Yor, Camilla notices, has been acting unusual the whole day.

Not the whole day, actually 'the whole

week.

Fond as she 's grown of the soft spoken brunette, the distracted weirdo that's replaced her is starting to get on her nerves. It 's like the progress they 've made in three and a half years of friendship and coworking has been misplaced. Poured down a drain somewhere, maybe. Perhaps the one Yor is dredging right now.

Camilla shudders as her colleague pulls another massive hunk of something out of the kitchen sink. It 's dark red and chunky, almost like an organ. A bleeding heart. And Yor does it with such a blank face the entire time. Camilla has no idea how such a beautiful woman can be so ' unaffected.

'Yor! ' yelps Camilla as she hops back when Yor spins to find the trash can. 'Please! Be a bit more mindful! '

'Oh! ' her colleague gasps. 'I 'm so sorry, Camilla. '

'What has gotten into you? ' she murmurs, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She folds her arms. 'Are you still coming over tonight? ' Yor stares at her blankly. Camilla gapes. 'That recipe you wanted to try! With ' cabbage and beets, and ' oh, I can 't remember! It looked easy enough. '

She can tell by the way Yor 's eyes don 't light up with recognition that the woman opposite her has no idea what she 's talking about. 'I 'm sorry, Camilla. I 'll have to cancel. '

Camilla 's heart sinks. Not just because Yor is not her usual, cute self, but because she actually does look forward to those few occasional hours together, even despite that Yor has failed every recipe since that first stew. 'I promise I 'll be nicer, ' she says off-handedly. 'Just a little. '

'It 's fine, ' Yor says absent-mindedly. 'I just have to take care of something. Thank you for your help, Camilla, I really do appreciate it. '

Then she steps out of the kitchen, disappearing down the hall. Sharon passes by her, waving to Yor, only to be ignored. She raises her eyebrows, looking over her shoulder until Yor takes a turn down another corridor.

'She 's been odd, ' says Sharon to Camilla once she 's entered the kitchen. The sound of running water fills the gaps between them as Sharon washes her hands.

'Have I been too mean to her again? ' Camilla asks worriedly.

Sharon shakes her head. 'It 's not you. I walked in on her in the restroom earlier this week, staring at her hands. Something 's wrong. It must be private. ' She shuts the tap, drying her hands before leaning back against the counter, folding her arms and wearing a contemplative look.

Camilla frowns. 'Do you think it 's that husband of hers? ' When Sharon doesn 't answer, Camilla 's features screw up. 'It 's always those handsome men. They think they can walk all over us women. ' Her heart breaks especially for Yor, who is so meek and kind and caring. She 's probably blaming herself for her husband 's faults.

Sharon doesn 't respond for a second, then huffs, nodding reluctantly. 'That man is too handsome for his own good. '

'

The water always runs red. Bright scarlet and in rivers. Eventually it washes out to a pink until there 's nothing left on her hands. Then she makes sure to wipe any surfaces clean of stray droplets or abstract sprays of blood. It always takes ten minutes. When she 'd first started killing for a living, it 'd taken upwards of three hours.

Stepping out of her work gear, she works her way into her daytime uniform. Another five men had tried to infiltrate Olif Olafsen 's headquarters today. They 'd been low-level thugs, not particularly deft with their tools. She 's encountered her fair share of those since being assigned this role. Her body count for this assignment alone hovers in the three hundreds. Not a single trespasser has made it past her alive thus far.

Well, all but one.

Loid 'or Twilight, as she 's now aware, a name she 'd only ever heard in hushed tones between her higher-ups 'hasn 't returned since the catastrophic encounter. She waits every night with bated breath, and when she hears footsteps, every muscle in her body tenses. In her mind, she runs through every possible outcome. It 's almost paralyzing. How do you kill somebody you owe so much of your wellbeing to?

But Twilight would never make such a rookie mistake, and true to form, it 's never him. So when she sinks her stilettos into the intruder, it 's always with a mix of emotion: should she feel this relieved? Or this anxious? She can only hope he continues to stay out of her way.

Yor wrings as much blood out of her dress as she can, tucking it away for a deeper clean later. Her shift ended later than usual today, meaning that when she steps out into the hollow of the night, not a single streetlamp is still on. Her shoes are the loudest sound on the streets. The occasional wild dog howls far past the city.

