The dossier arrived in silence.
No knock. No digital ping. Just a black envelope on the desk of an assassin who was not meant to question things.
Eros didn't hesitate.
He slit it open with one fluid motion—blade, not finger. He never used his hands for anything that wasn't lethal.
Inside: one photo, a sliver of surveillance footage, and five words printed beneath in red.
TARGET: PRION. TERMINATE ON SIGHT.
There was no background, no briefing, no "why." Only coordinates and a projected exit window. Whoever Prion was, the Organization didn't want him captured. They wanted him erased.
But that name—
Eros's brow furrowed slightly. Not confusion. Not recognition either.
Something quieter.
Static crackled behind his eyes. Gone before he could place it.
He shook it off. The feeling didn't belong to him. Nothing did.
He burned the file with his gloved fingers and stood.
The city beneath him didn't move fast enough to matter.
Neon lights blurred like open wounds. The rain made everything colder than it already was.
Eros stepped off the rooftop ledge, landing on a lower platform with the soundless grace only top-tier assets could achieve. No wasted breath. No tension in the muscles. Just motion—efficient, lethal, already plotting the cleanest approach to the target's location.
Warehouse sector. Abandoned on paper. Warm on infrared.
Prion.
He ran the name again.
His fingers curled against his side, tightening before he caught himself.
Why did it feel like that name didn't belong in red?
Motion sensor flicker. Side access. Locked—but nothing stayed locked under his hands for long.
He moved inside.
Dust. Machines. Storage crates.
Then—
A soft click. Not mechanical.
A teacup being set on porcelain.
Eros froze.
That wasn't supposed to be here.
He rounded the corner with a blade drawn.
And there he was.
Sitting cross-legged on an old metal chair, elbows resting lightly on his knees, a teacup steaming between long pale fingers.
He looked up.
His skin was near-translucent in the dim light. His eyes were dull—gray, like something once bright that had burned out. Thin. Sharp-boned. So still it felt wrong.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't speak.
He didn't look surprised.
"Prion," Eros said, low and even.
The man's head tilted.
Then he did something no target had ever done before.
He smiled.
Why would a high-priority target smile when an assassin says his name?
The moment stretched like wire between them—tight, silent, dangerous.
Prion didn't move.
He held the teacup with both hands, fragile and precise, as if Eros hadn't just stepped into the room with a weapon raised and orders to kill.
"Do you usually announce yourself before killing someone?" he asked, voice quiet, detached. "Or is this special?"
His tone wasn't smug.
It was clinical. As if he were logging a variable.
Eros didn't answer.
He rarely did.
He simply adjusted his stance, blade steady. One step forward. No emotion. No hesitation.
Except—his grip twitched.
The smile.
Why was it still there?
Prion's eyes flicked to the knife. Then to Eros's posture. Then—disappointingly—to his own tea.
"You're late," he murmured, almost to himself.
Another step. This time, Eros said nothing. Let the silence do the pressure work.
Prion didn't fold. He just spoke again, as if reporting an anomaly.
"You looked different, the first time."
Eros froze.
There it was again—that crack in protocol. That echo.
First time?
That phrase. His pupils dilated for half a second. A signal New Era would later review. Tag. Flag. Log.
"You should be dead," Eros replied flatly. "You're a loose end. A glitch."
Prion blinked. "You think I'm the glitch?"
Then he stood.
No sudden motion. No defence posture. He set the teacup down on the floor with the care of someone who respected breakable things.
Unlike Eros, who only respected results.
They were face to face now—almost. Prion was taller than expected. Thinner than anyone that fragile had a right to be.
He stepped forward once. Not defiant. Not stupid.
Just close enough that Eros could feel the chill rolling off him. That strange absence of heat.
"Kill me, then," Prion said.
No sarcasm. No plea.
Just... an invitation.
Eros's blade rose. Fast. Professional. Perfect form.
But his hand—stopped.
It hovered an inch from skin. From bone.
And in that moment, the assassin's mind splintered.
Something's wrong.
This isn't hesitation.
This is program disruption.
"You can't do it," Prion said softly.
It wasn't a taunt. It was a diagnosis.
"You don't remember, but your hands do."
He stepped back.
And Eros didn't follow.
If his hands remember what his mind forgot—what else is buried in him?
System Note:
Emotional deviation detected.
Neural delay: 0.87 seconds.
Visual fixation: unauthorized.
Override pending.
But Eros didn't move.
The blade stayed suspended in air, a breath from Prion's throat. A single flick, and it would be done.
Yet he stood still—not because he chose to, but because something inside him refused to obey.
His body remained coiled, but a tremor slipped into his fingers. He masked it, barely, shifting his weight.
Prion tilted his head.
"Fascinating," he said, more to the shadows than to Eros. "Even after recalibration, your instincts still glitch near me."
That word again. Glitch.
This wasn't the first time someone called Prion that.
It wasn't the first time someone hesitated, either.
Eros didn't speak. He refused to acknowledge the static building behind his eyes.
