Waymen Sardo—this was the full name of the assassin who’d pulled Rhode back from the brink of death.

Normally, assassins rarely reveal their full names; codenames are the norm.

But Waymen didn’t exactly fit the mold of a “proper” assassin.

After Rhode’s relentless pestering, he finally gave in and shared his name.

Rhode was impossible to shake off… though Waymen didn’t actually dislike the lively kid.

Still, he hoped the boy would keep his distance. Don’t be fooled—Waymen was an assassin, after all.

“I grab these baozi here every couple of days. Pretty tasty,” Waymen said, settling back at the snack stall and ordering an extra portion.

Tiny as large dates, the baozi had paper-thin wrappers that burst with juicy filling at the first bite.

Waymen once thought they might be the best he’d ever tasted.

“Thanks for the meal,” Rhode said, sitting beside him.

Truth was, as a Clinton local, Rhode had eaten them before—but basic manners meant not saying so.

“Seriously, don’t get curious about those people,” Waymen advised after a bite, lowering his voice slightly. With the stall owner nearby, he kept it vague.

“They’re not what you imagine.”

Rhode chewed quietly, listening. Only when Waymen fell silent did he set his food down.

“Then what *are* they like?”

“Bad people,” Waymen replied flatly.

“Just… bad people?” Rhode pressed. “But you saved me.”

“Bad people. Because they all…” Waymen sliced a finger across his throat. “Assassins kill—good or bad targets, it doesn’t matter. No authority, no justice.”

“Maybe for money. Maybe to vent desires. Maybe just following orders like a tool.”

But none of that changed the core truth: assassins take lives.

Oddly, though he was one himself, every word Waymen spoke dripped with disdain for the trade.

“And you? Why do *you* do it?” Rhode asked, innocent.

Waymen glanced around almost imperceptibly, confirming no one was listening.

*Ugh. Discussing this in public? I’ve lost my mind.*

“Kid, I do it for the money,” he said bluntly. No shame. His line of work held zero legitimacy compared to city guards.

Suddenly, Waymen’s eyes flicked to Rhode.

“What?” Rhode stiffened under the unexpected stare. Even the baozi tasted bland now.

“Wanna see how we *really* work?” Waymen stroked his chin.

He had a plan to shatter Rhode’s rose-tinted view of assassins. Yeah, the kid’s worldview might crack—but better that than stepping into the abyss.

Waymen had steered others toward this path before, but only those with the *right reasons*—not talent, not whim.

He refused to let a ten-year-old tumble into the dark out of naive fascination.

Only those who lived in shadow knew its cold cruelty.

Rhode? He belonged elsewhere. Even a novelist’s life beat this.

“You really wanna know what we are?”

“Mm.” Rhode nodded, studying Waymen with quiet confusion.

“Tonight… Hmm.”

“Right here,” Waymen slapped his forehead. “Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”

*Sneaking out that late? Tough for a noble kid.*

But if Rhode didn’t show? Even better. Proof the fascination was shallow. Maybe he’d grow up to be an adventurer, a bard—something bright.

Waymen would leave Clinton soon. This was his last nudge.

“I’ll be here at nine,” Rhode said, childish face set with solemn resolve.

“Whoa, whoa—don’t look so serious!” Waymen waved him off.

“You two still eating?” the stall owner grumbled, glaring at the half-nibbled baozi. *First their weird talk, now planning to meet here tonight? I don’t even open after dark!*

“Of course we are!” Waymen jolted upright. *He definitely thinks I’m shady.*

(Well… he wasn’t wrong.)

“Hurry up,” he nudged Rhode. “Or he’ll kick us out.”

The owner’s eyes widened. *I never said that!* He felt utterly slandered.