Lights out at the base by 11 p.m., back on at 2 a.m. That was sleep three hours max for assassins not on a mission. It wasn't a complaint; it was routine. You either adapted or you died.
Tesmee stood still inside the boss's office. The space was dim, dead silent, except for the faint hissing of smoke curling from beneath the black mask in front of her. He sat calm and still, draped in a tailored black suit, black gloves, and that damn full-face mask. You couldn't read him—no expressions, no signs of breathing, nothing.
"The mission wasn't what I requested," Tesmee said flatly, eyes locked on the mask.
She didn't stutter, didn't raise her voice just laid it down. "I don't know if it was a suicide note signed under the name of orders, but what I do know is that it wasn't clean. My identity is my most sacred weapon. The moment any part of it is exposed, it's game over. I asked for my eyes to be blurred, and my body , at least concealed. None of that was done. The Volkov Syndicate is smarter than you think. They notice things. I need better backup before this turns into something I can't come back from."
Silence.
He didn't move. Didn't nod. Didn't even shift in his chair.
Tesmee clenched her jaw. Was he listening? Ignoring her? Was this one of his sick power plays?
Finally, after what felt like a full minute, he spoke. His voice was deep so deep it vibrated through the floorboards and slow, like thunder wrapped in silk.
"There had to be a time when death comes."
Pause.
"Besides… anyone can have steel-grey eyes and a thick body."
"Growth has occurred to you over the years," the boss said, voice low and steady. "A teen and an adult are like two different people."
Tesmee didn't flinch. "But it's still me."
She took a step closer. "This is all I'm asking for a mission involving the Volkovs. At least give me that."
There was a beat of silence. The smoke curled again from beneath his mask. Then came his voice calm, cold, final.
"Black Vanta is not your playground, Tesmee. It is an order. A strict one. I don't need to remind you of the rule you were raised on, No one chooses their target. You act on assignment, not preference. No matter how personal."
Tesmee clenched her jaw so tight it hurt. The urge to snap back burned in her throat, but the last damn thing she needed was to mouth off to the boss or disrespect the organization. That was suicide silent, instant, and permanent.
Instead, she gave a short, controlled nod, turned on her heel, and walked out.
At their squad dressing room.
The overhead light flickered with a quiet hum as the team geared up for early training. Leather, metal, and the smell of gun oil filled the room.
"You've been tense," Raze said, his voice low as he glanced over at Tesmee.
"She always is," Craig muttered from the other side, slinging a holster over his shoulder.
"Quit it for once," Raze snapped, sharp enough to slice through Craig's usual sarcasm.
"The truth's bitter, brother," Craig replied without looking back, walking over to the far table to pick through a collection of blades. "You don't chew it, it chews you."
Tesmee didn't respond to them right away. She was busy tightening the bandages around her right hand, jaw stiff.
"He refused," she finally said. "As much as I expected. And I can't deal with this shit on my own. If I do, I might as well carve my own death note."
Raze leaned in and bit her shoulder lightly more ritual than affection, a silent tether between comrades.
"Time'll tell," he said as he stood up, grabbing his knives and heading for the door.
Tyric sat in the dimly lit study, elbows on his knees, a faded photo frame clutched in his hands. His thumb ran absently across the glass, tracing the edges of the little girl's smile frozen in time.
"She could've been a big girl now," he said, his voice low, more to himself than to anyone else.
Across from him, Mr. Volkov leaned back in the leather armchair, a glass of aged whiskey in his hand. He didn't sip it just stared at the way it caught the light. He sighed.
"She's resting well, Tyric. Let your sister go. Don't dig this up any further… it'll break you."
Tyric's eyes didn't lift from the photo. His jaw flexed, stone-hard. "I'm not gonna stop until she's dead. I don't give a fuck who she is now."
"Easy, son," Mr. Volkov said sharply, setting the glass down. "After all these years, I can still see it you're stuck in anger."
Tyric finally looked up, his eyes hollow but burning. "I'm not stuck. I'm focused."
Mr. Volkov studied him in silence, then slowly shook his head. "Let it go…"
But Tyric was already gone—mentally somewhere far darker, far colder.
"No," he whispered. "Not until her blood answers."