Ash's POV
You don't get far in the syndicate by being the strongest.
You get far by being the most silent.
By watching when everyone else talks.
By keeping your mouth shut when your brain is screaming.
And this morning, mine was fucking on fire.
The briefing room smelled like burnt coffee and sweat. Recruits stood in loose lines, half-hungover, half-hoping they wouldn't get chosen for anything deadly.
I didn't have that luxury.
My name was already glowing red on the holo-wall.
VEGA, A.
VIPER, S.
Again.
Of course.
I clenched my jaw as Seraphina stepped beside me like this was a damn morning jog.
She glanced at the wall. Then at me.
"Try not to bleed too much this time."
"I bleed prettier than you do," I snapped.
She smirked, but her eyes were sharper than glass. "You think I'm pretty?"
"Not even on your best day, princess."
That got a raised brow. Nothing else.
She was too good at not reacting.
Which pissed me off even more.
Our assignment was extraction.
Simple in theory—get in, grab a bag full of encrypted drives from a safehouse in Sector Eleven, and get out before the rival syndicate set it on fire.
Except nothing is ever simple when Seraphina's involved.
The ride there was silent.
Tight.
She drove this time. Fast and smooth. Like a snake weaving through broken terrain.
I pretended not to notice how steady her hands were on the wheel. Or how my leg brushed hers every time we hit a bump.
God, I hated her.
We reached the safehouse in under twenty minutes.
It looked abandoned—shutters rusted, metal doors chained from the inside. But the second I stepped through the back, my instincts flared.
Something was off.
Not wrong.
Off.
I scanned the room while Seraphina crouched at the safe. She cracked the code in seconds, pulling out a reinforced bag with Viper insignia.
She turned. "You good?"
I nodded.
But my eyes were on the desk in the corner. Paperwork scattered. Folders still warm. A drawer slightly ajar.
And under it…
Blood.
Not fresh. But not old either.
I knelt slowly, fingers ghosting the floor. It smeared easily.
I opened the drawer.
There, buried beneath files, was a badge.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
Not syndicate.
Military.
Classified clearance. Burned edges.
But the photo…
My stomach dropped.
It was someone I hadn't seen since the last year I wore a uniform.
Agent Doyle.
Dead. Supposedly. The man who trained me before everything went sideways.
I stared at the ID like it might vanish.
It didn't.
Just lay there, grinning up at me like a corpse that knew my name.
"You coming or planning to redecorate?" Seraphina called from the hallway.
I snapped the drawer shut and rose.
"Coming," I said flatly.
I didn't mention the badge.
Didn't mention the blood.
Didn't mention the part of me that was now convinced the syndicate had lied about more than just body counts.
We made it three blocks before the ambush hit.
Three motorcycles. One black SUV. All Syndrano—rival gang.
Their timing was too perfect.
Which meant someone tipped them off.
Seraphina cursed and yanked the wheel.
I grabbed the rifle from the back seat.
"We're boxed," I growled. "One shot at the alley or we're smoked."
"Get ready."
She hit the gas and swerved hard, slamming through the narrow gap between two dumpsters.
Bullets cracked against the rear glass like angry wasps.
I threw the door open and leaned out, firing fast—two to the driver, one into the tire. The SUV jerked, spun, and slammed into a pole.
We didn't stop.
But two of the bikes followed, engines roaring.
"They're gaining!" I shouted.
Seraphina pulled a switchblade from her belt and tossed it into my lap.
"What the hell am I supposed to do with this, thread a needle?!"
She smirked. "Be creative."
I rolled my eyes. "God, I hope you choke on your own smug one day."
Then I stood, bracing against the frame, and launched the blade.
It hit the front rider square in the shoulder. Not lethal—but messy.
He screamed and veered off.
One left.
I aimed.
BAM.
Headshot.
Blood misted the air as the bike spiraled out.
"Clear," I said, ducking back inside.
Seraphina glanced over. "Nice throw."
"Don't talk to me."
Back at the compound, I filed the report with deadpan efficiency. Left out the military badge. The safehouse blood.
No one needed to know what I found.
Not yet.
Not until I figured out who was playing which side.
Seraphina passed behind me, her voice low.
"You hesitated back there. At the drawer."
I froze.
"Did I?"
"You found something. You didn't tell me."
"I didn't realize I owed you a diary."
She stepped closer.
Way too close.
"Secrets get people killed, Vega."
"Then maybe you should stop keeping so many."
Our eyes locked.
That same heat rose again—burning, biting, coiling under our skin.
Her mouth twitched. Just slightly.
Then she walked away without another word.
Later that night, I went to the sparring hall.
Not for training.
Just to bleed something out of me.
Anger. Tension. That fucking feeling I couldn't name.
I beat three recruits in a row.
Then she showed up.
Again.
Wearing black wraps and a look I wanted to punch off her face.
"Thought you could use a real fight," she said.
I snorted. "Please. You'll be begging for water in ten."
We stepped onto the mat.
No referees. No rules.
She struck first. A jab to the ribs. Quick. Calculated.
I countered with a palm to her throat.
She spun. Elbowed me in the jaw.
"Shit!" I snarled.
My lip split. I tasted blood.
She smirked. "That all you got?"
"Oh, fuck you."
"Buy me dinner first."
I swung hard—fist to cheek. She staggered, just for a second, and I lunged, tackling her to the floor.
We rolled.
Hands gripping. Legs locking. Breaths fast and shallow.
I landed a punch to her ribs—heard the wind leave her lungs.
But she recovered fast, flipped me beneath her.
Pinned.
Hard.
Our faces inches apart.
My chest heaving under hers.
Her eyes blazed.
I could kill her.
She could kill me.
Neither of us moved.
I broke the silence. "You still think I hesitated?"
She nodded. "And I think you're hiding something."
I bared my teeth. "Good. Means I'm doing it right."