Circumstances

If you had asked them what hollowness felt like at the very beginning of their life—they would not know how to describe it. It was the first thing they felt before they realized it was a feeling. Cold static was a comfort. To be able to listen to orders—to fulfill a purpose.

Then, they were put to the test.

They remember, so clearly, the beautiful breeder that laid in the grass for reasons they did not know.

Attraction was the first feeling that had ever obtained. Instantly they knew they were a failure.

"Who are you?" Her voice, calm as a river—sent their heart aflutter.

"Shul." They whisper as if scared that she'd run away, "Shulmanu Munzar"

From there they learned what it was like to feel until they left the village with an aching heart of grief.

 

The empty feeling returned, fleeing as horror took place. Pain throbbed heavily on their shoulder but that didn't matter. What mattered was the blood that stained their synthetic skin—the blood of their chief, their lover. He lays before them, bleeding heavily.

Blood. So much blood.

What was even worse was the numbness that overtook them—the familiar horrific feeling that brought them only disgust and self-hatred.

Oh, Ashmadu, their beloved chief. He was quick to forgive.

But they did not.

That night, they fled—eager to find a way to ensure they never switch back to that cold, empty state of their beginning.

---

She could not understand how one was so content with nothingness. Visha could see that she has slain people who were good at heart, terrible people, and many in between. Perhaps what made her different than others was her will to survive.

She knew that she was a terrible person. From the start when she killed a member of her own village with her two hands and a dagger. The glazed eyes of shock scarred her. It sank into her skin and strangled her in her sleep.

Her mentor told her to get used to it.

"You will kill many more in your lifetime, Visha. This is only the start."

Through many trials that consisted of sparring and ingesting various poisonous plants and animals, she prevailed.

Each witness of her victim's kindness only brought her despair, guilt hanging heavy in her heart. Her mentor told her it would get easier over time.

It was a lie.

And she couldn't understand, how they could continue to do this. How could they not feel guilt? 

So what else can she do but bury those feelings deep into her scarred, twisted heart? To bury them and reluctantly wrap her arms around uncomfortable numbness.

She knew she can only spiral downward from here when she set her eyes on her next victim and felt herself drowning in a fluttery, dangerous warmth:

Love.

---

When he left the village, he left his name behind. Only when he came back as it used again. All he had encountered only knew him as Visha, a name he stole from his predecessor. He was in the big leagues now, the first among his generation to ever reach so high in rank. Sure, his now peers tended to look down at him but he will prove them wrong at all costs.

What made the previous Visha turn traitor was her undeniably soft heart. She gave in to her urges for love and affection and fled. All who were known as poisonous weapons knew from day one: intimacy from then on was a burden. All who lived here knew that intimacy beyond their peers would only bring ruin to their name.

To fail is to die.

That he knew well. So many times had he's grown soft for friends as a child, only to have them killed during training. They were weak, soft-hearted, and naive. They wouldn't have lasted long and thus, the village had no use for them.

He learned early on, that attachments only bring pain and misery in this line of work. Still, building relationships are crucial sometimes if one were to travel around as a wandering hitman. Of course, if one of his friends became a target from his village or even a client--he takes them down with no mercy. The betrayal on their face does nothing to him.

Business associates, friends, allies, all of them he will kill eventually. So it is best to keep them closer as enemies, than friends.

It can be frustrating trying to find a hook-up partner who wouldn't succumb to his toxins, but at least he could get a good fuck if he liked his target.

What a shame they had to die, but how could he deny the money? How could he deny his purpose?

Besides, how could anyone enjoy having attachments? How could anyone enjoy being in love? It sounded like a painful thing to experience. One that could kill a person inside out if it was bad enough.

It was a miracle his predecessor survived but he can't help but admire her. She was the best in their field, skilled and beautiful. He could never reach her kill count but her skill and work were something to admire.

Despite the hollowness of his heart, she is his fire--his strive to do better as an assassin.

He will surpass her, he is sure.

He will not fall in love.

He will not get attached.

No matter the cost.

It's not that he and his colleagues were monsters. No, not at all. But in this line of work, distance is crucial for survival.

He did not want to become Icarus, who flew too close to the sun.

Since day one, he welcomed the numbing emptiness with open arms—clasped around it and made it his.

Even if loneliness clung to him like a plague.