Dagger's POV:
The ballroom was too bright.
Chandeliers scattered gold across the floor like a poor illusion of warmth, strings of soft music wrapping around conversations thick with money and influence. I moved a half step behind Nyx, her shadow without a face, her blade without a voice.
She played the role perfectly with graceful, elegant, effortlessly commanding. Her mask glittered like cut obsidian. Mine stayed matte, unblinking, unreadable.
She didn't look at me. She didn't need to.
Her fingers brushed my arm once—a silent signal. She whispered without moving her lips." White rose. Blue suit. Corner of the room."
I spotted him instantly.
Tall. Grey-streaked hair. Eyes sharp behind pleasantries. The Curator didn't look like someone connected to artifacts. He looked like someone who collected people and kept the ones he liked. When Nyx approached him, I shifted slightly to her flank but close enough to intervene, far enough to seem like furniture.
She spoke first. "Good evening."
The Curator's smile widened. Polished. Practiced.
"Good evening," he returned. "Quite the mask." He meant mine.
His gaze fixed on me, narrowed just slightly, the kind of recognition a man has when seeing an animal on the roadside: something dangerous that didn't belong indoors.
He recognized me.
Nyx continued the small talk, polite, flawless, distracting. I watched the Curator closely. He wasn't nervous. He was calculating. Smiling. Listening.
And then I saw it, the smallest of signals given. So small, that you would have doubted yourself that you saw it if you weren't paying attention. But I was. A small flick of his fingers. Nothing to the untrained eye.
But I saw the man moving behind Nyx's right shoulder with his hand sliding toward the inside of his jacket. The weapon wasn't even fully drawn when I moved. One step. One strike. My knife punched through the attacker's throat silently. He never finished inhaling.
I caught his body before it fell, turned it in one smooth movement, and folded him into an empty chair behind a passing guest. Head tilted forward, looking for all the world like a man asleep after too much wine.
Nobody noticed. Except two people.
Nyx's eyes flickered in amusement. The Curator let out a low whistle.
"Well," he said lightly, "it seems the reports weren't exaggerations. Talon's phantom really is that good."
He set his drink down. Then he clapped.
A single sharp sound, echoed around the room, louder than any voice. The conversations in the room stilled.
Half the guests turned and left immediately, as if trained. The other half remained standing, straight-backed, silent. Guards, no doubt all of them his.
The ballroom was now a killing floor. I shifted slightly in front of Nyx.
Before the first blow could fall, I asked: "Are you affiliated with Overwatch?"
The Curator froze, then barked a laugh. "Overwatch?" he repeated. "Please. They're too by-the-book for my tastes. I prefer freedom. And profit."
He swept a hand around the room as if displaying merchandise. "I severed ties with the bureaucrats at the start of the Crisis. Built something better. My own group. My own rules. No restrictions. No accountability."
He stepped closer, voice dropping. "You, boy, could thrive somewhere like that. Talon uses you like a tool. I could make you more."
He didn't get to finish.
"I'm staying with Talon," I said flatly.
Nyx smiled small, sharp, knowing. She could always tell when someone spoke the truth.
The Curator's face tightened in disappointment. "Shame."
He lifted two fingers. "Kill him. Take the woman alive."
His men moved. They were quick, I give them that. However, I was quicker.
The first lunged. I grabbed his wrist, twisted until bone cracked, and drove my elbow into his throat. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Another swung a baton. I stepped inside the arc, slit his femoral artery, and shoved him into two others as he fell, turning his collapse into a shield.
Nyx stayed behind me, silent, unafraid. She didn't lift a hand to interfere. I still had yet to determine whether that was because of pride or lack of experience.
As three men engaged me at the same time, one of the Curator's men used that advantage to get close enough to grab her arm. He didn't keep it long.
I ripped him off her, drove him into a pillar hard enough to crack marble, and crushed his windpipe with one hand.
As the fight continued, more bodies fell. Men screamed. Seeing nothing was working, some tried to flank me. But because I was looking for it, none succeeded.
It soon became apparent that this wasn't a fight. It was a correction.
Out of the fifty that started the fight, within minutes, barely twenty remained. Across the ballroom, the Curator saw the tide turn. He swore softly, as he turned and fled out a side door.
I didn't pursue. More men remained stationed around the ballroom. If I left now, Nyx would be exposed.
Seeing that I wasn't going after their boss, the men looked at each other unsurely. One gave a nod to the other as they decided to keep pressing their attack. But they never got the chance. The doors behind us burst open.
Talon operatives flooded the room with black masks, silent guns, efficiency sharpened into routine. They cut down stragglers with cold precision, sweeping through the mess I had left behind.
Only when Nyx exhaled, relaxed, and the last enemy dropped with a wet thud did I step forward. She watched me with interest.
"And where," she asked, "do you think you're going?"
I pointed toward the door the Curator had escaped through. "After him," I said. "Before he hides."
Nyx scoffed lightly, adjusting her dress as if she hadn't nearly died.
"Impossible. He's too far gone. There's no way you..."
I didn't let her finish. I started running.
Because I already knew: He wasn't far enough. And he wasn't going to get away. Not from me.