Low-key | ✓

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"What did I say about juice boxes?" I shouted, throwing the empty carton inside the black trash bin.

"Damn you, kid." I groaned.

This is the gazillionth time this week that Daniel had drunk Apple juice and left the carton laying somewhere.

I heard footsteps descend from the stairs.

"What's wrong, Sun?" I heard Zach ask as he made his way into the dining area, where I currently am.

I rolled my eyes, "Daniel left his juice boxes lying around again."

Zach chuckled looking up at me, "Well, that's Daniel for you."

It was six o'clock on a Sunday. The boys' interview was yesterday, and since then I haven't conversed with any of them.

Well, all, except Zach. Speaking of which..

"Hey Zach, I heard you took me out on a date?" I laughed as I saw him blush a deep red.

"Oh-" He coughed.

"-that was uh-that was-"

I laughed out loud at his facial expression.

"I'm just teasing you."

He sighed and chuckled nervously as he turned on the coffee maker whilst Mrs Yama came into the room with food on a platter.

I said hello to the woman and made my way to my room.

But not before shouting at Zach.

"Oh, and I'd like to see that Teddy bear you got me!"

"Sun!"

I laughed.

-

I left the boys at home. Since I was not able to do my morning jog everyday, I decided to move it in the afternoon. Right when the sun was about to set.

I had asked the guards of the manor to take care of the boys and they agreed, saying that they won't let the boys out of their sights.

The guards at the manor were the absolute best of the best. They were retired agents. All agents retire at the age of 35. So, the oldest out of all of them, George, was 42 years old. They were all healthy and skilled enough to take care of five american lads.

I smiled as I reached the beach around two blocks away from the manor. Everything seemed and felt so normal whenever I went here.

I picked up my pace and listened to the playlist I put on shuffle. 8 letters was one of the songs that played.

If all it is is eight letters, Why is it so hard to say?

I've got to admit, I was sort of annoyed that Jack had revealed to the boys that I had helped him write 8 Letters, since, well, I don't appear as a person who knows any shit about love.

But as a matter of fact, honest to goodness, I do.

I've experienced love before- I've been in love before.

Before my parents and brother died, we were happy. So fucking happy. The love was basically in the air. My parents had a perfect relationship, and so did my brother and I.

Even if I was only young, I remember the bonfires we shared during summer, the halloweens the me and my brother spent, the Christmas parties that we held in the manor, and the everyday laughter that we all had.

I felt love.

I was in love with the happiness my family had.
Those days were amazing.

But today, I spend all those occasions alone.

Fuck, I don't even celebrate at all.

Love is something that can last forever. But one mistake can make it last for only a mere second.

I closed my eyes and thought about how much has changed since then, and then now.

Before I was assigned to these boys, I was ruthless. A cold-hearted murderer. I killed criminals in front of their children. I stabbed people to death without a care in the world. Why? Did the world care when I was in immense pain? No.

But all that changed.

I met the boys.

Jonah Roth Marais Frantzich, the responsible, mature one who I almost kissed. The one who gave me a Polaroid camera and an album just so I would not forget about them when I finish this mission. The brown haired boy who I brought during my early morning escapades. Just thinking about the motorcycle ride I took him on, brought a smile to my face.

Daniel James Seavey, the sensitive, cute one with the tooth gap, who has been nothing but good to me since I've been around. With the exception of his weird stares, I mean. I remember the long sleeves he gave me. To show him I appreciated them, I used them all at night.

Jack Robert Avery, the noodle head who told the press about the song we wrote together. I've got to admit, I hate being in the limelight and what he did should've pissed me off, but it didn't. Instead of killing him off like I usually do when people expose me, I just opted to not talking to him.

Zachary Dean Herron, the seventeen year old, self proclaimed daddy of mine. Oh how weird that blushing boy is. I remembered his face earlier when I was teasing him about his date comments during the interview last night. I'd like to go eat Chipotle again.

And last but not the least, Corbyn Besson. The blonde guy who spilled coffee on my white outfit the first day we met. The brown eyed boy who was tricked by his 26 year old- now dead ex girlfriend that was part of the mafia. The one who managed to convince Cyrus to give me a red new motorcycle. How he did that? I do not know.

While running, I glanced at the charm bracelet latched on my wrist.

I never got a second charm.

These boys changed me. For the better? For the worse? I don't know. But thinking about what will happen after this mission ends makes my heart feel pain.

After missions, us agents are forced to cut all ties and forget about our clients.

I especially, don't know how I will be able to forget about the three boys who make my breath hitch and my stomach churn as if I had too much Chipotle. I could never forget the laughter that they gave me 12 years after I lost my family.

After all these years, they made me feel.

I no longer was the cold hearted bitch that the other agents at ATC feared. I was the child I once was. I cared. After all these years, I finally gave a fuck.

As I turned to another corner, I felt my breath hitch.

Someone is following me.

That someone turned into, people.

People were following me.

I felt a presence three paces behind me.

I ran faster. I felt them do the same.

I reached inside my bra, my pockets, waistband, shoes- none.

All weapons were gone.

Fuck, I left them inside the room.

Hand in hand then.

I stopped running, cracking my knuckles.

But before I managed to turn around, a piece of cloth covered my mouth and nose.

I struggled to keep myself from breathing.

I kicked the person behind me and earned a grunt from him.

Before I could move again, my hands were held behind my back.

I screamed into the cloth when he stunned my wrists. The electric shock was too much.

I felt my wrists start to bruise.

I tried to wiggle free, but when I did I was shocked again.

Hands shoved me down and for the first time in years, I felt weak.

Everything I worked for, gone.

I finally gave in.

I breathed.