A Melancholic Gaze 

Translator:关空调

*This story happened in the Happy ending If timeline

You never thought a day like this would come – that all of it would actually end. Getting blood all over your hands for some illusory goal, then eventually, death. That was the life you had envisioned for yourself. A slightly chilly breeze blew in; you drew the curtains, shutting out the early spring scenery outside. Yet this place knew only endless summer; after a brief cool spell,the heat would creep back in. How could one even call it spring?

You put on a light jacket, tied your shoelaces, and prepared to head out. The room wasn’t large, but weapons and equipment were neatly displayed inside. You closed the trapdoor, stared for a moment at the locked armory and the hidden lock only you could see, and finally left. Instead of driving, you ambled along the sidewalk toward the docks, only hopping on a bus in the residential area when time started running short, before walking the rest of the way to the warehouse district under your management. Tall freight trucks pulled out from the zone one after another. You stood by the roadside for a long while before finding a gap to cross; the wind was strong now, messing up your bangs with a blink of an eye.

You were in charge of a warehouse that privately received contrabands for the organization- “were” being the key word. From now on, it’d just be an ordinary warehouse, nothing more. After listlessly leading the morning meeting, you headed out back for a smoke. A gray-bearded old man opened the back door, shut it, and walked toward you. His hands were shoved into the pockets of a dark gray bomber jacket—a jacket just as dingy as the one you wore.

“Stoat.”

He lit a cigarette.

“Still planning to stay around?”

Alejandro was both an administrator working under you and a low-level informant for the organization- “was.” He took a drag, exhaled a cloud of foul smoke, and looked at you with his green eyes.

“I don’t know.”

You looked back at him with indifference. At this moment, what was the old man hoping to find in your numb eyes anyway?

“Carola went missing last night. Can we even talk about this now? Is it still a secret?”

You weren’t entirely sure. Even if everything was in the past, revealing a former teammate’s whereabouts to someone who was no longer your colleague wasn’t a wise decision. The chillymorning breeze swept in from the coast, blowing your bangs aside and exposing the black eyepatch underneath. A permanent scar left by intense hatred in the past, now reduced to a meaningless mark.

“I’m only here to keep myself occupied. What about you, Alejandro? You look like you’re at your limit. Are you going to keep toughing it out here?”

“I’m moving back to the countryside. Live up in the mountains, do some fishing, read a bit, or maybe lease a farm to grow crops. I’ve already put in my resignation with Gabriel. But Stoat, you were just promoted to warehouse manager last month. Even though this isn’t a secret stash house anymore, if you don’t want to make money the old way, staying here is a pretty great choice.”

“I like the old way.”

You smirked disdainfully, and Alejandro’s attitude shifted immediately.“Just thinking out loud – I’m sure you’ve got some good ideas.” With that, he stubbed out his cigarette and went back inside the warehouse to work. You were speaking the truth; to you,swapping your employer for humans and staying a hitman seemed fine enough.

A few days later, you and some local co-workers you knew well shared drinks with Alejandro at night to see him off. The old man was ushered off to the train station as the long night drew to a close. After this, you would become strangers, disappearing from each other’s lives without a trace. Once the others left, you leaned against the railing, finished off the last bottle of beer, and stared blankly toward the train station. Your body is different from a human’s, the alcohol was quickly metabolized, so before long you were sober again – forced to face the agony known as safety with a clear mind. You had money and time, just no desire for life. On that front, you were worse off than that old bastard. You smashed the beer bottle, grabbed the railing in frustration, and ran your hand from your head down to your beating chest, wanting to confirm whether this suffering was truly endured while fully conscious. But unfortunately, you were indeed an existence that had forgotten what it ever wanted. Right now, the only drive keeping you alive was finding something to do.

“Hey.”

You sat on the edge of a bed in a cheap motel Owen could afford. It was four in the afternoon; slanted sunlight streamed through the half-drawn curtains. You didn’t pull them shut because you were obsessed with confirming whether this safety was real by keeping yourself exposed. Your braid was undone, long hair falling over your back, leaving you wearing only a pair of pants. He opened the door, greeted you, and sat down beside you. You two already had a round, then you got a bit thirsty, so he had voluntarily stepped out to buy drinks. But the plastic bottle was too flimsy; simply unscrewing the cap sent spilled liquid flooding down your crotch, leaving yourhands soaked in cold fluid.

