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Reborn had always been a man of many talents. Lying was one of them. It wasn’t just a skill—it was an art, a delicate game he played with the world, slipping deception into conversation as easily as he pulled the trigger of his gun. After all, he was the World’s Greatest Hitman, and lies were simply another tool in his arsenal. He lied when necessary, when deception was the most effective tool to get what he wanted.
Even his mischief was refined to a form of art, sharpened like the blades he concealed beneath his perfectly tailored suits. And so, for reasons he had yet to fully understand, he found himself drawn to a particular habit whenever Fon was near.
He lied.
Not in ways that mattered, not in ways that carried weight or consequence, but in the absurd, unnecessary ways that turned heads and invited scrutiny. A spontaneous fabrication here, an embellishment there—each thread woven into the tapestry of the conversation at hand, always in public, always when the martial artist was within earshot.
Like today.
It had been a plenty ordinary outing, if such a thing even existed when it involved the world’s greatest hitman and a martial artist whose very presence exuded the quiet force of a brewing storm.
The cafe they had chosen was quaint, tucked between the unassuming establishments of a bustling marketplace. A scent of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked bread drifted through the air, akin to a beckoning hand luring customers in. The afternoon sun poured through the windows, illuminating the polished edge of Reborn’s espresso cup as he lifted it to his lips.
Then, a stranger’s voice cut through the moment.
"You have remarkable teeth,” a passing woman remarked, smiling as she appraised him. “Perfectly straight.” A strange remark, even by his standards.
Reborn lowered his cup, barely sparing her a glance before responding, his tone laced with an air of theatrical melancholy. “All thanks to the excruciating braces I wore as a child.”
It was, of course, a blatant lie. Reborn had never worn braces in his life.
However, his amusement did not come from deceiving the stranger—no, the true satisfaction lay in the calm martial artist across from him who had just paused drinking his tea mid-sip.
A brief silence stretched between them. The stranger, oblivious to the game at play, merely nodded sympathetically before moving on. Fon simply exhaled, a sigh so subtle it barely stirred the air, his crimson eyes flickering with something between exasperation and reluctant amusement.
"You never had braces," he finally murmured, setting his cup down with that signature practiced elegance.
Reborn smirked. "Perhaps in another lifetime.”
Fon regarded him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with the faintest shake of his head, he turned back to his tea, choosing silence over argument.
And Reborn—well, Reborn considered that a victory.
It became a habit, one that neither of them addressed outright, but both of them acknowledged in the way one might acknowledge an inside joke without ever speaking of it.
This time they were at an outdoor market, weaving through rows of vendors selling everything from exotic spices to counterfeit designer watches. The air was thick with the scent of grilled meat and the occasional whiff of incense, combined with the abundant chatter and flux of the patrons, blending into a strange, almost intoxicating atmosphere of odors, noise, and movement.
Reborn, naturally, was dressed as if he had somewhere much more important to be. His suit was modest despite the heat, his gloved hand adjusting the brim of his fedora as he scanned the crowd with the casual awareness of a man who knew every escape route before even arriving at the place.
And then from one of the stalls a vendor called out, eyes alight with recognition.
“Ah, sir! You look like a man who appreciates fine craftsmanship. Perhaps a new timepiece for you?”
The hitman glanced at the display—rows of watches gleaming beneath the daylight as their polished faces reflected the world in distorted fragments. He reached for one at random, tilting it in his hand as if genuinely considering buying it.
Then, without hesitation, he said, "I actually invented the first pocket watch."
Fon, who had been examining a basket of dried tea leaves a few steps away, looked up slowly.
The vendor blinked. “Pardon?”
The hitman nodded solemnly, theatrically slipping the watch onto his wrist in one seamless motion. “It was a pet project of mine. Centuries ago. Time travel is quite exhausting, you know.”
The vendor stared, uncertain whether to be amused or deeply concerned.
Fon, on the other hand, let out a pronounced sigh, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose as if he could physically ward off the absurdity.
“You are insufferable,” the storm muttered under his breath.
Reborn only smirked. “And yet, here you are.”
On another occasion, Reborn and Fon found themselves in a quiet museum, save for the faint murmur of visitors and the soft shuffle of footsteps against polished floors. Before them, displayed in all its preserved glory, was an ancient katana—its blade still gleaming despite the passage of centuries and its masterful craftsmanship evident in the subtle curvature of the hilt, underlined with intricate carvings. A relic of history encased behind protective glass.
A passing tourist, hands clasped behind his back, stood in front of it with quiet admiration. "Such a beautiful blade," the man murmured, his voice hushed.
Beside him, Reborn regarded the katana with an air of deep contemplation before nodding earnestly. "I forged it myself."
Fon, who had been reading the informational plaque, did not even turn his head, "It is dated to the 12th century,” the storm remarked.
"I was very young."
A long, drawn-out silence. Then a quiet sigh. "You’re impossible."
Fon had long stopped trying to unravel the hitman’s absurd fabrications, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t acknowledge them with the appropriate level of exasperation.
Entirely pleased with himself, Reborn simply waved a hand dismissively, as if brushing aside Fon’s patience in one effortless gesture.
