The phone buzzed again, and this time, Alexa didn't hesitate to answer, because she already knew who it was.
"Administrator," she said flatly, her voice cool as steel.
"Agent 07," came the response. It was crisp, emotionless, and threaded with authority. "You've been dormant for too long. It's time to remind the world who you are."
Alexa leaned against the window frame, as the city lights stretched far below like a web of secrets. Her hand instantly tightened around the phone. "You didn't call just to flatter me. Who's the target?"
A brief silence, and then the voice dropped lower, deliberate. "Dante Moretti. The drug lord turned politician. He's running for office under a new identity. We need him eliminated before he cements power. He's already made contact with the YOTTA syndicate."
That last name made Alexa's blood still. "YOTTA?" she repeated, her tone sharpening. "You're saying they're connected?"
"They always were," the Administrator replied. "You just didn't see it before."
Alexa's jaw flexed. Of course. The YOTTA—where young mafia heirs were conditioned, stripped of their emotions. The very word was poison now. If Dante was linked to them, that meant the threat to Aaron wasn't a coincidence.
Her silence stretched too long, so the Administrator spoke again. "Agent, are you compromised?"
Alexa's lips twitched into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Compromised? No. Just making sure you understand — if I take this job, it won't be clean."
"Do whatever you must. But be quick, and be unseen."
A pause. The faint hum of encrypted static buzzed through the line.
Then Alexa said quietly, "Consider him already dead."
The line went dead.
She stood there for a moment, her reflection in the window staring back — sharp eyes, unreadable expression, the ghost of the woman she'd been before Marcus' words burned her alive. That Alexa — the one with warmth and fear — she tucked her away now.
She reached beneath her desk, pressing her thumb to a hidden lock. The drawer slid open, revealing a sleek black case lined with tools of death — silencer, blade, compact dart gun, ID scrambler. Every piece had its purpose. Every purpose had its weight.
As she strapped the weapons to her thigh holster, her mind whispered Marcus' words again — You have no right to claim anything here.
"Fine," she murmured to herself, voice low and razor-edged. "Then I'll claim my shadows instead."
The mansion lights dimmed behind her as she slipped out into the night — quiet, swift, lethal.
And as she disappeared into the darkness, the name Dante Moretti lingered in her mind like a promise.
Scene 2
The air in the underground meeting hall was thick with the smell of cigar smoke and secrets.
A long mahogany table stretched across the room, its polished surface shining under the dim amber lights. Six men sat around it — each one powerful enough to wipe out a city block with a single command.
At the head sat Marcus Delacroix. Calm. Collected. Dangerous.
He didn't speak at first; he just tapped a finger against the armrest, each measured rhythm echoing like a countdown.
"So," said a man to his right. He was silver-haired and draped in a suit too expensive for decency. "The shipments from the East have been intercepted. Twice. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Croix?"
Marcus tilted his head; his expression was unreadable. "If my hands were that dirty, you wouldn't be alive to ask."
A few men chuckled. Others didn't.
Across from him, another voice — deep, oily, serpentine — slid into the conversation. "Word is, someone's cleaning house in the south docks. Assassinations. Silent ones. No traces."
Marcus' gaze lifted slightly. Alexa.
He masked the flicker of realization beneath a calm smirk. "If someone's doing that kind of work, I'd say we owe them thanks. Competition's bad for profits."
A low hum of agreement. Glasses clinked. But beneath the easy camaraderie was something sharp, a current of mistrust humming through every exchange.
The silver-haired man leaned forward. "Speaking of cleaning house… what's this I hear about YOTTA moving again?"
The word hit the room like a blade. A few of the younger men shifted uncomfortably. Marcus, though, didn't move.
"YOTTA's been silent for years," he said. "Ghost stories to keep the new recruits in line."
But the older man's smirk didn't fade. "Ghosts don't usually leave signatures, Marcus. And yet, one of our safehouses just got torched. The mark on the wall — a single 'Y.' You telling me that's coincidence?"
Marcus' fingers froze mid-tap. He didn't answer. The silence that followed said enough.
Another man, this one bulkier and more scarred than the rest, grunted. "Rumor is, Dante Moretti's behind it. He's been making quiet moves — building connections with the political elite, the syndicates, even the northern gangs. Word is, he's rebuilding YOTTA from the inside."
"Impossible," someone muttered. "He wouldn't dare—"
"Wouldn't he?" Marcus cut in, voice like velvet over steel. "Men like Dante don't rebuild unless they're sure they can finish the job. And if he's making noise in my territory…" He leaned back in his chair, the shadows cutting across his face. "…then he's already dead."