“You wet your pants!”

You rolled your eyes and ignored him. Looking a bit bashful, he turned around and produced a rose from behind his back, one you had noticed long before.

“I wanted to give you this. Thanks for coming today.” He looked at you, his gaze shifting nervously for a second.

The deep red rose was clearly bought on the fly from a street vendor; there were no flower shops around here. He wasn’t someone skilled at setting a mood or pulling off surprises, but you didn’t mind his occasional gestures of gratitude or attempts at romance. When you took the flower, he blushed, looking delighted, his reddish-pink eyes brimmed with genuine laughter. If accepting a simple flower could make him this happy, why not? Then you took out a cigarette and lit one for him in return. The boy sitting beside you, with shoulder-length black hair and side-swept bangs, was a driver who delivered goods around town in a small haul truck. A few years ago, when he drove to the warehouse you managed to pick up a load, he initiated a conversation because your bangs looked somewhat similar. “Didn’t think anyone still wore their hair like this. Can I get to know you? I’m Owen.” He didn’t belong to the underworld, nor did he haul contrabands; it was precisely because he knew nothing about you that he dared to show friendliness in such a simple, innocent way. After hanging out together, wandering around, and sharing a few dinners, you two started meeting up occasionally in cheap motels for hookups to satisfy physical needs. Then, back to business as usual, each living your own lives. He had once tried asking local gangs about your identity, but after you caught him and threatened him face-to-face, he never pressed the matter again.

“You don’t look too happy.”

You lay back on the bed. He had already taken off his jacket and reached down to unbutton your pants, getting ready to go another round with you.

“Don’t I?”

“No, you don’t.” Those reddish-pink eyes stared down at you.

“It’s nothing to do with you anyway.”

“Not caused by me? Great then.”

He leaned down, placing his face close to yours and sniffing softly, as if trying to confirm the source of your unease. You pressed a hand to his head, holding his forehead against yours for a moment before letting go. “Just keep going,” you said. Contrary to what he thought, it wasn’t a dangerous environment making you look preoccupied – it was an environment so secure that it stripped away your very purpose for living. After two rounds, you sat on the bed, playing with the rose in silence. Night had fallen; an old bedside lamp dimly illuminated the room.

“Want to try living with me?”

“What do you mean?”

He pushed himself up from the bed, staring at you in shock. Looking into his eyes, you could see that behind the surprise lay anticipation. He hoped he hadn’t misheard. You wished you could gaze into his eyes the same way he gazed into yours, but you only had one eye.

“I mean, we’ve slept together so many times already. Want to try dating and living together or something?”

“Huh? Really?” Owen couldn’t hide the emotion on his face. “Yeah, sure!”

“Aren’t you curious why?” You began to wonder if what you said had even registered in his brain. “Aren’t you afraid that staying with me could be dangerous?”

“Because I feel like you wouldn’t commit to a stable relationship until you felt completely safe. I mean, we’ve been sleeping together for years and I’ve never seen you see anyone else. Just a guess, if I offended you, I surrender!” There was an undeniable instinct for survival in his eyes; he was genuinely afraid that if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut, you’d slice him down on the spot. He didn’t know the fact that you were a hitman, but he was dead sure you had the capability.

“It’s fine, it’s safe now.” Your tone was calm, almost soft. “It’s fine, it’s safe now. I want to try a life I’ve never experienced before. I have enough money, and I have the power to protect you. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“So I don’t have to drive trucks anymore?” An excited flush returned to Owen’s face, making his freckles look especially endearing. Fumbling for words and eager to please, he began cleaning you off attentively. You lifted your legs, letting him wipe away the mess on your lower half like usual. Yet, as you laid bare your thoughts to him, exposing both body and soul stirred a rush of heat through you, so intense that shame seemed to pierce you straight from your stomach up to your beating heart.

“As for that, I haven’t decided yet. Things are moving too fast; I need some time to think. It won’ttake long.”

“Then tell me as soon as you figure it out! By the way… should I be calling you my… boyfriend now?”

“Yeah. I’m your boyfriend.”

“Can I tell others?”

You took a breath.

“You can.”

You told him a few things about your past, but kept quiet about your criminal career. That was enough. After all, if he could accept your far-from-clean background and shady money, not knowing the specifics wouldn’t hurt. Then, drip by drop, the tears fell. You cried in front of him.

(To be continue)