"Her name's Ayla Monroe," Nico said, dropping the file onto Leon's desk.
Leon didn't look up immediately. He finished sipping his espresso first—black, no sugar, no softness. Just like him.
"Twenty-two. Lives on the east side. No record, no priors. Been working here three nights. Hired through a girl named Rina," Nico continued. "She's clean."
Leon opened the file slowly.
The photo wasn't professional. Just a blurry ID shot—eyes wide, mouth unsure. She didn't belong in the folder, in his world, or anywhere near the danger that bled through this office.
But here she was.
And now he knew her name.
Ayla.
Short. Simple. But it landed sharp in his chest.
⸻
"She's not the leak," Nico added. "Too fresh. But I still don't like her here."
Leon didn't answer. His fingers rested lightly on the page.
Ayla Monroe.
Why did her name feel… wrong in his world? Like something unburned in a place made of ash.
⸻
That night, Leon stood once again above Club Eden's main floor, the same cold expression carved into his face. Music pulsed below. Glasses clinked. Laughter dripped like poison.
And then—he saw her.
Just for a moment.
Moving through the crowd, head down, shoulders squared. That same hesitance. That same fire beneath the fear.
Not beautiful in the way his world expected.
But unforgettable in a way that unsettled him.
⸻
"You want her gone?" Nico asked from beside him.
Leon didn't answer for a long time.
Finally, he said, "No. Not yet."