Prolog
I sit at my desk in this far too quiet apartment, still smelling of paint and old dust. The light outside is fading slowly, breaking softly through the window. It’s that moment just before darkness—when everything feels oddly real, and yet so wrong.
The wallpaper peels at the corners, like it wants to escape on its own. A spiderweb hangs in the far corner. My pen looks like a cat chewed on it, but I can’t stop biting it myself. The screen of my laptop flickers—cold and silent.
I scroll past faces, old names, places, comments. It feels like I’m digging through a nightmare I’ve archived myself. Then my hand stops. The mouse freezes beneath my fingers. A tingling creeps up my spine like icy spider legs.
I lean closer to the screen, my pulse stumbles briefly. There he is. Or at least... it looks a hell of a lot like him.
I almost whisper, “Of course. Knew you wouldn’t stay buried forever.” I want to believe it’s him. I almost need to. Because if it’s not… then all of this was just another pointless chase.
I smirk, lopsided. “That asshole still has the same haircut. Eight fucking years…”
My heart pounds. A strange, burning feeling—satisfaction, excitement, rage. Maybe all at once.
I scroll further. And then… there it is. A location tag. Public. Open. Just casually dropped.
A bitter, barely visible smile brushes across my lips as I study the outline of his profile. “Ah… there you are. You want to be found, don’t you?” I speak softly, like I could reach through the digital surface and touch him. I want to believe it’s him. I have to believe it. Otherwise, it’s all just smoke again.
I mutter sarcastically, “How the hell does that bastard still wear the same damn haircut after eight years…”
I step into the bedroom. My dagger lies on the table—black, matte, sharp as my resolve. I test the weight of it in my palm, studying the blade like it’s a trusted friend.
I got this dagger from my father, Lucan Rashwan. The only thing he left me after his death. Back when I still belonged to the world of the Mafia.
I let it glide through my fingers, spin it, catch it again. The hilt fits perfectly in my hand—like an extension of my soul. A faint, confident smile plays on my lips.
On the way to the wardrobe, I fasten it around my waist using the leather sheath.The sheath clings to my body like a dark secret hidden beneath my clothes. It presses against my skin, heavy and familiar—like a memory I’ll never let go of. And honestly… I don’t want to.
I head into the kitchen. Saunter over to the island and grab an apple from the bowl. I bite into it, savor the crisp snap, then toss the rest into the neighbor’s yard. He’s obsessed with keeping everything clean. Let him deal with it.
In the hallway, I reach for my black wool coat, slip into it, and grab the blue leather bag on my way out. Of course, they had to be designer pieces. Expensive brands. Not exactly cheap—but they look good, and I feel damn comfortable in them. Which is why I just had to steal them.
I shake out my blonde hair from the collar and let it fall loosely around my shoulders. A gesture that feels freeing—empowering. In the mirror near the door, I pause for a moment. The woman staring back at me is a blend of vengeance and elegante. Like a black panther.
“You're still breathing, but not for much longer,” I whisper to the reflection as I slide my black sunglasses into place, masking my pale blue eyes. Naturally, they’re essential. To complete the look, I slip my feet into raven-black boots.
Paris greets me with filth and bodies. Ugh. This city stinks—trash on the ground, the stench of sweat in the air. Not exactly my scene. The crowd still overwhelms me. At least I’m used to the noise by now. You can hear it just as clearly from inside my apartment.
Each step echoes quietly off the pavement as I make my way to the place he usually walks around this time. I move with practiced ease—controlled, inconspicuous. Slipping between the silhouettes of other lives, never part of them.
A couple laughs loudly on the corner—drunk, clumsy. A cat darts across the street, quick and cautious. For a moment, I envy it—its instincts, its clarity.
I let my gaze drift across the building. The city pulses with life, and I’m just one beat within it. But mine no longer matches the rhythm of the rest.
I pass graffiti plastered like scars across walls and glowing storefronts stacked with things I’ve never wanted. Everything here seems too bright, too fake—like life only exists if it’s bought.
I turn into a side alle. Narrower. Quieter. More alien. The asphalt cracks beneath my feet, and the streetlights flicker above me, uncertain whether they even want to shine.
I pause by a small square, where a fountain drips softly. The last rays of sunlight strike the water, making it shimmer. I see my reflection ripple in the surface—fragmente. As if it’s saying: You’re not whole.
I swallow hard. A chill runs down my spine. My skin prickles, nausea stirs. I pull my hood up.
On my way, I coincidentally pass the place where my target is supposed to be. I walk the same route, keeping him in sight without making it obvious. No suspicious glances. Just another face in the city.
As he slows down, I casually pass by him. An inner grin flares up. I don’t care that there are people around. I just need to watch them. Act quickly. Precisely. Smoothly. That’s all. I’ve trained for this.
As I walk parallel to him, my hand slips beneath the coat. The dagger flips into my hand in one fluid, practiced motion. One quick, clean thrust into the femoral artery. The blood shoots up like a dirty fountain.
I feel the resistance—life fading beneath my grip. It roars in my ears, my pupils narrow, the world dulls. It feels wickedly good. The vengeance burns sweet and deep in my chest.
I catch his face as it twists in disbelief. His body jerks. A faint sound escapes him—barely more than a stolen breath. He looks sideways in confusion. Just a heartbeat of pain and realization. Then he searches for what just happened.
But I’m already gone. Melded into the shadows, into the crowd, into the street. The dagger’s back in its place. I vanished before I ever appeared.
I look away.
I don’t need to see it.
I know what I’ve done.
I know what’s coming next.
And I know it was right.
... Or at least, I hope it was.
Even now, as my steps carry me away, a voice lingers inside me—wondering if it was the right one. If I’ve made a mistake. Again.
If I’ll ever know for sure. But I shove the thought away.
Not today.
Today, I was fast. Clear. Decisive.
And for a moment—it felt like control. The others only notice when he collapses. Screams pierce the street.
Chaos erupts—more noise in a city already drowning in it.