The tension broke only when a ringtone pierced the heavy silence — sharp, shrill, out of place.
Everyone turned.
It was the silver-haired man. He frowned, picking up the phone, his eyes darting to Marcus as he pressed it to his ear.
"Speak," he snapped.
A beat. Then his expression drained of color.
Marcus straightened. "What is it?"
The man didn't answer immediately — his hand trembled slightly, and when he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"…It's him. Dante. He wants to talk. Now."
The room went still. Every gaze shifted to Marcus.
And Marcus… smiled. But it wasn't a pleasant smile — it was the kind of smile that promised blood.
Scene 3
The night covered around Dante Moretti's mansion like a velvet cloak—too quiet, too staged.
Every inch of the place screamed wealth and rot, from the marble lions at the gate to the chandelier dripping crystals over the grand hall. But underneath it all, the air stank of fear and smoke. The kind of fear that came when a man knew his past was catching up to him.
And right on schedule… it had.
A gloved hand slid open the upstairs window—silent, practiced.
A whisper of movement, a flicker of silver—then Alexa slipped in like a ghost.
She moved through the shadows with the confidence of someone who'd danced with death too many times to count. Her blade rested at her hip, her eyes flat, emotionless. Gone was the gentle caretaker the mansion knew; in her place was the assassin the underworld whispered about—the Silent Assassin.
Downstairs, Dante poured himself another drink with shaky fingers. He'd been waiting. He knew she'd come.
"I was wondering," he said, voice rasping, eyes darting to the corners of the room. "How long the great Delacroix's little toy would take to find me."
A cool voice answered from behind him. "I'm no one's toy."
The glass slipped from his hand and shattered. He turned—and froze.
There she was, framed by moonlight. Blonde hair gleaming like a halo gone wrong, eyes cold as winter steel.
"Dante Moretti," she said, stepping closer. "You've caused a lot of noise for a man with so much to hide."
He gave a dry laugh. "Hide? My dear girl, I don't hide. I build. Rebuild. And I know things you wouldn't dare whisper."
Alexa tilted her head, unimpressed. "You've got ten seconds before I prove otherwise."
Dante swallowed, his smirk trembling. "You think Marcus Delacroix is the hero in your story, don't you? That he's just another grieving widower trying to protect his boy?"
Her jaw tightened. "…Keep talking."
"Oh, I will." He leaned forward, voice dropping low. "He's one of us, girl. He was one of YOTTA's prodigies. The best they ever made. The heir they trained to rebuild the old order. And you—" He gave a bitter laugh. "You're walking right into his design. Don't you see? You're just another pawn on his board."
"Why are you after Aaron?" she asked blankly, like she was about to put the bullet through his skull the moment her instincts told her it wasn't the right answer he was delivering.
"Oh," he said, "You mean, Marcus' boy? He's been quite a trouble-maker lately, and I just had to suggest Marcus; besides, he's one of the board leaders of the YOTTA."
For a moment, Alexa said nothing. The silence pressed in, heavy and sharp.
Then she took another step forward, her tone colder than ice. "You expect me to believe the words of a dying man?"
Dante tried to rise—but the ropes at his wrists held fast. That's when he noticed. His hands were bound. His ankles, too. His body was trembling, slick with sweat.
"When did—"
"You talk too much," Alexa said softly.
The shadows around her seemed to move, to breathe. Every inch of her posture was predatory now—controlled, precise, deadly. She crouched in front of him, her dagger glinting faintly.
"I came here for one thing, Dante," she whispered. "Justice."
He laughed weakly. "You mean vengeance. Don't lie to yourself, girl. You wear death too well to still call it justice."
For the first time, a faint smile touched Alexa's lips—but it wasn't kind. "Maybe I stopped pretending a long time ago."
Dante's smirk faltered. "Please—don't—"
But the words never finished.
The lights flickered once, the air thickened, and in a blink—she was gone.
Only the soft creak of the chair remained, the ropes cutting deep into Dante's wrists. He screamed for his guards—but the mansion stayed silent.
And then he saw it.
A single blade pinned to the table, glinting under the moonlight—its edge still wet with red.
Next to it, a message, scrawled in clean, deliberate strokes:
"For the sins you built, I'll make sure to take down everyone involved."
Dante's breathing hitched.
He looked toward the window—just in time to catch a flash of white disappearing into the night.
The Silent Assassin was gone.
And somewhere across the city, Marcus' phone began to ring.