The Contract
The city bled neon, a pulsing wound of pinks and blues that smeared across Jericho Steele’s aviators as he leaned against the alley wall. His cigarette glowed like a tiny ember of regret, but regret wasn’t his style. He was the best damn assassin this side of the river, with a name that sounded like a cologne ad and a kill count that’d make a warlord blush. Jericho Steele: the kind of guy who could slit your throat with a paperclip and charm your widow by breakfast.Tonight’s job was simple. Stephanie Voss, 29, nightclub singer, five-foot-six of trouble wrapped in red satin. The contract came from the Syndicate, those shadowy bastards who ran the city like a rigged slot machine. No reason given for the hit—just a photo, a time, and a place. The Velvet Fang, 11 p.m. Her set was starting now.Jericho flicked his cigarette into a puddle, where it hissed like a scorned lover. He adjusted his leather jacket, checked the Glock tucked in his waistband, and slipped a pencil from his pocket—sharpened to a point that could puncture a tire or a trachea. Never know when you’d need to improvise.The Velvet Fang was a dive bar masquerading as a palace, all chrome and velvet draped over a skeleton of broken dreams. Jericho slid into a booth, ordered a whiskey, and watched the stage. The spotlight hit, and there she was: Stephanie Voss. Hair like black silk, eyes that could start a riot, and a voice that made the room forget how to breathe. She crooned a jazzy number, hips swaying like they were daring gravity to try something. Every guy in the place was half in love, half in lust, and Jericho? He was screwed.The contract said one bullet, clean and quick. But as Stephanie’s gaze flicked over the crowd, locking onto his for a split second, Jericho’s finger froze on the trigger he hadn’t even drawn. Those eyes weren’t just trouble—they were a goddamn apocalypse. He smirked, muttering to himself, “Well, shit. This just got complicated.”
