Irish gritted his teeth and looked over, seeing a woman in black wearing an off-the-shoulder gown.
Under his murderous glare, the young woman put away the syringe in her hand, raised a hand to straighten the headpiece tousled by the night wind, and walked toward him at an unhurried pace.
With Irish's sharp senses, he normally would not have let anyone get this close so easily.
But lately, he had been struck by falling people again and again. Every life-threatening danger had come from above. Even purely out of instinct for survival, whenever he stood beside a building, Irish's attention inevitably drifted toward the sky, causing him to overlook his surroundings.
Moreover, although the woman in black before him was dressed fashionably, her looks and bearing carried a traditional gentleness. Her exposed body lines were exceedingly soft, without any trace of trained muscle. She looked as though she could be easily pinned down with one hand... When such a frail woman approached through a crowd, it was hard for someone like Irish, who could spot an assassin's traits at a glance, to feel much danger.
Because she did not look like an assassin at all.
...Yet what she had just done was precisely what an assassin would do. Even her motion of injecting him and then retreating was far cleaner than that of some actual assassins in the organization.
By the time Irish realized something was wrong, he had already been tragically hit.
And something even worse had already happened—the woman in black walked over to him with businesslike efficiency and reached out to support him.
Her movements looked incredibly gentle, like a kind younger relative helping an elderly person walk slowly. But only Irish, whose consciousness was beginning to blur, knew how terrifyingly strong those slender hands were. This