At a high-stakes poker table in a casino, surrounded by men who reeked of expensive cologne and poor life choices, Reborn insouciantly pushed a stack of chips forward. Across from him, a curious dealer studied him with mild interest.
"You seem confident, sir. Have you played often?"
The sun rested his chin on one hand, his fingers tapping idly against the green felt. "Oh, I invented poker."
A pause. Then, without missing a beat, he added, "It was originally played with knives, but of course, the people found that inconvenient."
A few seats away, Fon—who had somehow procured a cup of tea in this den of alcohol and cigar smoke—lowered his cup with contrived patience.
"That is not true."
Reborn raised a brow. "Are you suggesting you were there to witness its origins?"
The martial artist leveled him with a stare so profoundly unimpressed that even the dealer—who had been ready to call security on this obvious lunatic—paused for a moment.
Reborn won that round.
There was a pattern to it now.
Reborn hadn’t intended for it to become one—he hadn’t expected the lies to accumulate, seamlessly intertwining into conversations whenever the martial artist was within earshot. And yet, here they were.
He leaned against the balcony railing at a rooftop party, balancing a glass of wine between his fingers as he appreciated the city skyline. A woman beside him, elegantly dressed and clearly intrigued by his presence, tilted her head.
"So, what is it that you do exactly?" she asked.
Reborn sighed, casting a glance at the storm standing just a few feet away, quietly observing the crowd with his usual unreadable calm.
"I write children's books."
Right after that ridiculous statement left his lips, he could feel Fon’s sharp gaze land on him—unimpressed, and laden with unmistakable criticism.
The woman’s eyes widened in delight. "Really? That’s adorable! What kind of stories?"
Reborn took a slow sip of his wine, entirely composed. "Moral lessons wrapped in allegory. My latest work follows a rabbit who must navigate the treacherous world of organized crime."
She laughed, elated. "Oh? And what’s it called?"
"The Bunnyfather."
A poorly covered-up choking sound came from Fon’s direction.
The hitman set his glass down, shifting his weight effortlessly. "It’s meant to teach children the importance of loyalty, strategic thinking, and knowing when to dispose of a threat."
The woman, caught between laughter and mild horror, seemed unsure whether he was joking.
In the meanwhile Fon, had pressed a hand to his forehead, as if trying to physically will patience into existence.
Reborn smirked, once again satisfied with himself.
They left the party not long after, descending the grand staircase side by side. Beyond the elegantly crafted brass gates, they walked through a meticulously landscaped garden—where lanterns and moonlight cast soft, shifting shadows over trimmed hedges and smooth stone paths. Past the entrance, the city pulsed with life, the distant hum of traffic filling the silence between them.
"You don’t write children’s books," Fon remarked, tone laced with a hint of amusement.
"Not yet," Reborn corrected.
The martial artist lightly chuckled, his hand brushing against Reborn’s in a fleeting touch, yet despite its subtlety, it was enough to make the hitman’s lips curl into a ghost of a smile.
The lies had started as nothing more than impulse, an extension of his natural mischief, a casual indulgence in absurdity. Somehow though, the realization had started to dawn on him that perhaps he had been enjoying this for far longer than he’d previously dared to admit to himself.
There was something undeniably amusing about it. The fabrications weren’t just for his own entertainment anymore. More than that, it had become an excuse—an excuse to pull Fon into something only the two of them could share.
An inside joke. A secret that no one else was privy to.
Reborn glanced at the martial artist beside him, the soft glow of streetlights reflecting off his dark hair. His hands folded neatly behind him as they walked. He was as serene as ever, his expression calm save for the faintest remnants of amusement still lingering in his eyes.
The hitman had always prided himself on his control—his ability to manipulate a situation, to dictate its pace, to remain unaffected no matter the outcome. Yet, without ever lifting a finger, Fon had tilted the board in his quiet way.
It was a rare thing, to find someone who could keep up. Rarer still to find someone who would let him do as he pleased without trying to stop him. Fon never cut his games short, never called him out too early, never denied him the small satisfaction of watching reactions unfold. Instead, he simply bore witness, allowing the fabrications to unravel at their own leisure.
It was almost ridiculous how easily these moments unsettled him, stirring something warm and restless in his chest—something he wasn’t entirely certain he wanted to name yet.
The weight of their shared secrets—these ridiculous, unnecessary lies that only they knew the truth behind—they felt oddly intimate. A thread tying them together, connected by half-smirks and restrained laughter.
He hadn’t thought of it that way before. Hadn’t stopped to acknowledge that this wasn’t about deception anymore, nor was he lying just for the reaction.
He was lying because Fon was there to hear it.
Because—ah, chaos.
That was it, wasn’t it?
He was flirting.
Not in the way most people did it, with sweet words and lingering glances—that would be far too simple for a man like Reborn. He had never been one for convention. Not when it came to Fon.
Instead, he lied. He lied in public, spun ridiculous tales with Fon as his only true witness, drew the other man into his nonsense, and made him an unwilling accomplice in a game that had no rules.
And Fon let him.
That was the part that mattered the most.
The new realization was as startling as it was inevitable.
