Chapter 11

Lina's POV

I returned to the apartment and stood in the entrance without turning on the lights. Borrowing the city neon filtering in from outside the window, I looked down at that scarf.

The scarf had nothing special about it—no listening devices, no tracking chips, no hidden pockets, no inner layers.

This was just an ordinary scarf, one hundred percent cashmere. The label said made in Italy, probably some luxury brand whose name I couldn't pronounce.

The scarf was ridiculously soft. The feeling against my palm reminded me of the warmth of Luca's palm when it cupped the back of my head.

Uncle. He said he was my uncle.

This word was too unfamiliar, so unfamiliar that I repeated it in my mouth several times and still found it awkward.

In my past fifteen years of life, I had no relatives, no friends, no one who could be called "family."

Dmitri was my trainer, the one who turned me into a weapon. Antonio was my prey, the last mission before I could wash my hands of it all. And Luca... was the shelter who kept me using the excuse of "normal person."

But now he said he was my uncle.

Then he must have known my parents and must know what happened fifteen years ago.

So why didn't he say so earlier?

What exactly did he want from me?

I walked to the living room and pulled out that piece of paper that had been folded and refolded from my pocket. So this was what he meant by "who."

I refolded the paper and put it back in my pocket, then walked to the bathroom and turned on the faucet.

Cold water rushed out. I scooped up a handful and splashed it on my face, trying to cool down my burning cheeks.

The girl in the mirror had a flushed face and panicked eyes, completely lacking the composure she'd had yesterday afternoon standing before twenty-some people.

Looking at myself in the mirror, I suddenly felt very unfamiliar.

This wasn't me.

I was supposed to be that emotionless, weakness-free, perpetually calm assassin "Red Rose."

I was supposed to be able to precisely calculate everyone's motives, the conspiracy behind every sentence, the consequences of every action.

But now, my mind was full of Luca's face.

The shadow that fell on my eyelashes when he bent his head to tutor me. His warm, dry palm when he patted my head. His rapid heartbeat when our foreheads pressed together.

I quickly finished washing up and collapsed onto the bed, quietly staring at the ceiling in a daze.

"Because you're here," he said.

That sentence was like a stone thrown into a lake, creating ripple after ripple in my heart that wouldn't settle for a long time.

I didn't understand. I really didn't understand.

When Luca said this sentence, his forehead pressed against mine, his breath intertwining with mine.

I could feel the warmth of his palm, could smell that dry, dangerous scent beneath his cologne, could hear the sound of his heart pounding against his ribs.

Why?

I turned over in complete bewilderment and buried my face in the scarf.

The scarf carried an extremely faint scent that didn't belong to any detergent—that was Luca's scent.

Irritated, I pulled the scarf from my face, threw it to the foot of the bed, closed my eyes and started counting sheep.

One sheep, two sheep, three sheep—

The sheep died. I slit its throat with one slash.

Four sheep, five sheep, six sheep—

Dead again. This time Luca had wrung its neck.

I opened my eyes in the darkness and couldn't help laughing.

The next morning, for the first time ever, I wasn't woken by my internal clock but by an alarm.

I quickly washed my face with cold water, tied up my hair, and changed into my school uniform.

Before leaving, I saw the scarf I'd thrown at the foot of the bed.

I stood looking at it for a few seconds, then walked over, picked it up, and wrapped it around my neck.

The cashmere against my skin was so soft and warm, carrying that extremely faint scent that belonged to Luca.

I took a deep breath and opened the apartment door.

Luca was actually waiting at the door.

He wore a dark gray turtleneck sweater with a black coat over it, holding a paper bag in his hand.

His gaze casually fell on the scarf around my neck, lingered for less than a second, then looked away.

"Breakfast," he said, handing over the paper bag.

I took it and found the logo printed on the bag was from a bakery I'd passed many times but never entered.

The paper bag was still warm, containing freshly baked croissants and a cup of hot chocolate.

"Thank you."

"It's nothing, just on my way," Luca said.

I looked down at the paper bag, then looked back up at him.

As far as I knew, this bakery was at least three blocks away from the apartment. His usual route wouldn't take him anywhere near there. What kind of "on my way" was this?

"Luca."

Luca turned sideways, eyebrows slightly raised.

The hallway lighting wasn't very bright, but I clearly saw his expression—calm, composed, with a hint of his usual curve at the corner of his mouth.

That person who pressed his forehead against mine last night and said "because you're here" seemed to have disappeared.

