I. 𝒱𝑒𝓁𝓋𝑒𝓉 𝐻𝑜𝓊𝓇
“The memory came back like smoke. Like music from another room.”
Smoke curled above her head like a halo made in hellfire.
It hung slow in the air—lazy, thick, like time itself was stuck in molasses. The blunt trembled between her fingers, half-burnt, ash clinging to her knuckles before it fell into the stained motel sheets adding to the buildup of God knows what; that bed had held too many stories. Too many regrets. And none of them cared about who she was or the melancholy that lingered.
She didn’t move.Didn’t blink.Barely breathing.
The smell in the room matched the moment; it smelled grim the mildew and built of layers of smoke from both the present and the past filled the room.
Her eyes were red and puffy. Not from the weed—but from everything else. The crying. The nights without sleep. The days without answers.
A bottle of Hennessy teetered on the nightstand’s edge, daring gravity. Another one already lay empty on the stained carpet, its shadow stretched like guilt across the floor. Her dignity was probably hiding underneath it.
The walls throbbed with low, buzzing lamplight—yellow and sickly, flickering like it was on life support. The bulb gave off just enough glow to show the cracked mirror across the room.
She was curled in the center of the mattress, an oversized shirt that clearly wasn’t hers clung to her and draped down over her knees, legs pulled tight to her chest like they might keep her from breaking.
One hand rested on her stomach.
Like she was holding something in.
Orsomeone.
Her chest hitched with short, uneven breaths. Her lips parted like she might scream—but all that escaped was silence. Tired, heavy silence.
It had been two weeks since the trial.Two weeks since they dragged him away in cuffs.Two weeks of complete and constant silence.
He wasn’t coming back.
She let out a laugh—if it could be called that.It was ugly. Wet. Hollow. Like it’d crawled out of the bottom of the bottle.
“What’s fucked up is that you’re so fucking stupid but I still wish you would just come knockin’ at the door... come and prove to me that this is just a nightmare..” she muttered, voice raw, ashing the words into the air like a curse.
The hand on her stomach stayed.
The baby wasn’t showing. Not yet.But she felt it. The ache. The weight.The war he left behind.
The war she had to fight alone.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A blue glow lit up the wall.
Blocked call.
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she slid beneath the covers like a child trying to vanish. Like maybe if she hid deep enough, the world wouldn’t see her. The pain wouldn’t see her. The decision she hadn’t made yet wouldn’t find her.
But monsters know where you sleep.And this time... somethingwasthere.The room got quiet—tooquiet.Even the light stopped flickering.
She could hear it now... footsteps. Slow. Muffled like they were moving through water. Getting closer. Heavy. Measured. Inescapable.
A shadow crawled under the door. Then stretched—too long, too crooked—across the carpet. It moved like it waslookingfor her. Like it already knew where she was.
She couldn’t move.Couldn’t breathe.The doorknob twisted.
The covers pressed against her face like a coffin lid. Her fingers gripped her stomach, desperate, protective. The blunt rolled off the bed.
Then—
BANG.
The door flew open.
A voice—low and familiar—whispered something she couldn’t hear.
Something was coming for her.
And then—
Snap.
Her eyes flew open.
The motel vanished.The air cleared.The smoke was gone.
Now it was sleek black silk. Marble floors. The violet heartbeat of Nocta’s skyline throbbing through panoramic, bulletproof glass.
The silence here waschosen.
She sat up, breath sharp and shallow. The dream still clung to her skin like sweat. Her heart kicked against her ribs, still hearing footsteps that weren’t real.
She didn’t shake. Didn’t cry.
Just blinked. Once. Twice.
Her phone buzzed again.This time, it was real.
Business.
She rose from the bed with a grace sharpened by grief. Moving toward the mirror like the girl in the motel never existed. And to her she didn’t.
And she didn’t look back.
South Nocta. VIP Lounge. 11:39PMChopped & Screwed remix of “Codeine Crazy” leaking from low speakers. Purple haze in the air. Cashmere tension everywhere.