And the truth was—he enjoyed it. More than he should. More than he’d ever admit aloud.
"You're thinking too loud," the martial artist noted, his voice a calm break in the quiet night.
Reborn huffed lightly. "Am I?"
"Yes," Fon affirmed, tone as steady as ever. "I can hear the gears turning. It’s almost concerning."
The hitman let out a short chuckle, slipping his hands into his pockets. "And here I thought you found my mind fascinating."
Fon hummed. "It is. But not when you’re overcomplicating something simple."
That earned him a sidelong glance, sharp with curiosity. "And what exactly am I overcomplicating?"
The storm did not answer immediately. Instead, he let the question hang between them, stretching into the quiet like a thread being carefully unwound. And then, with the same latent amusement he always spoke with, he offered, "You tell me."
Reborn clicked his tongue. "Unfair play."
"You say that as if you ever played fair."
They walked a little further, the soft rhythm of their steps filling the spaces between words. The streets were quieter at this hour, the distant hum of the city subdued, allowing the night to settle around them like something tangible.
After a moment, Fon spoke again, his tone a bit more thoughtful this time.
"You shouldn’t lie so much," he mused. "Women don’t like liars."
Reborn turned his head, quirking a brow. "That so?"
Fon nodded, almost infuriatingly composed. "It’s common wisdom. A person who deceives too often is bound to end up alone."
The hitman let out a quiet laugh. "I figured my charm would be enough to make up for it."
"Charm only lasts as long as it remains believable."
Reborn smirked. "Good thing I wasn’t trying to impress her then."
As if assessing something, his storm glanced at him briefly, then scoffed softly, barely holding back a chuckle. "Of course you weren’t."
A moment passed, and slowly, quietly, they both broke into laughter.
It wasn’t a loud thing—not an eruption of sound, not an uncontrollable outburst. Just a shared, understated amusement that settled between, like a quiet understanding that had always been there.
Reborn let the gentle sound linger, allowing its warmth to seep into the cool night air, simply letting the moment stretch.
He had always enjoyed a well-played game.
But this—this inside joke, this unspoken understanding—this might just be his favorite one yet.
OMAKE: Old habits die hard
Ever since The Fated Day, life has become a twisted parody of itself. Powerhouses reduced to infants, their souls bound to cursed pacifiers that drained their flames—it was absurd. And yet, despite their predicament, some things remained unchanged.
Hands on her hips, Lal Mirch squinted at the sky. The coastal breeze ruffled her hair, carrying the scent of salt and the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore. The Arcobalenos had gathered at the beach today—an odd sight, considering they weren’t exactly the "relaxing by the sea" type.
Not that they had much of a choice. Skull had thrown a fit about ‘team bonding’, and before anyone could protest, Verde had already grumbled something about needing to monitor sea water’s effects on their cursed pacifiers. Fon had somehow managed to convince Reborn to join them—Lal didn’t exactly know how, but she had a feeling Reborn just couldn’t refuse whatever bribe the Storm Arcobaleno had offered.
Colonnello adjusted the rifle slung across his back, stepping forward with an easy grin. "Man, it’s been a while since we’ve last had a proper beach day huh, kora?”
Lal rolled her eyes. "Not by choice."
"You wound me, Lal!” Skull sniffled dramatically from where he sat, trying to build a sandcastle using his motorcycle helmet as a makeshift shovel.
She ignored him.
Meanwhile Fon stood by the sidelines with his arms folded in front of him, watching as Reborn idly balanced a seashell on the brim of his fedora.
A peaceful moment. Almost too peaceful.
Then, out of nowhere, Reborn casually declared, "I used to be a lifeguard, you know."
Silence.
Colonnello blinked. "What?"
Reborn smirked. "Back in the day. Saved plenty of lives."
He tipped his hat slightly, letting the seashell tumble into his tiny hand. "Trained dolphins, too."
Lal and Colonnello exchanged a bewildered glance.
"No, you didn’t," Lal said flatly.
Reborn merely shrugged. "Believe what you want."
Fon, who had been silently observing the conversation unfold, let out a quiet chuckle. "You really haven’t changed at all."
The Rain Arcobaleno narrowed his eyes, looking between them. "Wait, hold on. Did he do this often, kora?"
Fon smiled, serene as ever, but unmistakably amused by his question. "All the time."
Lal frowned. "And you just let him?"
The martial artist nodded subtly. "He enjoys it."
Reborn smugly took a slow sip from a juice box that absolutely no one had seen him acquire.
"As I was saying, I used to train dolphins. You should be thanking me—without me, the ocean wouldn’t be half this efficient."
Colonnello covered his eyes with his hand in exasperation. “…Reborn, we’re cursed. And haven’t you always been a hitman? When exactly did you have the time to be a lifeguard? Kora!”
"That's classified information."
Lal looked about ready to throw him into the ocean. Even in his infant form, he would surely make for a magnificent splash—the ensuing spectacle would undoubtedly entertain all her fellow sane Arcobaleno.
Fon, on the other hand, simply smiled while sipping his tea (which, much like Reborn’s juice box, no one had seen him acquire).
Some things never changed. And frankly, he liked it that way.