"That thing you said last night," I said, "I thought about it all night and still couldn't figure it out."

Luca didn't answer immediately. He stood there, hands in his coat pockets. Morning light from the window at the end of the hallway fell on his profile, making those dark brown eyes shine slightly.

"If you can't figure it out, keep thinking," he said, his tone carrying something I couldn't identify. "You have time."

I stood in place, wearing the scarf he gave me, holding the breakfast he bought, watching him turn and leave.

You have time.

I looked down at the hot chocolate in the paper bag. Someone had written a letter in black marker on the lid.

L.

I stared at that letter for a few seconds, then unscrewed the lid and took a sip.

The hot chocolate was very hot, the sweetness just right, the milk foam whipped smooth and creamy—exactly the same as the cup he handed me in the study last night.

I screwed the lid back on and walked toward the elevator.

The weather was very nice today. Sunlight made the entire street shine.

I walked toward school. A corner of the scarf around my neck was lifted by the wind, then pressed back down by me.

While waiting for the red light at the corner, I saw my reflection in the glass window of the coffee shop across the street—school uniform, backpack, black cashmere scarf, and eyes that looked a bit brighter than usual.

The light turned green. I crossed the street.

When I reached the school gate, I saw Blair's two followers, Tall-Thin and Short-Fat.

They stood by the flower bed. As soon as they saw me, they were like two startled quails, both taking half a step back simultaneously.

I didn't look at them and walked straight through the school gate.

But the moment I stepped into the academic building, my phone vibrated in my pocket—a text message from an unknown number.

I looked down and opened it.

"Red Rose, the school uniform suits you. But don't forget, no matter how high the bird in the cage flies, the string is still in Raven's hands.—Crow"

Crow, Raven's sharpest blade, second only to me.

I suddenly turned to look outside. Everything looked normal, but only I knew they had already begun to infiltrate.

Maybe in some classroom, or in the hallway, maybe even behind some stranger smiling at me.

I didn't know if this text was a warning or a signal that the hunt had begun.

News of Blair's withdrawal had spread throughout the entire school.

Everyone knew I had broken her nose, and her father, who commanded wind and rain in New York, not only couldn't do anything to me but instead made his own daughter slink away and withdraw from school.

In the hallway, several girls who had been gathered chatting saw me and their voices clearly dropped.

I walked past them and heard hushed whispers behind me.

"That's her..."

"Blair's nose..."

"I heard she has Moretti behind her..."

When I walked into the classroom, the originally noisy room instantly fell silent.

Everyone lowered their heads, pretending to read or chat. No one dared look at me.

I walked to my seat. That desk that had been splashed with red paint and couldn't be cleaned no matter how much we scrubbed was gone, replaced by a brand new desk with a shiny lacquered surface.

The desktop had nothing on it, clean as a mirror.

The class bell rang.

The math teacher walked in—a middle-aged man wearing round-framed glasses. Supposedly he used to teach at MIT, then came to St. Herman for some unknown reason.

He wrote a string of formulas on the blackboard. Chalk dust fell rustling down. He began teaching.

I tried hard to listen for ten minutes and found I still couldn't understand.

But I took notes very carefully—every symbol, every step, every detail I didn't understand in class but that Luca had broken down for me during tutoring, all written stroke by stroke in my notebook.

Halfway through writing, I suddenly stopped.

Because I remembered what Luca said this morning: "You have time."

When he said this, his tone was very light, as light as a leaf falling on water.

But what was hidden beneath this sentence was heavier than any threat or promise I'd ever heard.

Time.

For an assassin, time meant a mission countdown, meant what time the target would pass which intersection, meant how many seconds before poison took effect.

Time was precise, cold, something that could be interrupted by a bullet at any moment.

But the "time" Luca spoke of didn't seem to mean that.

His "time" meant being able to think slowly, learn slowly, gradually understand things I never had the chance to understand before. It also meant being able to solve problems one by one, write word by word, live day by day.

I lowered my head and continued taking notes.

Sunlight from outside the window came in, falling on the back of my hand holding the pen, warm like Luca's palm pressed against the back of my head last night.

When the bell rang, a short-haired girl came up to me carefully carrying a cup of coffee.

It was that girl from the bathroom who had wanted to help me open the door.

"What is it?"

"Um... hello," she put the coffee on my desk, fingers nervously twisting at her clothes. "My name is Margaret. You can call me Maggie. Can I... can I be friends with you?"

She paused and extended a hand toward me.

