~~ LIACH POV ~~
Sinveer hasn't spoken to me since the gala, no smug remarks, no veiled barbs, no stares that last a little too long. It's been two days of cold professionalism. Mechanical updates. Hollow silence.
The strangest thing is that, I don't know why. His silence affects me. It's not that I don't want him to keep that trap of a mouth shut, but I still don't want him to stop. But one thing I'm certain of is that, he is trying to convince himself the placeholder, did affect him that day, didn't mean anything. But he's failing. I see it in his jaw when I brush past his chair. I feel it in the way his eyes hesitate just before they look away, and I know he feels it .
The sudden shift between us.
There should be questions in his mind as there are in my mind.
But if he won't say it, I won't either.
Because tonight, I have something better to do than let a fleeting feeling or questions stand in the way of my mission.
~~9:14 PM – EASTSIDE WAREHOUSE DISTRICT~~
The air stinks of smoke and oil. Metal groans in the wind. The whole block feels like a grave waiting to be filled.
My Papa's message came in an hour ago.
"Make it public. Make it brutal. Let them feel it."
He doesn't say who "them" is, because he doesn't need to. I already know who he is referring to.
The rodent that is to be snuffed out is a low-level dealer working with one of the De Luna suppliers, which doesn't hold much importance. He's unapproved, off-books, and sloppy. Even with his low importance, his death will still affect Sinveer's back chains. And Papa wants him gone. He wants Sinveer rattled.
And I plan to deliver.
The target's name is Rico. He's the kind of man who thinks being violent makes him powerful. The kind who pushes women into corners and laughs at weaker men.
An easy prey.
He's holed up in a converted garage at the end of an abandoned block. His boys are inside playing cards. Loud music. No lookouts.
Their guilds are so low. To even think that these are one of Sinveer's backwaters. Amateurs.
I slip through the rear alley and scale the chain-link fence with a fluid climb, through the window, I spot him—sweaty, bald, drunk off his own ego. A handgun tucked into his waistband, safety still on.
I wait for ten minutes, for him and his lackey to indulge themselves more in their intoxication.
Then I knock. One of Rico's buddy answers first. Big guy. Greasy ponytail. Doesn't even get a word out before my blade goes under his chin and into his brain.
Not a single second to scream.
Then the second one fumbles for his gun. I throw the scalpel—perfect arc—clean through his eye, into his head.
Two down. Then the third, fourth and the last guy standing the fifth.
Rico stares, half-drunk, not sure if it's a dream or not. I walk toward him slow but measured.
What is he doing? I asked laughing. Why is he so slow? "Are you a sloth?" I asked.
He tries to pull his gun. I kick the table at him—hard—slamming his wrist against the edge, he let out a loud howl.
"Wh-what the fuck—"
I backhand him across his face, not out of anger but out of principle.
He stumbles back, blood in his mouth.
"Who sent you?!"
I said nothing I just grab his face, slammed it into the wall. Then I lean in, lips inches from his ear.
"Congratulations. You've been chosen. Your death is a message."
He tried to scream but he could not, his scream is choked by the garrote wire I loop around his neck. He claws at it, gasping, flailing, wiggling like a fish pulled away from it's source. Which unexpectedly intrigued me. So I decided not to tighten it all the way. I let him slide halfway to unconsciousness. Then release it.
The moment he tried to gasps for breath. I tightened my grip again.
It took ten minutes to kill him.
Not because I have to.
But because I want to.
I paint his blood in patterns. Cut his name into his chest. Leave a rose made from his flesh pinned to the wall with his own knife.
It looks grotesque. Poetic, Just like Papa style.
Before I leave, I write one word in spray paint across the wall in black: "Evolve."
Let Sinveer figure out what it means.
That's if he can.
11:47 PM – DE LUNA SURVEILLANCE VAN
~~Sinveer's POV ~~
"who ever is doing this? Is a fucking ghost," Marek mutters beside me as we watch the warehouse.
"Five dead, one mutilated beyond recognition, there was no cameras inside. Not even a witnesses left." He continued.
But it's her. I know it.
She moves like her. The mark— it's clean, artistic. No cartel does this. No rival family leaves messages. They leave blood.
But this? This is a signature. This is a performance.
And I've seen that performance before.
"Do we move in boss? It hasn't been that long since they were killed." Marek asks.
I shake my head," We're too late."
She's already gone, you can't get to her even if you try now.
BACK TO LIACH – 2:18 AM – HER APARTMENT
After arriving, I decided to take a hot bath to clear my mind. The remaining blood on my skin swirls down the drain in lazy spirals. Steam from the hot shower fogs the mirror, hiding the pieces of me I don't want to see right now. Because I didn't just enjoy it.
I needed it.
Before I went for the kill I felt stressed. His sudden silence, the tension from the gala, the heat from his hand on my waist, the echo of his voice when he called me just a placeholder—it built up inside me like static. An my fucking brain won't shut the fuck up.
I couldn't let it stay.
So I exhaled it into Rico's throat.
And now, I can finally breathe again.
10:00 AM - DE LUNA HQ
He doesn't say anything.
But he looks at me differently now. Like he's trying to connect dots that keep slipping out of focus, like he wants to believe I'm harmless but can't quite swallow the lie.
I hand him his morning report.
Which he takes it, nonchalantly causing our fingers to brush.
And I wonder— What would he do if he knew those same fingers sliced a man open some hours ago?
Would he arrest me? Kill me? Or drag me into his office and fuck me senseless?
I can't tell anymore. And I don't think he can either.