Hero, if you want to know the real price of a curse — don’t ask the cursed one. Ask the person who shares a roof with him and keeps pulling arrows out of her bruised heart. Ask Sevilla “Fox.”

 

Because if there’s one person in the world who won’t quietly accept excessive sensitivity in a killer — it’s her.

 

“There was a time,” she says, tightening a bandage on her shoulder, “when you appeared silently, shot silently, and left just as silently. No drama. No tears. No psychoanalysis.”

 

“Fox...”

 

“And now you pause before every strike and whisper, ‘I feel his childhood grief!’ Bobby, you’re not a sniper anymore — you’re a therapist with a bow.”

 

Her voice rings like an arrow drawn taut. Her eyes burn — not with anger, but with pain.

 

Because she sees it. That his power has become his burden. That he hears more than he wants to. Feels more than he should. And every time he takes a life — he loses a piece of himself.

 

And Bobby just sighs. Doesn’t argue. Just mutters: “Fox, I felt sadness in him. Sadness… and three gold coins. And I took it all.”

 

She says nothing. Just places a hand on his shoulder. Because some wounds can’t be healed — not even by Syndicate fire.

 

Hero, to be continued. And better not say “I’m fine” around Bobby — he’ll know you’re lying.