Instead, he stepped back. Reset.
He would strike again. This time clean. Fast. No voice. No pause.
But then Prion exhaled, slowly, like someone letting go of a ghost he hadn't meant to hold.
"You're not here to kill me," he said.
Eros's eyes sharpened. "That's exactly what I'm here to do."
"No," Prion corrected, "you're here to see if you still can."
There was no heat behind the words. Only fact. Cold and analytical.
"You don't remember me," he went on, taking a slow, almost imperceptible step around Eros. "But something does. Your pulse—elevated. Not from threat. From recognition. Muscle memory is a beautiful trait. It remembers things your system tries to delete."
Eros's jaw tightened.
Muscle memory.
Instinct override.
Flash: a hallway bathed in white. A voice—"If he speaks, do not respond."
Flash: fingers around his wrist. A name etched into skin.
Gone.
He whirled.
Prion was behind him now, just out of reach. Not fleeing. Not armed.
Just watching. Studying.
"You weren't supposed to live this long," Eros said.
"Neither were you," Prion replied. "But you kept choosing not to kill me."
"I don't even know you."
"No," Prion said. "But your hesitation says otherwise."
There was silence.
Then Eros asked something he hadn't meant to.
Not a mission question. Not a tactical one.
"…What are you?"
Prion's lips parted, but he didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Instead, he stepped close again—too close.
And for the second time in one evening, Eros didn't move.
Prion reached forward. Fingers cold against Eros's glove. He didn't try to disarm him. He didn't try to run.
He just pressed two fingers to Eros's wrist.
Where a scar used to be.
Where there had once been a name.
"You used to call me something else," Prion said quietly. "Do you still hear it? In the silence?"
Eros didn't answer.
But his breath caught—and that was enough.
System Override triggered.
Threat classification: Active
Subject instability: 12%
Memory bridge: Partial
Containment advised
"Next time," Prion whispered on his ear, withdrawing his hand, "you won't be able to stop yourself. And I won't be standing still."
He turned, walking back toward the chair.
Eros should have followed. Finished it.
Instead, he lowered the blade.
Just a fraction.
Enough to notice his own fingers trembling.
Eros didn't follow him.
He didn't move at all.
The weapon remained in his hand, perfectly balanced. But it had lost its weight—no longer an extension of his will, just… metal.
Across the room, Prion sat down again.
He didn't face Eros this time.
He returned to his teacup like the confrontation hadn't happened, curling his pale fingers around it, bringing it to his lips with the stillness of ritual.
Steam curled around the edge of his jaw, catching the stray strands of his black hair as he leaned forward. The oversized hood of his sweater hung low, casting faint shadows under his cheekbones.
He looked like someone worn out by silence. Or someone who'd gotten used to it.
"How long have you been here?" Eros asked, voice low.
A pause. Then:
"Long enough to know you'd come."
"You didn't try to run."
"Would it have changed anything?"
Eros said nothing.
That's when Prion finally glanced over his shoulder.
His expression wasn't scared. It wasn't even curious.
It was resigned.
"New Era still watching you?" he asked, as if they were discussing the weather.
Eros's grip tightened, but he didn't answer.
Prion nodded to himself, as if that confirmed something.
"They want to see if you'll fail. Again."
A flicker behind Eros's eyes.
Again?
"Why would I have failed?" he said slowly. "This is our first contact."
"No," Prion murmured. "It's not."
Outside, lightning cracked. The skylight blinked white for a second, and when the shadows rushed back in, Prion looked even paler than before.
He set the cup down.
"You're not broken yet," he said. "That's why they sent you again."
"Again," Eros echoed, more sharply now. "You keep saying that."
Prion didn't flinch.
Instead, he turned fully, his hoodie brushing along the edge of the metal chair. His eyes weren't just tired—they were old. Old in the way a locked door looks after the last key breaks.
"You always hesitate when it comes to me," he said. "No matter how many times they send you back. No matter how many times they wipe it clean."
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"And I always remember."
System Warning:
Unauthorized memory cascade detected.
Stabilization in progress…
Eros pressed two fingers to his temple. His vision flickered for a breath—a hallway, red walls, numbers on the door—gone.
Just noise.
Just interference.
He re-engaged posture, one bootstep forward.
But Prion raised a hand lazily.
"If you try again tonight, I won't stop you," he said.
"But you'll fail."
"Why?" Eros demanded.
"Because," Prion said, voice even, "you don't want to kill me. You just haven't remembered that yet."
Eros exhaled slowly. Controlled. Measured.
The blade lowered an inch.
But it didn't leave his hand.
"Next time," he said, voice colder, "I won't hesitate."
Prion looked at him—and that faint, bitter smile returned.
"Then try harder," he whispered.
He never missed a kill—until the one target who says, "You always hesitate."
Is it memory, programming, or something deeper that makes a killer freeze at the name of someone he doesn't remember?
Eros doesn't know why he can't pull the trigger—but Prion does.
And in this game, memory may be the deadliest weapon of all.