Dawn doesn't come the way it should.
There's light, yes—but it's filtered, muted, like the house is deciding how much of the day I'm allowed to have. The wristband hums softly as I wake, already tracking, already judging.
My phone is waiting on the nightstand.
No vibration this time.
Just a message.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Target briefing in five minutes.
I don't look at the glass. I don't give them the satisfaction.
Instead, I sit up slowly, grounding myself in the weight of my body, the cool floor beneath my feet. I take a breath and let it settle—not fear, not anger.
Intent.
The door opens exactly on time.
The woman in black enters alone.
She's immaculate, as always. Controlled. Untouchable. She carries a folder—not a tablet, not a screen. Paper.
That feels deliberate.
"Good morning," she says calmly. "You'll want coffee after this."
"I won't," I reply.
A flicker of amusement crosses her face.
She sets the folder down between us and slides it across the table.
"This is your first assignment," she says. "You'll act independently."
My chest tightens—but I don't let it show.
"Define independently," I say.
"You choose the method," she replies. "The outcome is non-negotiable."
I open the folder.
A name.
A face.
Someone young. Clean-cut. Harmless-looking.
My stomach turns.
"I don't know him," I say.
"That's intentional," she replies. "Familiarity clouds execution."
I flip the page.
Details. Habits. Weaknesses. Connections.
Then the last line.
STATUS: PROTECTED — UNTIL TODAY
"What did he do?" I ask.
She folds her hands. "He noticed something he wasn't supposed to."
"That's it?"
"That's always it."
I close the folder slowly.
"You want him dead," I say.
"No," she replies smoothly. "We want him removed."
"From where?"
She meets my eyes. "From relevance."
I feel the shift inside me—the moment where this stops being theoretical.
"This is my consequence," I say.
"This is your demonstration," she corrects.
The door opens again.
The dark-suited man steps in, jaw tight.
"This isn't agreed," he snaps.
The woman doesn't look at him. "It is."
"He's not ready," he says.
She finally turns her head.
"He already is," she says. "Or he wouldn't still be here."
Silence stretches.
The woman in black looks back at me.
"You have until sunset," she says. "After that, we intervene."
She stands.
"And our interventions," she adds lightly, "are rarely clean."
The door closes behind her.
The dark-suited man exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.
"Tell me you won't do this," he says.
I look at him.
"I won't do it the way they expect," I reply.
"That's not reassuring."
"It shouldn't be."
He steps closer, lowering his voice.
"If you go through with this," he says, "there's no pretending anymore."
"I know."
"They'll never see you as collateral again."
"I know."
"And you'll be responsible," he finishes. "Not reactive. Not coerced."
I meet his gaze.
"That's the point."
He studies me for a long moment—then nods once.
"Then don't miss."
They let me leave the house.
That's how I know this is real.
No guards. No escort. Just a car waiting at the gates like I've always belonged to this world. The driver doesn't speak.
The city looks normal. Alive. Oblivious.
It makes what I'm about to do feel obscene.
The target works in a glass building downtown. Mid-level analyst. No power. No protection.
Just access.
I don't storm in. I don't threaten. I don't seduce.
I wait.
Timing is everything.
When he steps out for lunch, phone in hand, I fall into step beside him like coincidence.
"You're late," I say.
He looks up, confused. "I'm sorry—"
I hold up my phone, screen angled just enough for him to see the image.
A still frame from the footage he wasn't supposed to notice.
Color drains from his face.
"Who are you?" he whispers.
"Someone who knows what happens next," I reply calmly.
He swallows hard. "I didn't tell anyone."
"I know," I say. "That's why you're still breathing."
That gets his attention.
"What do you want?" he asks.
I stop walking. He stops too, trapped by politeness and fear.
"I want you to disappear," I say. "Publicly."
He laughs weakly. "That's not—"
I lean closer, lowering my voice.
"You will resign by end of day," I continue. "You'll leak enough questionable behavior to destroy your credibility. Not criminal. Just… ugly."
His breath comes faster. "I won't—"
I show him another photo.
His sister.
At work. At home. Safe—but watched.
"I'm not threatening her," I say calmly. "I'm reminding you how many people are affected by relevance."
Tears well in his eyes.
"This will ruin me," he whispers.
"Yes," I agree. "But it will spare you."
He nods shakily.
I step back.
"Sunset," I say. "Choose quickly."
I walk away without looking back.
My phone buzzes as soon as I turn the corner.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Status?
I don't reply.
By sunset, the headlines break.
Resignation. Questionable conduct. Trust eroded.
Nothing illegal.
Everything irreversible.
I sit alone in the suite, watching the footage roll across the screen.
The wristband hums—steady. Satisfied.
The door opens.
The woman in black enters, tablet in hand.
"Well done," she says. "Clean. Efficient."
She studies me.
"How do you feel?" she asks.
I think of the man's face. The way his life collapsed without a single scream.
"Like I chose," I say.
She smiles faintly.
"That's what makes it destruction," she replies. "Not force. Intent."
The dark-suited man stands in the doorway, watching me like he's seeing something new—and dangerous.
My phone vibrates one last time.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:Confirmed. Asset neutralized.
Then another message appears beneath it.
Different sender.
No rules.
No numbering.
Just words.
You did exactly what he would have done.
My breath catches.
I look up sharply.
"Who sent that?" I ask.
The woman in black pauses.
Then, for the first time, she looks uncertain.
"That," she says slowly, "is not one of ours."
The screens flicker.
And somewhere beyond the glass, the game changes shape.