She stepped out of the matte black G-Wagon, its finish soaking up the glow of the streetlamps like shadows made skin. The purr of the engine echoed low, beast-like—controlled violence in a feminine silhouette. The rims glinted with rose gold, not too loud, just enough for the streets to remember her by. Soft pastel pink accents kissed the custom stitching on the seats and glowed under the car’s underlights—not bubblegum, never that. This was boss-shit elegance. Femme and fatal.
Thirty inches of jet-black hair flowed down her back like silk—a bone-straight bustdown with a part so precise it could cut through glass. Her edges? Sculpted like art. She didn’t wear a crown, but she didn’t need to.
Tonight wasn’t about making a statement. It was just business. But Zha’ni DeLoux couldn’t step outside without the world stopping to recalibrate.
She wore a long-sleeve black bodysuit, fabric soft like second skin, with thumbholes that showed off her almond-shaped nails—nude base, rose gold chrome tips, sharp and unforgiving. The bodysuit clung to her curves, scooped just enough to tease the dip of her collarbone, where a dainty choker with a pink diamond charm rested like a secret threat.
Her pants were fitted leather cargos, matte black, hugging her hips with side pockets and silver zipper hardware. Utility, but make it luxury. And on her feet: custom Versace platform boots, black with a pastel pink sole—silent, but deadly. Like her.
No heavy jewelry. Just a rose gold Cartier ring on her trigger finger and a pair of small iced hoops. Her makeup was soft but surgical—subtle smoked liner, glossy mauve lips, and shimmer under her eyes that masked the hell she just woke up from. She didn’t look like she’d spent the morning drowning in trauma. She looked like she’d never drowned at all.
Her fragrance? Tom Ford Rose Prick—velvety, spicy, with thorns. Sweet on the inhale, dangerous on the linger.
Tucked under her cropped utility jacket was her custom rose gold Glock, safety on, silencer attached. Fashion met function. She never pulled it unless she meant it.
As she moved toward the velvet-roped entrance of the lounge, heads turned. Conversations dropped. Eyes locked in. Some with lust. Others with fear. No one with power.
The bouncer didn’t speak. He just stepped aside like God hit pause on everything else.
Zha’ni didn’t smile.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t acknowledge the weight in her chest.
She just walked in like she owned the night—and maybe she did.
Lights low. Music humming like seduction.Velvet curtains. Gold rims. Private sections dripping in synthetic mystery.
Zha’ni stepped in like sin in stilettos.
Booth 6. Back left. That’s where he was.
Delano Ortiz— halfway slumped, pupils shaking.Shaky fingers. Half a nosebleed wiped clean.
Delano had that Latino pretty-boy aura dipped in street grime—a slick-talking Boricua with a past full of wins and a present soaked in white lies and white powder.
He stood 5′10", maybe 5′11" if the Air Maxes hit right. Compact build, lean muscle, but the kind that came more from moving work than moving weights. His skin was a smooth golden caramel, the color of café con leche with sunlight in it—still radiant, but his cheeks had started to sink in lately, his jaw looking more defined than it should’ve. From stress. From drugs.
His eyes were light brown, warm and honeyed, the kind that used to make girls blush. Now they twitched when he blinked too fast. Restless. Cloudy around the edges like something wasn’t wired right upstairs anymore.
His hair was low cut on the sides, curly up top—fade slowly growing out, curls loose and wild like he hadn’t been back to the barber in two, maybe three weeks. He wore a thin gold chain, tucked halfway into his shirt, and two small hoop earrings in each lobe. No tattoos on his face, but his hands and neck were inked up—rosaries, dice, dollar signs, and his abuelita’s name over his collarbone in delicate script.
Delano dressed like he still had it, and maybe in some ways, he did.
Black Amiri tee, slim-fit with the logo loud on the chest. Designer jeans, dark wash with rips at the knees. His Air Max 95s were white and pink—ironic, considering the coke rumors. Still clean, though—his shoes were always clean. A crossbody Louis Vuitton sling bag, bulging with who knows what, rested over his shoulder.
He smelled like Versace Eros, kush smoke, and lemon Henny. Loud but familiar. A scent that lingered for longer than it should.
