#9

Number Nine slid into the back of the sleek Benz, the leather seats cool beneath him. He leaned back, his eyes momentarily closed as he tried to shake off the tension of the night. After a beat, he spoke quietly, his voice flat. "Molly, let's go home."

She didn't answer right away, the engine humming beneath her. The city lights flickered past as she kept her eyes on the road. Then, without warning, Number Nine whispered, his words laced with something darker. "He fucking lied to me."

Molly glanced over, brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

Number Nine's tone hardened as he repeated, slower and more deliberate. "He fucking lied to me."

Her silence lingered for a moment, a thread of understanding beginning to pull at her. "Luka?"

He nodded, leaning back again, his jaw tight. "I take a couple years off, and this is what happens. People lie to my face."

Molly didn't respond, letting the car roll in the quiet tension between them. The drive felt endless, the hum of the engine almost soothing in contrast to the storm swirling in his mind.

When they finally arrived at his apartment, Number Nine exited the car, walking toward the building without a word. Molly followed, her heels clicking on the pavement behind him.

Upstairs, inside the apartment, the familiar scent of his space hit him. The minimalist decor. The silence. But what caught his attention was Molly, already moving through the room with an odd sense of purpose. She folded his clothes neatly, preparing the kitchen like she'd been there for hours. When she noticed him, she stopped, as if waiting for some cue.

"I made food," she said, her voice casual. "But I have to leave. Got a date." Her eyes were steady, a strange mix of defiance and patience.

Number Nine didn't respond immediately. He crossed the room slowly, his gaze never leaving her. He was a shadow against the dim light, his movements calculated. When he reached her, he stopped, his presence overwhelming her as he looked down at her with cold, assessing eyes. He didn't speak, just watched her for a moment—almost studying the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands rested awkwardly at her sides.

Then, without a word, he stepped closer. His hand rose, fingers brushing against her temple as he brought her head toward him. The motion was slow, deliberate, almost too intimate. When their eyes locked, he kissed her forehead—just a brief touch of his lips. His voice came next, soft but steady, with a hint of something almost like approval.

"You have my blessing," he said with a light chuckle, his breath warm against her skin.

For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. Molly stayed perfectly still, her expression unreadable. Then, she gave a small nod, the weight of his words hanging between them. There was no more to say.

Number Nine's eyes lingered on Molly for a moment longer, watching the subtle tension leave her shoulders as she absorbed his words. There was an odd finality in his tone, as if he had granted her permission—though for what, neither of them could say. It was the way he did things: actions spoke louder than words.

She didn't need to argue, didn't need to say anything more. Her voice was steady as she grabbed her bag, slinging it over her shoulder. "I'll see myself out," she said, her gaze flicking to him one last time before she turned for the door.

The sound of her heels clicking on the floor was the only noise that followed her as she left the apartment, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality.

Number Nine stood still in the silence, his back turned to her as she disappeared down the hallway. The warmth of her presence lingered, but it was fleeting, like smoke vanishing into the air. He turned toward the window, looking out over the city, but his mind was elsewhere—somewhere far darker than the city lights could reach.

Minutes passed. The hum of the city outside had become a dull roar, distant and unimportant. He was lost in thought, piecing together fragments of the conversation he'd had with Luka, replaying the lies, the games being played in the shadows. He'd been a part of this world too long to let things slide. It was time to make his move.

The sudden sound of footsteps in the hallway jolted him from his reverie. His hand instinctively reached for the gun tucked at his waist. The footsteps were quick, too quick. Then a loud bang rang through the hallway, followed by a muffled shout—then silence.

Number Nine's eyes narrowed as he moved swiftly toward the door. The familiar weight of tension hung in the air as he pressed his ear to the wood, listening for any further signs of movement. His instincts were sharp, honed over years of danger, deceit, and violence. Whoever was out there wasn't here to play.