Mika pressed her cheek against the cold concrete floor, her body stretched flat against the unfinished rooftop of a downtown high-rise. The wind swept strands of black hair across her face, but she didn't blink. Through her sniper scope, the world below looked like a film she didn't belong in.
Down there, everything sparkled. Guests in tuxedos and glittering dresses gathered beneath a towering white arch wrapped in roses. The soft notes of a string quartet floated up like perfume.
The perfect day.
The perfect man.
And the perfect lie.
Mika's fingers tightened around the rifle. She didn't feel the weight of the weapon. It was like an extension of her spine—an instinct, a reflex. She could've been stone.
To the world, Mika didn't exist.
She wasn't registered. Didn't appear on any camera. No fingerprints. No birth certificate.
She'd burned her past a long time ago.
"Ghosts don't get invited to weddings," she murmured to herself.
Through her scope, she watched *Senator Gaius Fordham* step out of his armored car, flanked by black-suited bodyguards. He looked every bit the noble public servant—grinning, waving, hand on his heart. The crowd adored him.
But Mika saw it.
The rot behind the charm.
The warehouse full of trafficked children hidden beneath his "pharmaceutical donations." The ports moving drugs under the guise of food supplies. The families destroyed.
She exhaled slowly.
"This is for them," she whispered.
Her finger slipped toward the trigger.
"Three... two…"
*BRRRRT.*
The phone in her pocket buzzed violently.
Her body jerked.
*CRACK.*
The bullet screamed wide, smashing into a metal pole and sending a flock of startled pigeons into the sky.
"F**k," she hissed, already moving.
Below, chaos broke out.
Guards rushed. People screamed.
Fordham ducked.
The entire event shifted from celebration to war zone.
But Mika's eye caught something—*one man not panicking*. The head of security. Thick neck. Black sunglasses. Calm. He pulled out a device and tapped rapidly, calculating trajectory.
Then his head snapped upward.
Their eyes met—digitally.
She zoomed in. He was *looking directly at her*.
Mika smiled.
"Well done," she whispered.
Fordham stood up, furious now. She could read his lips from the scope.
*"Find her."*
She grinned wider.
"One chance."
*CRACK.*
The second shot punched into his chest like a hammer.
Fordham crumpled to the stairs, blood blossoming like a ruined boutonnière.
Screams exploded around the venue.
Mika was already on her feet, breaking down the rifle piece by piece, locking it into the custom black case strapped across her body. She didn't look back. Ghosts don't celebrate.
As she sprinted down the empty stairwell, boots slapping metal, her phone buzzed again.
She almost ignored it.
Almost.
She picked up on the third vibration.
A *distorted voice* crawled through the speaker—inhuman, robotic, deep as if dredged from the ocean.
*"Clean work. I have another target for you."*
Mika didn't respond immediately. She jumped down three stairs, tucked, and rolled. When she landed, her voice was masked—altered by the hardware in her burner. It came out low, raspy, and male.
"No names, no job."
"This one has no name," the voice replied. "Only a description: *The man with the moon quarter on his chest.*"
Mika stopped at the next landing.
"No name," she said again, "no job."
"You'll be paid *fifty million dollars*."
Silence.
For three whole seconds, nothing moved—not even the air.
Then Mika tilted her head back and let out a jagged, hysterical *laugh*. It echoed off the stairwell like a scream, manic and delighted.
"You don't play small," she said, voice crackling. "We'll talk."
She dropped the call as two guards reached the floor below.
One rushed her. She let him grab her wrist.
Then, with surgical precision, she twisted his elbow backward with a crunch and flipped him over her shoulder. He slammed into the floor, howling.
She *straddled his back*, wrenching his arm behind him.
"You don't get paid enough for this," she whispered, dragging her fingernail down the back of his neck before pushing off and sprinting past him.
The streets outside were flooding with chaos. Guests running, sirens howling. Police drones buzzed overhead like angry hornets. Mika slid into the crowd with ease, now wearing a dull trench coat and carrying her rifle case like a musician's instrument.
In the confusion, she was nobody.
Invisible again.
Her hotel room was already wiped.
No trace. No DNA. No trail.
She had a bag waiting in the vent behind the TV—cash, passports, burner phones, three sets of clothing, and a small gold token with a wolf's head engraved on it.
The mark of her original client. The one who'd pulled her from darkness years ago and made her something *useful*.
She pulled out a fresh phone. Not yet activated. Then paused.
The moon quarter.
She whispered it aloud to herself.
*"The man with the moon quarter on his chest."*
It sounded like a storybook line. A myth. A warning whispered in a haunted town. No name. No address. Just a mark.
And fifty million dollars.
She zipped the case, pulled on her cap, and vanished into the alley behind the hotel just as the authorities arrived.
As she walked, blending into the shadows cast by city lights, she felt something stir in her chest.
A sense of *thrill*. Of danger. Of purpose.
Not because of the money. Not even because of justice.
But because Mika had never hunted a *ghost* like herself before.
And this time...
the hunter might just become the prey.