The night itself was sharp and alive as the wind blew through the hem of her black coat as Alexa stood on the rooftop. She, however, held still like the city had just learned to breathe around her.
A voice buzzed in her ear. "Status?"
Her lips barely moved. "Target eliminated."
A short pause. "Copy. Return to base."
She slipped the earpiece off and stood firm this time. She didn't have time for dramatic exits, nor did she have time to do all that flair; besides, the work was done. When she was already off the rooftop, the city was already struck by the news of what she had just done.
Reporters gathered in front of the building two blocks away, their lights flashed, and their voices were rising with confusion, shock, and a hint of surprise.
"Clean shot, straight to the skull… no trace of the shooter—""Authorities are baffled. Whoever pulled this off fired from an impossible distance. No witnesses, no leads."Some are calling it the perfect assassination."
Alexa, meanwhile, walked past the chaos like nothing happened, her hood up, and her steps unhurried. They could talk all night, but they would never get their hands on the killer: Alexa, who disappeared into the night like smoke.
The base was buzzing when she walked in. The men sat on the steel benches like they owned the place, their weapons half-disassembled on the tables, the air thick with oil and, of course, their ego.
"Hey, look who's back—our golden girl.
"Thirteen years in and still making headlines nobody can trace.
"She should celebrate with us tonight. I'll buy the drinks."
She didn't even slow her pace to answer or exchange words with them."Drinks? You couldn't afford my silence, let alone my company."
Then laughter broke out, some jeering, some impressed. Another one tried his luck.
"Come on, Alexa. You can't keep turning us down forever."
She arched a brow, deadpan. "Watch me."
That alone ended the conversation, as she left them behind without sparing them another look. Her boots echoed as she made her way to the far corridor.
The Administrator's office was quiet, sterile, and oblivious to the noise outside. The man behind the desk slid a file across the desk.
"Good work tonight," he said quietly without looking up at her, "But you do not have much time to rest."
Alexa took the file and looked at the name printed on top of it. It was bold and heavy.
Marcus Delacroix.
She saw photographs, holdings, and a list of men who bled in private but smiled in public. Then she saw another photo of a boy, holding a toy car, his eyes bent slightly toward the light.
"A nanny? You sure you want an assassin to play house?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
The administrator towered his fingers.
"Not to play. To be unseen. He's not only a businessman; he's a node. The men around him move money, favors, and names. We need access—routes, ledgers, faces. That requires proximity." He let that sink in. "You're the only one I trust with that kind of slow work."
She folded the file shut. "Slow work's not really my style."
"Let's say, it's precise," he corrected slowly. "You were good on the rooftop because you understand patience. Proximity is patience turned lethal. You're quiet when you need to be. You're visible when you need to be. You're dangerous in ways they don't see coming."
She listened to what he had to say, the paper still in her hand like it was a bargain.
He tapped a line in the dossier where Marcus's son was listed—six, maybe seven. "Aaron." Then his voice softened for a fraction of a second, making the sentence sound important: "He's a way in. We'll give you the papers. The agency will file the references. You go in as a nanny. You watch. You record. You find the men who walk past the liars. You bring back what we need."
She looked at him, at the wrinkle between his brows, then back at the boy's photo. A memory she'd folded into a corner of herself shifted: a small closet door, the smell of smoke, the sound of a mother's voice cut off. She kept that memory under glass.
"And why me?" she asked, carefully neutral.
"Because you're good," he said. "Because you're patient, because you don't play at being human—you understand the difference. And because…" he paused, then chose the next words like a man dropping a stone into still water, "…because this one may help you find something you've wanted for a long time."
She stared at him. "Find what?"
He looked up, and for a heartbeat, he called her by the other name, the one that mattered in a different money. "Find who took you from your home, April."
The name landed with heat. April. The sound was small and terrible and private. For a second, she could feel the closet's wood against her back.
She closed the file slowly, but her face didn't change, and her voice didn't even crack. "You're offering me a job."
"And a lead," he said. "We can't promise anything. But Marcus's circle is tangled in the same webs that swallowed your parents. If you're willing to go inside, we can place evidence, coax witnesses, and nudge bones. It's not clean. It's not quick. But it's a path."
She weighed the words like a weapon. Vengeance had the soft, magnetic pull of a planet. Duty had its own gravity. She neither flinched nor smiled.
"Fine," she said finally. "I'll take the assignment."
He nodded once, relieved, business already arranging itself. "Agency will produce your identity. Alexa Rowe. Nanny. Papers in three days. Interview in four. You leave in a week."
She stood, the folder tucked under her arm like an outline for a future life. "One condition," she said.
He blinked. "Name it."
"You make sure no one in there harms the kid. He's a route, not a target." Her voice was flat, but there was steel beneath it. "I'll get what we need. I won't let a child be the toll."
The administrator's eyes went a degree softer. "Agreed."
She left the office, the file a neat centre between the life she wore and the life they would dress her in. In the corridor, the gossip resumed—less childish now, edged with the sharp thing that forms when business and legend meet.