Outside their apartment, every window is dark. Once inside, Yor slips her shoes off as quietly as possible, following noisy snores across the floor until she finds Franky dozing on an armchair. She shakes him awake.

'Hrmpfh? ' he gurgles, one eye opening, then the other, until he 's finally blinking into consciousness like a medical patient leaving a coma. 'Yor! ' he exclaims, grinning. 'Welcome home. I 'll just be on my way, then. '

'Thank you, Franky. '

'Any time, any time. ' He waves a hand as he heads towards the door. 'Irresponsible of Loid though, isn 't it? So many late nights. '

Yor stares after him, struck by the knowledge that Franky has no idea about Loid. Should she tell him? But it 's hardly her place. And it 's unlikely Franky has anything at all to do with a higher intelligence organization. No, better to keep the unsuspecting, unsuspecting. So she shakes her head. 'Being a doctor must be difficult. '

Franky makes a face like he 's not particularly sure he agrees, but he grins nonetheless and leaves with the promise of returning tomorrow evening. Yor shuts the door behind him and heads to her bedroom, only to hear quiet sniffling coming from behind Anya 's door. Heart stuttering, she gives a warning knock before entering.

Anya looks up from the foot of the bed, a lumpy pillowcase in her hands. Moonlight bounces from her tearful gaze, giving them an eerie glow. Her face is ruddy, and there are tracks staining her cheeks. 'Miss Anya, ' Yor whispers as she makes her way over. 'What are you doing? '

'R 'running away, ' hiccups Anya.

'Why are you doing that? '

'Because 'because Papa doesn 't want Anya anymore! '

'Oh, Anya. ' Yor winds a hand around Anya 's back, guiding her to her bed, then into it. Drawing the covers over her chin, she says, 'You don 't know that. '

'I do! ' Her assertion sets off another round of tears.

'Did you see it in his thoughts? '

'N 'no ' ' She hesitates. 'We never see Papa anymore. '

'Well, we can 't be sure until we find out. But I think if Loid didn 't want you, he would have done it already. He 's very efficient. '

'I ' I guess so. '

Yor smooths Anya 's hair away from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. 'Were you going to run away without me? ' Alarm flits quickly over Anya 's features. Yor giggles. 'We can run away together if we have to, okay? '

'Okay, ' answers Anya, voice tiny.

'I 'll sing you to sleep. '

Sitting on the edge of Anya 's bed, Yor begins the lullaby she would sing to Yuri growing up. Sober, she 's familiar with the lyrics, and the further she trails through the verses, the heavier Anya 's lids get until they close entirely, her chest rising and falling evenly.

'

The apartment is sunk in darkness when Twilight finally returns. It 's eerily quiet save for the determined hum of the refrigerator. Treading lightly, he relies on his senses to navigate through the home instead of turning on the lights.

Franky is nowhere to be seen, and based on the lack of cologne perfuming the air, Twilight estimates he 's been gone for a good while now. Hanging from the coatrack is the wool jacket Yor defaults to, the one he knows she wore leaving the house today. As he nears the hallway, he hears a familiar voice. As he nears Anya 's room, a familiar song. He slows to a stop just outside Anya 's door, which hangs slightly ajar.

Yor 's voice floats out on a wisp, each note hanging on a silk thread, each word half-sung, half-murmured. It 's the same tune she 'd serenaded him with drunk on a park bench, and for a moment, Twilight drifts away to that time in space, waking up again to her thighs pillowed beneath his head.

Too soon, the lullaby ends. Twilight blinks back to present-day and hears Yor rustling off Anya 's bedding. Quickly, he slips into his own room, making sure to dampen the sound of his door closing. Still, when he waits on the other side, he hears Yor 's footsteps stop across from him.

'Loid? ' she whispers.

He considers answering. His body reaches for the handle. But he hesitates, unsure of what he 'd say. As if Yor can read his reluctance through the door, Twilight hears her step away from him.

He drops his hand. Shuts his mouth. When her door closes, he shuts his eyes and lays his forehead against the grain of his own, brows furrowing as he tries to understand what he 's waiting for beyond the inevitable knife to his throat.

'

Sylvia rifles through the folder in her hands, eyes scanning each document before moving onto the next. Occasionally she frowns. Sometimes she smiles. Eventually she claps the file shut and lays it on her desk, eyeing Twilight primly.

