order?”
“Regular.”
“Not extra spicy?” A frown forms on Jinsol’s face. “You know how I feel about extra spicy.”
“For the last time, I can’t eat that,” Heejin scowls.
“I’ll never understand that about you. You’re telling me you’ve built up a tolerance to most toxins but you can’t handle spice?”
“Shut up,” says Heejin, and for once, Jinsol is happy to oblige, because it’s easier to see Heejin annoyed than to see her hurt. “It’ll be here any moment now.”
And, as if summoned, the doorbell rings, accompanied by a simultaneous notification on Heejin’s phone. It flashes on the lock screen — still the default, Jinsol notes — before Heejin swipes it open.
“I’ll get it. Don’t go anywhere.” Heejin’s idea of a joke.
“Sure. Oh, but one more thing before you go.” There’s a dull scrape as Jinsol pushes her chair backwards, harsh against the kitchen floor. Then, finally, she lets go of the rope she’s been clutching this whole time, the knots deftly unwound behind her back, and stands. The heavy coils fall to the ground at her feet. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for dinner after all.”
Heejin freezes. “How did you—”
“Maybe next time, don’t use tying techniques that I invented,” says Jinsol. “Just some friendly advice from the best assassin you know.”
Whatever Heejin had prepared, none of it seems to matter now. She stands, silent and stunned, pistol left forgotten on the dining room table. The delivery person rings the doorbell again, impatient.
"Goodbye, Heejin."
With a wink and a blown kiss, Jinsol leaps backwards out her apartment window, shattering the glass and landing on the fire escape below. Heejin pounces after her a second too late.
It hurts, to have to run away again, to feel the same tearing heartstrings she felt six months ago. Each leap down the metal staircase, each bullet pinging off brick mere inches from her face, brings back memories of her final flight.
Heejin is right, it never had to be like this. But Jinsol never wants it to end.
Because if anything, there’s a strange comfort in the chase. There’s a strange comfort in knowing that she’ll never be alone, and that Heejin will follow her, endlessly, to the ends of the earth.