“Enola Jackson!” my teacher yelled from the podium.

  I looked up just in time to see her push her glasses up her nose and frown, squinting at my paper like the handwriting on it might attack her.

  “A again,” she said. “Very good. There are just a few minor errors—please remember not to misspell any words.”

  I stood, bowed my head a little, and gave her my best model-student smile. “Okay, teacher. I’ll make further corrections.”

  She nodded, satisfied, and turned to the next paper.

  “George Winslow!”

  I glanced sideways as George—black hair a total mess—looked up in panic. He scrambled out of his seat like the floor was on fire and stumbled to the front.

  “Are you playing your Game Boy again?” the teacher asked, her tone sharp.

  George froze, then gave that guilty little smile of his.

  “No.”

  She raised an eyebrow. Everyone in the class knew she didn’t buy it, but she sighed and handed him his paper anyway. “B-. Can you explain your reasoning to me?”

  “Uh… well…”

  “Because you were playing Game Boy?”

  “Ugh…”

  “I think you can do better. Keep it up next time, Mr. Winslow.”

  “Yes, teacher…”

  He trudged back and dropped into the seat next to me like someone had drained his soul.

  A small group of girls snickered nearby at George's blunder, as they always did.

  What's her name? Bella? Belle? Whatever. Anyway, if anyone makes a demand, even if they don't pay, I'll snipe those jerks.

  “I told you not to play video games the night before the exam,” I said, resting my chin in my hand and grinning at him.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he shot back, glaring at me. “You were playing Little Nightmares that night too.”

  “But I still got an A.” I waved my paper in front of him, just a little smug.

  George groaned and dropped his head onto the desk. “It’s not fair! Why do you always get A’s?” He slammed his fist on the table. “I mean, who even uses ‘To be or not to be’ anymore?”

  “Come on, that’s Shakespeare,” I said with a shrug. “And like I told you—keep your grades steady and average. Teachers won’t hate you, classmates won’t envy you, and you’ll be practically invisible.”

  “And you call this invisible?” George jabbed at the big red B- on his paper.

  I raised an eyebrow. “And you call that trying?”

  “Shut up, or I’ll play ‘Do You Wanna Hang’ for a whole hour,” he muttered. Then added under his breath, “Disgusting you.”

  I couldn’t help it—I laughed. We both did.

  “Alright, alright,” I said between giggles. “I’ll help you catch up on The Complete Works of Shakespeare.”

  “At least you still have some morals.” He tried to sound unimpressed, but there was a tiny smile tugging at his lips.

  “See? I’m a super perfect friend,” I said, lightly punching his shoulder.

  “Oh, you better be,” he said, rolling his eyes—but he was laughing too.

  The school bell rang after a series of tedious and boring exam reviews. George and I stood up almost simultaneously, stuffed our exam papers into our bags, and ran toward the school gate.

  Oh, almost forgot to introduce myself. My name is Enola Jackson, a bisexual girl, seventeen years old.

  If you have any sense, you’ll notice that my name, when reversed, becomes alone. In my hazy memory, my mother gave me this name. I’m not sure what she meant, but this name—which sounds like something out of a novel—didn’t bring me any good fortune. My mother died when I was five, and my father disappeared without a trace.

  After a series of tragic events in my life, I met George when I was thirteen.

  I’ve lived with George’s family since my mother died. George is of Asian and American descent. His mother—a Chinese American—was a beautiful and intelligent woman who selflessly raised me. She was like a second mother to me.

  If the Guinness World Records had a category for “the truest friendship,” George and I would probably stay on that list forever. We’ve known each other since we were little, and we’ve practically become inseparable. You’ll never see me or George alone; it’s always George and Enola… well, except when we go to the bathroom.

  But if you ask any student in our school, “Do you know George or Enola?” they might shrug, or even ask, “Do those two really exist?”

  Yes, we are invisible. We’ve found the perfect balance within the school’s social circles. We’re not outstanding, but not so obscure as to attract attention.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  The students in our class know who we are, but they may not know our names or what we’ve done. That’s enough, we don’t need attention.

  “Wait, is today Wednesday?” George asked me while squeezing a cola-flavored smoothie into a cup.

  I paused, glanced at the date on my phone—it was indeed Wednesday.