'Great work. '

Relieved, Twilight sinks just a little into his seat. 'Thank you. '

'Now tell me why you 're avoiding Olif. '

He stiffens right back up. 'I 'm still working through the complication. '

'Hmm, ' Sylvia nods, bringing her hand to her chin. 'Yes, the complication. I remember that. The one you won 't tell me about. ' She scowls. 'And how long are you going to dally? '

'It 's not purposeful. '

'It never is. ' Her lips flatline, unamused. 'I 'm told you haven 't been going home. You do realize that in order for your mission to succeed, your priority is first and foremost your cover? Regardless of proximity to solution. '

Damn Franky.

Twilight 'grits his teeth. 'I 'm aware. '

The silence is deliberately imposing. Sylvia has always had a knack for that. When Twilight doesn 't capitulate, she says, 'Go on as many little missions as you want, Twilight. Check them off whatever list you must be keeping. But at the end of the day, Olif has to die, and you can only do that while maintaining your image as a family man. Or do you mean to tell me you 're losing sight of your goals this close to the end? Do I need to find your replacement? '

His track record is spotless. He 's never failed, passed off, or abandoned a mission. 'That won 't be necessary, ' says Twilight crisply.

'Then hurry up and do your job. Dismissed. '

'

'Do you want pudding? ' Anya asks, gaze shifting over the dessert line of their cafeteria. Her voice is tired.

'I have my own, but if you want pudding, you should get in line now, ' answers Becky. She shoos Anya away gently, making sure her best friend is in line before turning away. Her expression drops and she locates her target.

If Becky has read correctly between the lines of all the tidbits Anya has sprinkled throughout their recent conversations, Loid and Yor Forger are fighting, Anya believes it 's her fault, and Loid has become absent as a result. There 's only one person Becky knows who might relate, and he 's sitting two tables down with his usual cronies.

When their eyes meet, Damian 's gets that sour look in his again. He 's quick to wrench away. Becky is undeterred, though, and pays no heed to the stares that follow her as she marches up to him. Once she 's standing over him, she clears her throat. Damian ignores her.

'Ex

cuse

me, ' she hisses. 'I need to talk to you. ' Damian folds his arms and looks at her, expression carved out of ice. Becky huffs in exasperation. '

Outside.

'

'Anything you need to say to me can be said in front of an audience, ' he answers, like a king to a subject. His goons snicker.

'It 's about Anya. '

His face flares immediately. 'That miniature troglodyte has nothing to do with me. '

Becky tilts her head, smiling thinly, threateningly. 'She 's sad. '

After a beat of what looks to be Damian fighting himself, he grumbles, 'Fine, ' and stands. Emile and Ewen stare after their boss, perplexed.

As they exit the cafeteria, he makes sure never to let her take the lead, practically stepping on her heels. Becky rolls her eyes. Once they're in the courtyard, she turns sharply, only for Damian to nearly bowl her over. 'Ugh! ' she shouts. 'Watch yourself! '

'I don 't have any other choice, seeing as you 're so hideous it would blind me to watch

you! '

'Oh, shut it, you wouldn 't know beauty even if it punched you in the face! Now, I need your help with Anya. '

'And why would I help that knock-kneed, diminutive little troll? '

'She 's not knock-kneed or a little troll, and I need your help because Anya thinks her father doesn 't love her anymore and he hasn 't come home because of it! He won 't talk to her, won 't look at her, won 't even be in the same room as her. '

Damian grows quiet. His reticence stretches long before eventually, he snaps, 'That 's ridiculous. '

Flabbergasted, Becky reels away. 'Excuse me?! '

'The Forger 's are disgustingly perfect. I 've never seen a more doting father. You 're lying to me. '

Her face twists. '

Lie '

' The noise Becky makes is so outraged, even the campus trees quail at the sound. She stomps her foot, clenches her fists. There 's a fire in her eyes. 'I am

not

lying! How dare you! You 're an awful friend, Damian Desmond! '

'Anya Forger and I are

not

friends, ' Damian answers so quickly, so cuttingly, that the red hot flame of Becky's temper is immediately smothered. 'She made that very clear two years ago. '

She looks at him incredulously. 'What ever happened between you two? '

'Forger didn 't tell you? Well, well. Looks like Anya doesn 't tell her supposed best friend everything. '

Becky flinches. Damian sneers, and she settles herself again, folding her arms and walking backwards. 'Fine then, ' she seethes. 'If you won 't help her, I 'll figure it out myself. But you won 't be doing business with the Blackbell 's as long as I 'm around, Desmond! '

'

He hates her.

