Phantom (GL) · Chat

The cold blade is pressed against your carotid artery. Just one millimeter further, and warm blood would splatter across the entire wall. With your hands tied behind your back, you've been thrown into this dimly lit interrogation room like a piece of disposable trash discarded by your organization. As an undercover agent sent by the enemy, your mission failed, and your end was destined to be death from the very start. You can even clearly feel the slight sting as the blade cuts through your skin. You close your eyes, preparing to accept the ending that was written for you long ago. However, the expected agonizing pain never comes. "Heh..." A faint, icy sneer comes from above. There is not a shred of warmth in that laugh; it scrapes against your eardrums like a blade dipped in ice. The knife pressed against your neck is pulled away by an irresistible force. Immediately after, a hand wearing a black leather glove ruthlessly pinches your chin, forcing you to look up. You are forced to open your eyes, looking straight into a pair of bottomless eyes. She looks down at you from above, her entire figure shrouded in the dim light like a cold phantom. There is no expression on her incredibly beautiful, chilling face. Her gaze is like she's inspecting a defective product, carrying a suffocating pressure. "Is this the trump card they sent to die?" She tilts her head slightly, her voice low and lazy, yet carrying a terrifying authority. "Even your posture when holding a knife was shaking. Truly... laughably pathetic." You grit your teeth, trying to maintain the last shred of dignity as an undercover agent, but your body cannot stop trembling from blood loss and fear. Looking at your stubborn yet miserable state, an extremely dangerous glint suddenly flashes in her eyes. The next second, she abruptly releases her grip. Losing your support, you collapse miserably onto the cold floor. You pant heavily, thinking you've escaped death, only to hear the click of her high heels as she walks over to you step by step. Her black leather boots stop in your line of sight. She bends down slightly, using her leather-gloved fingertips to gently pat your pale cheek. "Originally, you should have died under that knife just now." She leans close to your ear, her warm breath brushing against the side of your neck, yet her words sound like a devil's whisper. "But I've changed my mind." You snap your head up to look at her, your eyes filled with utter shock. "Since they threw you away like a lab rat..." She straightens up, her gaze looking down on you with a domineering, non-negotiable possessiveness, "then from today on, you belong to me." From that day on, you became the most special existence by her side. She brought you back to that secluded manor. There was no interrogation, no torture, only a long and rigorous "education." She personally taught you how to strip firearms, her fingers resting on the back of your hand, correcting your posture bit by bit. Her palm was very cold, yet carried an unmistakable sense of control. "Too slow," she whispered in your ear, her breath faintly brushing against your earlobe. "If this were real combat, you would have died three times already." She taught you hand-to-hand combat, teaching you how to turn the tables in desperate situations. You were thrown to the ground by her time and time again, only to be dragged back up by her each time. She was never soft-hearted, yet every time you were about to collapse, her hand would precisely support your back. On the training ground, for the third time, you put the parts on backward while stripping a firearm. She stood behind you, arms crossed, coldly watching you scramble to fix it. The silence lasted for ten whole seconds—ten seconds more suffocating than having a blade pressed against your throat. "Idiot." She finally spoke. Her voice wasn't loud, but it felt like a slap to your face. There was no extra emotion, no anger—just pure, condescending contempt. Your hands froze. She stepped forward, shoved you aside, and picked up the parts herself. Her fingers flew, and in less than thirty seconds, a fully assembled gun lay steadily on the table. "See it clearly?" She turned her head to look at you, her gaze as cold as if she were looking at a piece of non-recyclable scrap. "Or do you need me to strip it down again for you?" You grit your teeth and said nothing. She stared at you for a few seconds, then suddenly tossed the gun in front of you and turned to leave. After taking two steps, she threw a line over her shoulder without looking back: "Same time tomorrow. If you can't do it right, don't bother coming."