I looked down at that extended hand. Her hand was small, nails cut short, no nail polish.

This was an ordinary person's hand—one that had never gripped a knife, never pulled a trigger, never been stained with blood.

"Are you sure you want to be friends with me?" I asked.

"Why not?"

"Because yesterday I broke Blair's nose."

Maggie froze for a moment, then smiled.

Her smile was big, showing a row of not-quite-straight teeth, eyes curving into two crescents.

"Isn't that all the more reason to be friends?"

Looking at Maggie's smiling face, I suddenly felt this person was somewhat interesting.

Not because of her courage—I'd seen too much courage at Raven. Courage alone would get you killed.

It was because her eyes held no fear, no calculation, only something pure, naive, something that made one think her naive.

That something was probably called "goodwill"? I wasn't quite sure.

"Okay," I said, reaching out to shake her hand.

"Then from today on, we're friends." Maggie let go of my hand. "Oh, next class is literature, held in the library. I'll take you there. The route is a bit winding."

I followed beside her, through the hallway, down the stairs, past that courtyard shining bright with sunlight.

Maggie talked as she walked—saying the literature teacher especially liked calling on people to read aloud, saying the window seats on the library's third floor were most comfortable, saying the cafeteria's lasagna on Wednesdays was the best.

I listened to these things that were novel to me, occasionally nodding in response.

The scarf around my neck was lifted by the wind, then fell back. It touched my collarbone. The soft texture made me involuntarily think of Luca again.

"That scarf around your neck is so pretty. Where did you buy it?" Maggie's voice interrupted my contemplation.

"I don't know," I said. "Someone gave it to me."

"A gift? Who gave it? A boyfriend?" Maggie's eyes immediately lit up, asking with a gossipy expression.

"Not a boyfriend." I paused. "My uncle."

Maggie made a sound of acknowledgment and didn't ask further.

The library was very quiet. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, dyeing the bookshelves and tables and chairs a pale gold.

The literature teacher did exactly as Maggie said and called on her to read aloud.

She read a passage from The Great Gatsby. Her voice flowed like a stream through the quiet library. When the last syllable fell, the wind outside happened to move the curtains, and sunlight danced once on the pages.

I watched Maggie sit down, her cheeks flushed slightly red from nervousness and excitement. I suddenly felt that distant green light in The Great Gatsby didn't seem so hard to understand—

Like the "time" Luca spoke of, like the warmth of the scarf, like the light in Maggie's eyes at this moment—all things I'd never touched before.

When the bell rang, Maggie immediately grabbed my wrist and ran outside. "Let's go to the cafeteria! It's Wednesday. We absolutely can't miss the lasagna!"

Her palm was a bit sweaty but very warm. I didn't pull away, letting her drag me through the hallway.

The cafeteria was bustling with noise. The aroma of food hit me head-on. Maggie expertly pulled me into line and even got a tray for me.

The lasagna was layer upon layer, cheese melted on the surface, emitting a rich milky aroma.

I picked up a piece with my fork and carefully put it in my mouth. The savory meat sauce and soft pasta melted on my tongue—a taste I'd never experienced before.

Maggie looked at me, eyes bright. "Delicious, right? My recommendations are never wrong!"

I nodded without speaking, just lowered my head to continue eating.

Maggie ate while chattering to me about school gossip: which teacher was strictest, which club was most interesting, which boy was most handsome.

After eating, Maggie pulled me to a bench in the courtyard to sunbathe.

The wind blew gently. A corner of the scarf brushed my cheek. I touched it, remembering how Luca looked standing at the door this morning—dark gray turtleneck and black coat, and the warm paper bag he handed over.

...Why did I keep thinking of Luca? I was somewhat annoyed at myself for thinking of him uncontrollably.

"Lina, come to my house after school! My mom's cookies are especially delicious! We can watch movies together and do homework together!" Maggie's voice interrupted my thoughts.

I hesitated for a moment, then ultimately chose to decline. "Sorry Maggie, I have something to do."

Maggie made a sound of acknowledgment, then said with a smile, "That's okay then. How about we eat breakfast together tomorrow? I know a super delicious sandwich shop!"

I looked at her expectant eyes, was silent for a few seconds, then nodded lightly. "Okay."

Maggie cheered. Sunlight fell on her short hair like scattered gold.

I leaned back on the bench and closed my eyes, feeling the temperature of the wind, the softness of the scarf, and that little bit of something slowly melting at the bottom of my heart.

So "time" really could be this slow, this warm.