• It has never really bothered you before, except perhaps when you were a young teenager in the throes of a childish crush… that little stirring you get, right there, just below the bones protecting your chest. It’s an odd fluttering: something terrifying – because you can’t control it – and exhilarating – for precisely the same reason.
    But it’s hardly your fault! You can blame it all on him. It’s his fault you’re so distracted, his fault he dances so well. Those minutes you spent standing at the punch table and staring were hardly wasted, you know. It was actually rather educational… (who knew the samba had so many moves?) Totally worth it.
    It’s really all too easy to blame it on him.
    It’s him and his cordiality. It’s annoying, frankly, that friendly smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s only around a few, select, privileged people that his face really lights up. Maybe something about you just isn’t right. He’s always been polite, but he’s distant. Maybe that’s part of the mystery you like so much.
    But you don’t like it, at the same time. You need him to know you exist. It doesn’t matter how. Annoy him, freak him out, let him know somehow that you’re not just another wallflower decoration against the curtains. Yet… you don’t because you can’t. You can’t even get close.
    It’s kind of hard to look at him directly. He’s so bright; it blinds you, like a child staring at the sun. Yet, every time you try to look away, his presence shines just about everywhere else.
    …Goddamnit, he’s so beautiful. But you can’t think about that – you’ve forsaken it all years ago. Beauty, virtue… none of it matters. It could have been different, but it isn’t.
    You try to content yourself. You’re alone. You say it again and again, as familiar as a prayer. You’re alone, but that’s okay.
    After all, you can get under anyone’s skin. It’s been a passion of yours, a hobby. It’s better than having companions. Partners are weakness, a liability that you can’t afford. Isn’t it better to seep into your prey’s mind, control them from the outside with a web of connections, mental, political… anything? Certainly. You don’t need anything else. You can make anyone squirm. You’re powerful, you know it, and you love it.
    That’s exactly the beauty of being Artemis, the Hunter. It’s the beauty of waking up knowing what you are and where you belong. Your kin’s hierarchy has seen to that. But, rather than being oppressive, it has always been a guideline, a safety, something to turn to when you don’t know or feel insignificant. You might just be a pawn, but you’re needed somewhere in the machine that drives the organization. Every cog is replaceable. But every cog is imperative to the entire scheme.

    But…

    You can’t help it. There’s no contentment to be found for you and your wretched soul. There’s a grace about him that you don’t have, and it consumes you. He moves with the ease of a cat where you slink in shadows. How does he stand so erect where you slouch? Where did he find such poise and elegance?
    It’s maddening. You see him laugh, but it’s at a silly joke from his entourage. He smiles, but it isn’t directed at you. Why? Why?

    Why?

    You think, but you don’t speak. You watch, but you don’t approach; even his name is an enigma. You’ve never even held a conversation with him. You wouldn’t be so tactless.
    Besides, what rights have you to intrude on his world? His beautiful, perfect world doesn’t include you, and will never include you. You would not be so cruel, so selfish as to barge in as if you belong…
    I am alone, you say to yourself. But I have always been alone.

    So, you watch his perfection silently, aching, longing, but silent nonetheless. You’re a planner, but you have no plans.
    Let this one go, Artemis. There is other prey.
    It runs through your head, incessant, a mantra to be repeated. But, is there any other prey that shines like this? Laughs like this? Smiles like this?
    “No,” you convince yourself. It’s a hollow feeling.

    And you try to move on.

    It comes in the form of a dull manila folder with your codename on it: Ace. It’s been a while, and you find yourself looking forward to the assignment. Things have been quiet for far too long, especially with only your musing thoughts for company. And you don’t like where your thoughts have been taking you lately.
    You’re used to the boredom, but you’d rather be entertained, of course. Flipping through the pages detailing someone’s life – a life you’re supposed to end (you’re an assassin, after all) – it’s just that: entertainment.
    But…
    Something’s not right. There’s a pit in your heart, weighing your soul down as the pages turn, their dry sound rustling in your ears. Is your heart beating a little faster? Oh, no, it’s that fluttering again… but it’s not the good, exhilarating sort like before.
    It’s dread.
    You turn the final page, and there it is. What you expected, and what you’re horrified to see presented in your reality. No. This cannot be happening. It’s a joke, a farce – someone found out, and they’re playing some cruel, impractical joke…

    Yet, the facts collaborate. There is no joke. It is him, the one that shined like the sun, too bright and too beautiful. But, now he has a name. Arius. Arius. You repeat it, again and again, but your lamentations have no worth. You cannot defy your adopted family, the kin that accepted you for what you were. No. Not for the sake of the man you only watched laugh, but never approached…
    You want to cry but you can’t. You haven’t cried in nine years, not since you lost your wings. You don’t intend to start – nobody can get under your skin. You’re the Hunter. And you’ve got to remember that.
    So you go, ignoring the apprehension. You go, your conscience screaming but your face set in stone. You’ve always found it funny, actually, how you could be a storm of emotions inside, but never show it on your face. Everyone else is like an open book, but you? Never. Not since the day.

