Betray Me or Kill Me

As I stepped over shattered bricks and climbed across the broken wall, the first thing I saw was a hand clutching a half-molded piece of bread. 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.