Ivy's POV

Ever since I could remember, I've always loved blood. Everything about it—the scent, the color, the texture. Weird thing for a kid to like, right? At first, my parents didn't care. If anything, they even supported my "hobby" of killing chickens. I loved watching gory movies with tons of bloody scenes.

Sometimes, I'd cut myself just to watch the blood drip out—that's how bad it was. Eventually, my parents got worried and tried everything to rid me of my obsession. Therapy, religion, you name it. None of it worked.

When that failed, they tried to help me find a new hobby: music, art, toys—anything a kid my age might like. You've probably guessed by now, but my parents were filthy rich. They threw money at every possible solution, but nothing stuck.

One shaman even claimed I was the reincarnation of the blood goddess Sekhmet. Imagine that. After a while, they gave up and just let me be.

I can't say I loved my parents, but I didn't hate them either. To me, they were just the man and woman who gave me life and bought me stuff. I didn't feel any child-to-parent love for them, even though they tried so hard to make me care.

To any other kid, they'd probably seem like the best parents ever. But me? I was indifferent. I didn't feel much of anything back then. Most of the time, I wore a practiced smile so no one could tell what was going on in my head.

When I started school, I made lots of friends, not because I wanted to, but because I was good at reading people. I knew how to act around different types of people, which made it easy to fit in. And, of course, I kept my obsession with blood a secret.

Honestly, I didn't want friends. The only reason I bothered was because my parents' worried faces bugged me. Their concern lessened when I made friends, so I played along.

For a while, life was normal—or as normal as it gets when you're a rich girl with parents who own one of the world's biggest tech companies. They were always busy but somehow made time for me.

Then, on one fateful night when I was thirteen, everything changed.

We were in the living room, each doing our own thing. Mother was painting her nails, Father was working on his laptop, and I was watching Wrong Turn. Suddenly, the lights went out.

Before anyone could react, a dagger flew out of nowhere and pierced my father's throat. Blood splattered everywhere.

I just stood there, frozen—but not in fear. I was intrigued. My eyes were glued to my father's throat, where blood gushed out like a fountain. Somewhere in the background, I heard my mother scream, followed by the muffled sound of her demise.

I knew they'd been murdered. Assassinated, more likely. But I didn't feel anger or sorrow. What I felt was... excitement. So much blood. Without thinking, I crouched down and touched the blood pooling on the floor.

"It's warm," I whispered, a creepy smile tugging at my lips.

That's when I noticed him—the killer. Dressed in black from head to toe, with a mask obscuring his face. His tall, slim, muscular frame suggested he was male. He stood there, silent, as if unsure what to do with me.

"Why did you kill them?" I asked, my voice calm and steady. Not scared. Not angry. Just curious.

For a moment, he said nothing, then finally spoke, his voice deep and smooth. "They probably offended someone willing to pay a hefty sum to have them killed."

I thought about that. My parents were the kindest people I knew. If someone wanted them dead, it was likely out of jealousy—or greed for the company.

"So… you get paid to see blood?" I asked.

He hesitated before answering. "I get paid to kill. Seeing blood is just part of the process."

My eyes lit up. "Does that mean I can be like you?"

He tilted his head, clearly taken aback. "Kid, I just killed your parents."

"And?" I replied, genuinely confused.

He took a step back, laughing softly. "I heard the Reed family's daughter wasn't right in the head, but this is a whole new level." He paused, then added, "Still, killing you would be a waste. How about this: come join my organization. I'll personally train you. You'll see all the blood you want."

I smiled—truly smiled. "Really? I'll get to see blood?"

"Yes," he said. "As much as you want."

I agreed, but on one condition: he'd help me bring my parents' killers to justice.

"How bold of you to make demands," he said, chuckling. "But I have a feeling you'll make me a lot of money, so I'll allow it."

He promised to return after my parents' deaths were officially resolved. Then he disappeared.

After he left, I called the cops and pretended to be scared out of my mind. I described the killer as a short woman and gave them a sob story. They vowed to catch the culprit.

Three months later, they did. It was a man gunning for my father's position in the company.

After the trial, I took over my parents' business. A lot of people tried to take advantage of my age, but I had loyal allies who helped me stabilize things. Within another three months, everything was running smoothly.

True to his word, the assassin—who told me to call him "Director"—came back for me.

I informed the company I'd be studying abroad and left to begin my assassin training.