The Neutral Zone ended at a crumbling brick wall marked with faded graffiti: a cartoon of a chicken in armor with “GOOD CLUCK” spray-painted beneath it.

  “That’s the line?” Anya asked, half-laughing, half-horrified.

  “Yep,” Becky chirped. “Cross it and you’re officially meat. Or tofu. Or… gamer sashimi.”

  Damian pulled up his hood. “Stick to the path. No detours.”

  “Why do you sound like a cursed NPC every time you talk?” Becky muttered. “Like, chill. We’re going hiking, not storming Mordor.”

  They crossed the line anyway. Because Anya needed supplies. Because staying in one place meant death. Because survival in Battle of Assassins vs. Spies wasn’t about being ready.

  It was about being fast.

  The woods just outside Neutral Zone smelled like ash and sap — beautiful, but wrong. Too quiet. Too still.

  Damian led. Anya followed. Becky bounced at the back like a sugar-powered squirrel with a skillet.

  Then the birds stopped chirping.

  Anya's stomach dropped. “Wait. Do you hear—?”

  A whizz of air.

  Damian turned too fast — too fast — and deflected something with his arm. It clanged off the tree.

  A dagger. Poisoned. Marked with the emblem of a death squad.

  “Oh crap,” Anya whispered.

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  “Assassins,” Damian muttered.

  “I was really hoping you were gonna say butterflies,” Becky said, ducking behind a bush.

  They came out of the trees like shadows — five of them, faces masked, weapons gleaming.

  No health bars. No target indicators. Just real steel and deadly intent.

  “Target: Anya,” one hissed.

  “Can we talk about this?” Anya asked. “Like, coffee? Casual brunch before murder?”

  Nope. Swords first. Talk later.

  The fight broke out fast.

  Damian was a machine — dodging, striking, always three steps ahead. But Anya was watching him too closely.

  How did he know they were coming before I did?

  Why didn’t he get hit?

  Why did it feel like he was stalling just before we left the Neutral Zone?

  An assassin lunged at her.

  Becky screamed, “BANANA SLIP!” and hurled her frying pan.

  It clonked the assassin square on the forehead. He wobbled. Then fell. Unconscious.

  Anya blinked. “You named your attacks?”

  “OF COURSE I DID. I AM A BRAND.”

  Another attacker charged Becky. She ducked, grabbed a rotten log, and yelled, “FOREST FART!” before swinging it into the guy’s gut.

  “Seriously?” Anya gasped.

  “Don’t question my methods!”

  Anya finally found her rhythm. No powers, no shortcuts — just instincts. She dodged, rolled, jabbed with a broken spear she found on the ground. Her arms screamed. Her lungs burned. But she stayed alive.

  One assassin got past Becky’s frying pan defense. He dove for Anya—

  —and then Damian appeared, blade-first, stabbing the guy in the back with ice-cold precision.

  For a second, Anya looked into his eyes.

  No anger. No emotion. Just… silence.

  “Too clean,” she whispered under her breath. “Too perfect.”

  She pulled back from him. Didn’t say thanks. Didn’t say anything.

  And Damian noticed.

  The last of the assassins ran.

  Becky was limping, her pan dented. “We need a new rule,” she groaned. “We don’t follow hoodie-wearing murder goblins outside Neutral Zones anymore.”

  Damian wiped blood off his sleeve. “They knew we’d be here.”

  Anya stared at him, heart pounding. “Yeah. Funny how that keeps happening.”

  “What are you saying?” he asked flatly.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. Yet.”

  That night, they camped near a broken tower with only moonlight and Becky’s snoring for company. Anya sat alone, her thoughts circling like vultures.

  Damian had saved her. Again.

  But what if he only saved her because he didn’t want anyone else to kill her?

  What if she was his mission?

  And what if Becky… had seen it all too?