  “Yeah, what’s wrong?”

  But when I looked up and saw George’s playful smile, I immediately realized what he was implying.

  “Ah, I know. It’s a work day, right?” I bumped fists with George and returned the same smile.

  “Work day.” That’s crucial for George and me. In a way, it’s how I survive, and why I survive.

  “Where’s the nearest internet café?” I asked. George immediately pulled out his phone and checked.

  “There’s one just five minutes away, and it’s super cheap—only six dollars an hour.”

  “Six dollars? Are you sure that’s a normal internet café? I haven’t seen one that cheap since the one near our house closed down.”

  “We’re not going to be there for more than half an hour anyway,” George said, looking at me.

  Well, I had to admit—he was right.

  The internet cafés were surprisingly close together; the small shop came into view just as George finished the last sip of his smoothie.

  “One double booth.”

  The clerk at the counter looked up, eyes narrowing into slits, then began typing expressionlessly on the computer.

  “Do you have ID?” he asked in a serious tone.

  “Yeah, of course.” I took out my ID card.

  I wasn’t sure what the rules were at this café, but they usually required minors to be accompanied by a parent. Unfortunately, I didn’t have an adult with me. So, I have to make myself become an adult.

  The clerk picked up my ID card, his sharp eyes flicking between George and me, constantly comparing it to the photo.

  “Twenty years old, huh?” he muttered.

  “Yes.” I gave him a faint smile—the same kind I showed my teacher.

  The clerk sighed slightly, clearly deciding not to argue.

  “Your booth is B4. Drinks and ice cream are on the left.” He pointed listlessly toward the buffet. I couldn’t help but wonder about his salary.

  Maybe his boss only paid him a dollar a day to keep prices down, which explained why he always looked like the world owed him a billion dollars.

  “Thank you.” Despite his less-than-ideal service, I still managed a polite smile. As the saying goes, you can’t hit a smiling face.

  George closed the booth door behind us. “Don’t you think the receptionist looked at us like we were going to get a room?” he said, sitting down next to me.

  I’d already turned on the computer—damn, the thing was slow to boot up.

  “Dude, you’re gay. That’ll never happen.” My eyes were glued to the screen.

  “I know, you don’t need to remind me.” A faint blush rose to his cheeks.

  “Do you have a USB drive?” he asked.

  “Of course.” I gave him a thumbs-up, then pulled a small black USB from my bag and plugged it into the computer.

  A moment later, a special reader icon popped up on the screen. I moved the mouse and clicked on it.

  George and I might be invisible at school, but online—no, more precisely, on the dark web—We’re not your average nerdy high school students. Maybe we are at school. But once we leave, turn on our computers, and log onto the dark web, we become a fearsome duo of assassins and weapons makers—Fox and Octopus—that strike terror into the hearts of the world.

  I am Fox, an assassin who appears and disappears without a trace, possessing the longest sniping range currently available. Once I receive payment, I fulfill the mission cleanly and efficiently within the client’s requested timeframe. Since I first handled a sniper rifle at twelve, I’ve never been caught by any government agency.

  My best friend George is my personal weapons maker—Octopus. He may be a little slow, but his skillful hands can create anything. There’s nothing he can’t make, only things you can’t imagine.

  Wednesdays are when we transform into a top-tier international assassin team. Only on Wednesdays do we open the dark web to see if anyone has posted a commission.

  Our process is simple: clients must pay one-third upfront as a deposit, and naturally, our fees are beyond the reach of ordinary people. I mean, come on—you expect me to take six bucks and risk getting arrested or killed? No way.

  I opened our dark web mailbox, and an email we had already seen came into view last week.

  Dear Fox and Octopus,

  I don’t believe you two are fond of lengthy discourses or verbose writing, so I’ll be brief.

  I want you to take care of Mr. Smith for me. I think you know who he is—a radical religious scholar.

  As far as I know, he’s going to Brooklyn, New York next week to give a lecture on the importance of religion to humanity.

  If you accomplish this, I’m willing to pay thirty thousand dollars.

  @I-only-believe-what-I-believe, last Wednesday at 7 p.m.

  “I still think this guy’s username is weird,” George said, resting his chin on his hand as he opened his notebook.