    “Everyone has a hidden heart.
    They betray it with their tongues.”
    Whoever said that was wrong. Why? Because you wouldn’t. You’ve encased your heart in lead and your tongue in silver. You speak easily; it comes with your profession. You skate around with delicate insinuations, those poisonous proceedings as thin as ice. This deception you love. It’s a man-made game, so dangerous, but so perfect. You can play it. You always have, with the laced words tipped with sugar and made with lies. If ever you need to get across an insult, it’s gift-wrapped with a pretty little bow on top – everything’s pretty in this upper class world. But then again, nothing is.
    So you dance. You eat and you converse. There’s an endless amount of verbs you can assign to what you do – flirt, smile, talk, wink, breathe, walk, drink, eat – but if asked, you’d just say one thing: you pretend. Pretend to care, pretend to belong in this gilded world. Though you’re an outsider, everyone thinks you belong. Stranger.
    It’s all part of the deception.
    The dance floor is crowded, but you don’t mind. The press and heat of bodies around you has no effect on the way you move to the music. You’re detached from them, these stupid individuals and their powerful connections.
    Unbeknownst to you, you’re being watched. You’ve attracted the eyes of the sun, the one you’re supposed to be watching back. Arius. Eyes meet across the floor; it’s like a corny romantic novel. Then, titans clash in the center; you move toward him and he moves toward you. A smile. For the first time, it’s directed at you. You smile back. And he asks you to dance.
    It’s a mental game, you think, but you’re not overtly concerned. You dance. And it’s wonderful. He’s close; you can smell him. He moves exactly as you imagined he would close up and personal. Powerful muscles ripple beneath his shirt – and he’s tall. At least you’ve got an excuse to stare.
    Actually, it’s rather funny. You feel like you’re dreaming, but the motions of the music swirl around you... and it’s all too real. What must everyone be thinking? You wonder this, but briefly. The two of you are the greatest juxtaposition, and aloud you laugh. He asks why with a warm little smile, but you shake your head. No, no, it would not do to crack now.
    Your heart, has it always been this loud, this fast? Or is it just loud in comparison to the sudden hush in your brain, which makes your ears feel as if padded with cotton?
    It’s a mental game.
    Shadow and light, black and gold. Your hair is long and unfettered by constraints; it whisks the air with its darkly shimmering length. His, however, is golden and short and… rather fluffy. You’d like to touch it, but something holds you back.
    A shock of reality assaults your system; high-heeled shoes stumble momentarily with the revelation. This is a dream, you realize. You have to escape it before you’re sucked in too far. Now, now, get out, get out…
    …But no, no, just wait until the last song is over – it’s threatening to be a soothing, slow song. Listen… and it is. You want to dance to it. After all, it may be your last. Let the others worry, this is your evening of bliss, and you’re not about to give it up.
    Irony – it’s a love song, a sonata. At the same time, it’s fitting. You love him, and you have for a while. His eyes are confused at your minute distress, but you slow-dance it away.
    Chemistry can’t explain this. Science can’t explain this.
    His eyes are closed now, those bright blue pupils shaded behind pale lids. There’s a sadness to his countenance that makes you pause. You’re afraid to ask, but you do.
    What’s wrong?
    His eyes flutter open, and he looks surprise you’re still there. Bemused, even. Was he so lost in thought that he forgot where he was? A little frown tugs at his lips – how adorable – before he leans in close next to your ear, bending a little to compensate for his height.
    His words bring ice to your heart.
    I know who you are. I know what you came to do. You are not who you say you are.
    And there’s no deception to his words. There are no games, there’s no sickening sweetness. It’s the truth, and you can’t deny it. You are what you are. You know what you are.
    And apparently so does he.

    His tone haunts you. It’s still the melodious voice you remember - you’ve craved - for so long. Yet, the words are frightening, they bite at you. He releases your arm (when did he take it?), but you’re trapped in the web of your own making. You can’t look at him (a dozen swears explode into your head, but none of them make it out of your mouth. Damn him damn him damn him for knowing), and he’s surely not looking at you (look at me look at me look at me damn you!). He apologizes, softly, as if it’s his fault in the first place. And it’s is, you tell yourself. But the guilt weighs you down like a collar around your neck.
    Leaden hearts begins to break.
    There’s no way to tape it back together.
    You can’t. Not again.
    Your silver tongue stumbles.
    There’s no gold underneath.
    A lie.
    Just another deception.

    In the end he banishes you. Leaves you with an ultimatum: Don’t come back. Don’t harm them, these people are good people. End your days as killer. You are wrong.
    I know who you are.
    I know what you are.

    And you run.
    Because what else can you do?
    Even as the empty streets mock you, even as your pounding feet ache and burn against the hard concrete, even as your own breathing erases any other sound…
    You can close your eyes and you can feel it… it’s loneliness.
    Alone.
    But you have always been alone.