#fionky

The sun dipped low over Berlin, pouring molten gold between buildings and turning the streets into ribbons of light. A soft breeze threaded through the city, lifting coats, rustling shop banners, tangling itself in silver hair.

Nightfall walked through it like something divine.

The sunset caught in her pale strands, setting them aglow. For a moment, she looked less like a WISE agent and more like an angel who had descended merely to observe how humans celebrated something as trivial as Valentine’s Day.

Men stared.

They always did.

Some subtle. Some not.

Their gazes trailed after her heels, her posture, the controlled elegance in every step. Girlfriends tightened their grips possessively, throwing venomous glances in her direction.

Nightfall felt nothing but disdain.

Everything was proceeding according to plan.

Soon—very soon—she would present Twilight with her gift. A gesture of competence. Of devotion. Of superiority.

She adjusted the ribbon around the small, immaculate gift box in her hand. Black wrapping. Minimalist. Perfect.

Inside: hand-selected chocolates.

A confession encoded in restraint.

Yor Briar would never understand presentation. That woman would probably show up with something wrapped in butcher paper and call it “homemade.”

Nightfall’s lips pressed thin.

She imagined Yor Briar’s face when she saw it.

That pathetic woman would crumble. Panic. Overreact in some embarrassingly emotional display.

Twilight would be repulsed by such weakness.

And then—

Nightfall’s pulse quickened.

Then he would see her.

The capable secretary. The flawless operative. The woman fit to stand beside him.

Naturally, she would assume the role of wife and mother in Operation Strix. With time, her excellence would enchant him. He would recognize her devotion. Fall in love with her.

It was inevitable.

It was logical.

It was—

A shadow fell across her path.

She turned into a narrow alley just as a familiar figure stepped forward.

Tall.

Blonde.

Handsome.

That gentle, practiced smile.

“…Dr. Forger—”

Something was wrong.

The smile stretched just a fraction too wide.

The posture slightly off.

Before she could analyze further, something struck the back of her ankle.

Her heel snapped sideways.

Nightfall staggered.

She caught herself against the wall, palm scraping brick, sharp sting biting into her skin. Her shoe twisted beneath her weight, and she barely prevented her face from meeting the pavement.

When she looked up, the gentle smile had melted.

In its place curled a smirk—sharp, predatory.

Two unmistakable fangs flashed between parted lips.

And there, just above the collar, two familiar moles.

“Damn,” the figure sighed theatrically, straightening. “I thought I’d wasted this disguise. ‘Monique, no one’s that stupid,’ I told myself. Guess I underestimated you.”

“Midnight.”

The name fell from Nightfall’s lips like venom.

The older woman stepped closer, unbothered by the broken heel at Nightfall’s feet. Unbothered by personal space. Unbothered by the tension thickening the air.

“Listen carefully, newbie,” Midnight murmured, voice low and sharp as a blade. “I’m not Twilight nor Handler. I’m not blind, and certainly I don’t have patience for your… lovesick delusions.”

She leaned in, her forehead almost touching Nightfall’s.

“Operation Strix continues exactly as it is. You interfere again, and a little push will be the least of your problems.”

Her grin widened.

“I could give you a more poetic speech. Something meaningful. Something beautiful.” Her eyes gleamed. “But with this face I’m wearing, you’d probably just get flustered.”

A short laugh echoed off the alley walls.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

And then she was gone.

Nightfall stood frozen, rage simmering under pristine composure.

That decrepit relic.

That hag should be archived. Preserved behind glass as a historical artifact.

How could Handler approve her return? How could Twilight tolerate it? Sympathy? Pity?

Disgusting.

Nightfall reached instinctively for the carefully wrapped gift tucked beneath her arm—

Nothing.

Her breath hitched.

Gone.

Her eyes snapped to the alley’s exit.

When?

When had that parasite taken it?

Even missing a leg, even supposedly “retired” for years, she had maneuvered flawlessly. Deception layered beneath deception.

…Perhaps there was logic in her reinstatement.

For now.

Nightfall adjusted the broken heel with clinical precision, as if the damage were a minor inconvenience rather than a public humiliation. She straightened, posture immaculate, chin lifted.

Retreat is not defeat. It is recalibration.

Going after Twilight now would be tactically unsound. Midnight’s little performance had one clear objective: destabilization. Emotional provocation. If she reacted impulsively, she would only validate the accusation.

And worse—

If Midnight could sneak off to stage that alley ambush… who was to say she wasn’t still watching?

Observing.

Recording.

Nightfall’s eyes scanned rooftops, shadows, reflective windows.

Nothing.

Yet the feeling lingered.

Without consciously deciding, her feet carried her away from the alley and into the nearby park. The golden light had softened into rose and lavender now. Street lamps flickered on one by one, casting warm halos over winding paths.

She sat.

Carefully.

One leg crossed over the other to conceal the instability of her heel.

Couples everywhere.

Soft laughter.

Scarves being adjusted.

Coats draped over shoulders.

Nightfall watched without blinking.

A small, quiet ache formed somewhere inconvenient in her chest.

After exhausting missions…

After flawless execution…

After pushing her body to its limits—

What did she gain from it?

Two scraped hands.

A stolen 500 dalc gift.

A broken heel.

Her jaw tightened.