He hates her, he hates her, he hates her. When she walks past him in their biology class, her eyes are five shades duller than he knows they 're meant to be, and the wave of her hair hangs that much more limply. He hates her.

Won 't even be in the same room as her,

Blackbell 's voice echoes in his head. Damian knows all too well what that feels like. He should be ecstatic. If there 's anything he remembers about Anya Forger, it 's that she 's a Daddy 's Girl through and through, and it looks like Loid Forger has taken a page out of Donovan Desmond 's playbook.

That 'll teach her,

Damian thinks.

How 's that for a taste of your own medicine? Shrimp-brained commoner!

Curled over his notebook, his jaw aches from the force he clenches it with.

Anya Forger is a nuisance, and it looks like Loid Forger has finally recognized that for himself

'

A sniffle from behind him wrenches Damian out of his fuming. He, along with everybody else in the room, looks over their shoulder to find the interruption, but unlike everybody else, Anya Forger is staring right at him.

Her attention darts away, but not before the luminous, bottle green shards of it stab Damian straight through his chest. He whirls around, knocking over Emile 's pencil case but oblivious to the messy scattering of its interior over the sound of his blood crashing in his ears. The room is entirely too warm.

Their teacher peers up from the textbook in his hand. 'Something the matter, Miss Forger? '

'N 'No, ' stammers Anya. 'Anya 's nose 'my nose is just stuffy. '

Her nose is obviously not just stuffy. Even an idiot could tell she 's on the verge of tears. Damian bites his tongue and traces the letters in his notebook with his eyes over and over and over until all he sees are lines and shapes.

I hate her, I hate her, I hate her!

So why, when he 's walking past the bathrooms after class, does he immediately recognize the voice seeping out of the girl 's bathroom, thick as it may be with tears? And why, when she stops for a split second, perhaps to catch her breath, does he stop, too?

'

Anya 's eyes are very nearly swollen shut by the time she arrives at her doorstep. She feels like she 's been stung in the face by a fistful of angry bees. She wants Mama.

More than that, she wants Papa.

Her lip wobbles.

No!

she reprimands. She can 't think about that! Turning her key in the lock, it opens with uncharacteristic ease. Tentatively, Anya enters the room.

Her face immediately brightens. 'Papa! '

Loid 's gaze snaps up from the paper on the table that he 's hunched over. His back straightens as Anya flies towards him with her hands outstretched, face giddy. But when he fails to rise as he used to, she, too, slows to a stop. Her smile weakens.

What 's happened to her face?

Anya 's hand comes to her cheek. 'Bees, ' she blurts. 'Angry bees stung my eyes. '

Loid looks immediately bewildered.

Angry bees?

Anya nods instinctually, but it 's the wrong move. Comprehension dawns over Loid 's features. His expression closes off again.

'Don 't do that, Anya. '

She shrinks into herself a little. 'Do what? '

'Don 't read people 's minds. '

'Anya can't 'I can 't help it. I ' I don 't try to. I don 't want to. It 's only sometimes, Papa. ' 'Loid gives her a long look, then averts his gaze. His mouth is pressed tight. Anya feels a tightness in the back of her head again. She drops her eyes to the floor. 'I 'm sorry. '

Loid shakes his head. 'Do you have homework? '

'Yes. '

'Do you need help? '

Is it a trick question? If she says yes, will he really tolerate her long enough to help? She's too afraid to find out, so she shakes her head.

'Alright then. I 'll knock on your door when dinner is ready. '

The clock on Anya 's wall reads six when he does exactly that. But instead of joining the table with her and Mama, Loid excuses himself without specifying why.

That night, Anya coaxes Bond into bed with her. She stares him in the eye, hanging onto the occasional dog-thought she finds. She squints, trying to imagine a wall. Sometimes the images flicker, sometimes the words dissolve, but she can 't be sure if it 's the unpredictable nature of her mind reading, or just how exhausted she is. Regardless, two hours pass like this, and she stops only when she feels a warm, syrupy trickle above her lip.

Crossing her eyes, she finds nothing. Raising the back of her hand to give her face a swipe, she pulls it away. Beneath the moonlight, the streak of blood is highlighter against her skin. A neon red tally against her.