The peace was the deepest he'd known in years. The slow, rhythmic cadence of their breathing had synced, a gentle tide pulling them both under. Her body was a warm curve against his back, her arm draped over his side, her hand resting lightly on his chest. The scent of her, of them, was a potent lullaby. For the first time since the first message, the relentless engine of his vigilance sputtered and died. He fell into a dreamless, profound sleep, unaware of the storm brewing within her.
He woke to sunlight. A thin, grudging light, filtering through the gaps in the floral curtains, painted the room in muted hues. He woke to the scent of morning, tinged faintly with the lingering aroma of her perfume, yet starkly devoid of the warmth he'd felt moments before. He stirred, turning over slightly to find an empty space where she had been nestled.
A chill, not of temperature, but of the deepest dread, snaked through him. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
His eyes opened. He was on his side, facing the door. He started to turn, to see if she was in the bathroom, his hand instinctively reaching for the concealed handle of the bedside table, a familiar comfort in the unfamiliar tension.
A voice stopped him. It was her voice, but stripped of all its smoky warmth from the night before. It was flat, cold, and precise.
Anya stood beside the bed, already dressed. Her expression was not one of regret or conflict. It was unreadable, a mask of cool, professional detachment, hardening in the morning light. And in her hand, held with a steady, practiced grip, was a small, elegant pistol. It was matte black, almost delicate-looking, with a bizarre, almost whimsical heart-shaped cutout in the slide near the muzzle. A heart gun. A custom piece for assassins who enjoyed a cruel joke, or perhaps, a cruel twist of fate.
It was pointed directly at his forehead.
His breath caught in his throat. He saw the dust motes dancing in the beam of sunlight between them, the same motes he'd watched earlier, yet now, they seemed to mock him, taunting him with the illusion of peace that had been shattered. He saw the faint trace of lipstick she'd reapplied, a cruel irony in the stark light of morning. He saw the unwavering certainty in her hazel eyes, a stark contrast to the warmth he remembered, and a horrifying confirmation of what was about to happen.
"Don't move."
He froze. Every muscle in his body went wire-tight, and his hand, still grasping at the table, tightened its grip. His mind raced, piecing together the silence, the absence, and the metallic click that had somehow registered in his subconscious. The quiet, pre-dawn terror was tangible.
"The bonus for bringing you in alive was persuasive," she said, her voice devoid of any emotion. "But after last night, I've decided a clean kill is preferable. Less messy."
Her finger tightened on the trigger.
The intimacy of the moment was more devastating than any ambush. She wasn't a faceless mercenary in a hallway. She was the woman whose taste was still on his lips, whose sighs were still echoing in his memory. She had disarmed him in every way possible, and now she was going to kill him with a gun made for cynical lovers.
The barrel of the heart gun looked like a bottomless black eye, staring into his soul.
He heard the faint, metallic click, a sound that felt impossibly loud in the still morning air. A sound he knew intimately, yet this time, it held a different, more menacing resonance.
Slowly, carefully, he turned his head on the pillow, his neck stiff and aching, just enough to see.
The world did not slow down. It remained a brutal, hyper-focused reality, each detail clear and chilling. He didn't speak. He didn't beg or question. He stared at her, his impassive mask hardening into place. The Ghost was back. And this time, there was no escape.