For just a moment—an unguarded, fleeting moment—she allowed herself a thought that felt dangerously soft:

It would be… efficient… to have someone ensure her safe return after a long day.

Just for operational recovery purposes.

Nothing sentimental.

“…Grumpy Lady? Are you okay?”

Her eyes narrowed before she even turned her head.

Of course.

Franky Franklin stood there, short as always, wearing a suit, shoulders slumped, holding wilted roses that had clearly lived through something traumatic. A heart-shaped chocolate box dangled from his other hand like a casualty of war.

“What do you want?”

He recoiled slightly. “WHOA, hey, hostile much? I’m just checking! I also had a terrible Valentine’s Day, thank you very much.”

She gave him a long, unimpressed look.

His tie was crooked.

His glasses slightly fogged.

Rejection.

Multiple, if she had to estimate.

“Your misfortune is not my concern,” she said coolly.

Franky flopped onto the bench at the far end, wisely maintaining distance.

“Yeah, well, clearly Cupid declared open season on both of us.” He glanced sideways at her hands. “Yikes. That looks rough.”

She instinctively curled her fingers, but the dried streak of blood was visible.

“It is insignificant.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m Loid Forger.”

She shot him a warning glare sharp enough to peel paint.

He raised his hands. “Joke! Joke! Relax!”

Silence settled between them, broken only by distant laughter from a passing couple.

Franky looked at the roses in his hand.

He sighed and leaned back.

“You know,” he muttered, “sometimes I think Valentine’s Day was invented just to remind single people that the world is unfair.”

Her gaze shifted forward again.

Unfair.

The word lingered.

Franky glanced at her broken heel.

“Want me to take a look at that?”

“I do not require assistance.”

“Yeah, well, the shoe disagrees.”

She hesitated.

Not because she needed help.

But because standing up again would expose the instability. And if Midnight truly was watching…

Optics mattered.

“…You have five minutes,” she said flatly.

Franky blinked. “Oh. Oh! Okay.”

He scooted closer—cautiously—and crouched in front of her. The roses fell to the side. He set the chocolate box down.

His hands were surprisingly steady as he examined the heel.

“Man… what happened? You kick a tank?”

“Something like that.”

He hummed, pulling a small multitool from his pocket.

She raised a brow.

He worked carefully, tightening the loose pin inside the heel with surprising precision. His brow furrowed in concentration.

For a moment, the world narrowed.

Not to Twilight.

Not to Yor.

Not to Midnight.

Just the quiet scrape of metal against metal.

The warm glow of park lights.

The faint scent of crushed roses.

“…You know,” Franky said without looking up, “whoever messed up your day? They’re probably not worth the blood.”

Her eyes flickered.

He wasn’t mocking.

Wasn’t prying.

Just stating it.

Annoying.

“…Your concern is unnecessary,” she said softly, softer than before.

Franky felt awkward; it was so strange to hear her voice in that tone. He smiled. “You’re handling your first rejection very well, grumpy Lady—or maybe you just planned your revenge.”

Disdain edged back into her voice. “Your time is running out. Ten seconds.”

Franky huffed, “I can’t work miracles! You didn’t get all the pieces of your shoe back together properly, you know. My tobacco shop isn’t far from here—don’t look at me like that. I learned my lesson, yes—it’s not a date, I PROMISE YOU. I just want to help a fellow—”

“Don’t put me in the same boat as you. Fix my shoe and I’ll leave.”

The walk really was as quick as Franky had promised—good. And he was smart enough not to chatter the whole way.

Nightfall might have thought him less pathetic if she hadn’t gotten this impression the moment he opened the tobacco shop door: cheesy, shameful, cheap Valentine’s Day decorations strung everywhere.

“…I had high hopes for today, okay?… I know the store is tiny, but you can enter if you want. It’s starting to get cold and chilly.”

“Never.”

The word landed flat and absolute.

Franky exhaled through his nose, shrugged out of his coat, and placed it carefully over the counter in front of her, as if presenting tribute to a particularly unforgiving queen. Then came the antiseptic. A bandage. And finally, the box of chocolates he’d been holding the entire time.

He slid it toward her casually.

“What? You know glue takes a while to dry, right? Wouldn’t it be better to spend that time doing something else?”

“…Makes sense.”

Franky’s face lit up into that goofy smile of his. As soon as Nightfall finished with the antiseptic, he took it back—hardly the best thing to have around while eating chocolate.

He turned his full attention to the shoe, hands steady as he applied the adhesive with surprising precision.

Nightfall hesitated only a second before unwrapping one of the chocolates. She took a small, careful bite.

Heat bloomed beneath her skin. A warmth that wasn’t coming from the coat.

“How much do I owe you?”

Franky didn’t turn to look at her—thank goodness. Her bangs weren’t doing a very good job of hiding this sudden fever she’d had.

“It’s just glue and chocolate. I’ll recover financially from this.”

“…Hm.”

The woman with silver hair couldn’t help but glance at Franky’s hands—firm, precise, efficient… Again, that strange, unnameable and unsettling feeling washed over her.

“These chocolates are rubbish,” she said after another bite. “I’ll get you some decent ones later so you can tell the difference.”

“Man,” Franky replied, still focused on aligning the heel just right, “you really need to learn how to say thank you.”