  I glanced at the name at the end of the email. Although it was a bit odd, there are all kinds of weird people online. I’ve seen stranger usernames before, so I didn’t think much of it.

  “So,” I said, turning my attention to the notebook. “What does it say?”

  George and I liked to call it The Murder Notebook. In short, it contained the plans we made before carrying out a client’s commission—like the assassination of Professor Smith. To ensure everything went perfectly, we had to scout the lecture venue beforehand, choose a concealed sniping spot with a clear view, plan my escape route, and figure out how to destroy the evidence.

  “How long will it take to drive there?” I asked. George raised an eyebrow, watching me eject the USB from the computer.

  “Thirty minutes.” He stuffed his things into his bag. “But I have something new to show you.”

  “Of course, you drive.”

  We left the internet café in a hurry (the clerk at the counter gave us a puzzled look) and slid into George’s car parked on the corner.

  “Don't you think there have suddenly been a lot more cases of people murdering religious figures?” George asked while he turned into a corner.

  I looked up from my murder notebook; I was reviewing my escape route. "Yeah, what's wrong?"

  "What I mean is, don't you find that strange? We used to usually get cases involving assassinations of politicians or gang leaders, but now, everything is related to religion."

  Indeed, we've taken on five murder requests involving religious figures. I don't usually care who the target is, but we still do basic background checks, and if he's not someone worth killing with my gun, I might refuse the request.

  "Humans are strange creatures, aren't they?" I scoffed. "Isn't there an organization called 'Veritator' ? They're dedicated to telling people to stop believing in gods."

  George glanced at me, a hint of worry in his brown eyes. "Um... I just feel something's off..."

  “Successfully landed!” George yelled as he parked the car in the garage near our house.

  “You’ll love this.” He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the basement.

  “Oh, dude, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t blow up the basement like last time.”

  “That was an accident! I just wanted to know what happens if I put those chemicals together.” George winked at me, as if that innocent face could erase my doubts.

  “Bro, even if we earn over a million a month, we can’t just go around destroying your house.”

  “I promise! This time I won’t blow anything up.”

  George mysteriously pulled something from under his workbench. “Look!”

  It was a black backpack—not much different from the one I take to school.

  “Seriously? A bag?” I raised an eyebrow.

  George smiled and shook his head. “No, this isn’t just a bag.” He paused. “Watch this.”

  He flipped the backpack over and tapped a spot on the bottom with his fingertips. A crisp metallic click echoed—and the barrel of a sniper rifle popped out from behind the shoulder strap.

  “Holy shit…” My eyes widened instantly.

  George’s craftsmanship was undeniably impressive, but I didn’t know he had advanced enough to design a high-quality folding sniper rifle that could fit inside a backpack.

  “See? I told you I wouldn’t blow anything up,” George said smugly as he disassembled the bag, then skillfully reassembled the parts into a beautiful sniper rifle.

  “I designed this model specifically for you,” he said, adjusting the scope. “To make it easier to carry, I lightened it, but the accuracy’s still the same.”

  He handed the rifle to me. “Try it out—and give it a name.” He smiled, a little goofy but sincere. “Since the last one broke while you were destroying evidence, you finally don’t have to use a cheap rifle anymore.”

  I smiled faintly, my fingertips tracing the cold metal. This was why I loved my friend.

  “I don’t think I need to test it,” I said, meeting his brown eyes. “Because I trust you. Your weapons never fail.”

  George smiled, his cheeks flushing as they always did when he was praised. “Then name your sniper rifle,” he said.

  I lowered my head, studying the weapon in my hands. Every time I got a new rifle, we’d name it together—a ritual that helped me bond with it. My mind went blank. It had been years since I last named a gun. In our last job, I had to destroy my original rifle, Mountain Dew (yes, Mountain Dew).

  “Maybe we can call it Mountain Dew Red,” George chuckled.

  “No, dude. Not again.” I rolled my eyes.

  Then, out of nowhere, a strange name flashed into my mind, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out:

  “Mistletoe.”

  “Mistletoe?” George burst out laughing. “You mean that plant where couples kiss for eternal love?”

  “Yeah. Any objections?” I squinted at him.

  George winked and shook his head, pretending to surrender.

  “No, I just don’t think anyone would kiss under this gun.”