The apartment was dim, bathed in the gray glow of the city lights filtering through the rain-streaked windows. A clock ticked quietly in the corner, its sound almost drowned by the drizzle outside. The place still smelled faintly of lavender—her scent—mixed now with the sharpness of storm air leaking in through a cracked window.
Amaia sat on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, holding a blanket that no longer brought warmth. She had been waiting for hours, eyes fixed on the door as though her stillness would summon him. And eventually, it did.
The door clicked open. Softly. Casually. Like he still had the right to walk in.
Nick stepped inside, shrugging off his coat, his boots leaving silent prints across the hardwood. His expression was unreadable, like always—calm, distant, cold. The kind of face she once thought mysterious. Now, it was just empty.
"You're late," Amaia said, her voice quiet. Not accusatory. Just... tired.
Nick didn't respond right away. He looked around the room like he hadn't been here a thousand times before. Like he was checking for something.
Or someone.
"You didn't answer your phone," he said.
"I know."
Another pause.
"I figured you'd come eventually," she added. "This place... It's where you'd want it to end, right?"
His gaze narrowed, but only slightly. "What are you talking about?"
Amaia stood. Her bare feet made no sound as she crossed to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water but didn't drink it. Her fingers trembled faintly.She faced him. "I know what you are, Nick."
He said nothing. Didn't move.
"An assassin. Working for... whoever the hell is pulling the strings. Killing names off a list. People who get too close to the truth. People who matter too much to the wrong people." Her voice didn't rise. "You got close to me for one reason. Because I was one of them."
Still, he didn't speak. What was there to say? That she was wrong?
She wasn't.
"I had my doubts, you know," Amaia continued. "Little things. You never let yourself get too close. You never slipped. Never cracked. It was like you were trying to mimic affection instead of feel it." She let out a humorless laugh. "But I wanted to believe. God, I wanted to believe you were just scared to love me."
Nick finally spoke. "Amaia…"
"Don't," she cut in sharply. "Not now. Not when the lie's already dead."
There was a beat of silence before she whispered, "Was it ever real? Even a moment?"
"No," he said.
Brutal. Unflinching.
Amaia's lips parted, and for a second, her composure cracked. Not because she didn't expect the answer—but because it still hurt. Even when you know someone's lying, there's a part of you that begs to be proven wrong.
"I loved you," she said.
Nick lowered his gaze. That was the closest thing to remorse he would ever allow himself. "I know."
She reached into a drawer beside her and pulled something out. Not a weapon. Just a small, crumpled photograph. The two of them—smiling. A carnival in the background. Her hand in his. His eyes distant, even then.
"I always knew something was missing in your smile," she said. "Now I know what it was."
He took a step forward, then another. Each one slower than the last. His hand moved to his jacket, fingers brushing the inside pocket. The metal of the pistol pressed against his skin like a second heartbeat.
"I can make it fast," he said, almost softly.Amaia looked up at him with something like defiance—or maybe acceptance. "I'm not afraid of you, Nick. You're just... sad. A hollow man doing what he's told. And when this is over, you'll have nothing. Not even me."
A long pause.
He drew the pistol.
Amaia didn't move. Didn't plead. Her eyes glistened—not with tears, but with understanding.
"I loved you anyway," she whispered.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Then—
A shot.
Sharp. Clean. Final.
Her body fell with a soft thud, as if she had simply gone to sleep.
Nick stood there, arm still outstretched, the gun shaking slightly in his grip. A drop of blood slid down the bridge of his nose—not hers. It had spattered. A mark of what he'd done.
He looked down at her. No tears. No guilt. But for the first time in a long time, something in his chest felt... strange.
Not pain. Not sorrow.
Just emptiness.
He turned and walked out, back into the cold rain, letting it wash over him like it could rinse away what he'd done.
Behind him, the door creaked shut.
And only the silence remained.
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