When he smiled, the gold fang on his left canine gleamed. His voice was smooth, with a soft Puerto Rican accent—Spanglish slipping in and out of his sentences like habit. Girls called him “Nino” in the streets. It used to be a compliment. Now it felt like a warning.
Delano was handsome. Still. But it was handsome with baggage.
The type of man who could pull you in and ruin your life in two languages.
And he never showed up empty-handed, except when it mattered.
Zha’ni slid into the booth smooth like poison.
“You late.”“You fine.”“And you high.”“I’m productive.”“You’re sloppy.”
He laughed. Nervous.
“Look, Zha, mami—don’t trip. I got what you need.”
He dropped the duffle on the table.She didn’t move to open it. Just stared blankly at the bag, then slowly up at him.
“What else you using?”
“Coke. But the clean cut. Nothing stepped on—”
“You think I asked what kind?”
“...No.”
She leaned forward.
“This your third time fucking up a supply run. Last week was the last week. Tonight’s a formality.”
Delano swallowed hard. Wiped sweat from his lip.
“So what? You cuttin’ me off?”
“You cut yourself off.”
He blinked. Tried to laugh it off again — then caught the flicker in her eyes.
But something else caughtherattention.
Movement.
At the edge of the room. Not fast. Not loud.A figure in matte black. Posted near the wall. Watching.
Not dancing. Not sipping. Just still.
Zha’ni clocked it instantly.
‘Who’s that?’ she couldn’t help but think with a mixture of curiosity and unsettledness
Delano was still rambling. Shaky. Then he reached under the table —too fast.
Her hand slipped toward her clutch, fingers brushing the steel of her pink Glock—
“Don’t.”
The voice came from the shadows. Cold. Deep. Calm like water before a storm.
Everyone froze.
Zha’ni turned slowly.
He stepped into the light.
6′2". Locs tied back. Black techwear hoodie. Custom chrome piece gripped low.
Taziel.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” he said — low and direct to Delano, not even glancing at Zha’ni.
She sized him up immediately. Not just his gun — his stance. Balanced. Quiet. Unshakable.
“Who sent you?” she asked.“Not you.”“Clearly.”
Delano started trembling.
“Wait—wait—whoa, whoa... You got the wrong—”
BANG.
Silenced. One to the chest.
Delano’s body jerked back, slumped.
Another shot. Clean to the skull.No mess. No scream. No delay.
Taziel stepped forward and pressed a burner phone to the bloody duffle.Beep. Ping. Transfer complete.
He tucked the burner into his pocket.
“Transaction received,” he muttered.
Zha’ni hadn’t flinched — not visibly.But her heart was racing. She had never seenthatlevel of execution that close.
This wasn’t some hood muscle.This was trained. Calculated.
“You done?” she asked, calm but sharp.
He looked at her. For the first time, really.
Their eyes locked. Her honey-brown glare met his onyx chill.
“Done here,” he said.“Name?”“Don’t got one.”
He turned without warning.Slipped back through the crowd like a shadow born in the dark.
And just like that — he was gone.
Not a single person had screamed.Delano’s body slumped behind gold curtains, undisturbed.
The VIP section held its breath for a moment—shock suspended in crystal glasses and low conversations. But the second Delano’s body slumped to the side, chest caved in, eyes glassy and mouth twitching around a dying prayer, the silence was replaced by the low hum of resumed bass. Louder now. Like it was covering something up.
Zha’ni didn’t blink. She took a slow breath, fixing her coat, already turning her back.
The smell of blood was faint—but fresh. It mixed with kush and cologne, weaving itself into the velvet cushions like a memory no one would speak of.
She lifted her phone. No words. Just a text sent to a number labeled “Sanitize”.
Less than three minutes later, the back entrance opened with a soft buzz.
Two men stepped inside. Dressed in matte black utility gear, boots silent on marble. One carried a duffel bag; the other rolled a discreet black bin on wheels—industrial, locked tight.
They didn’t speak. Not to her. Not to each other.
They worked in tandem—gloved hands moving with the precision of surgeons.
Delano’s body was wrapped in plastic so cleanly it looked like art. His jewelry was stripped. His phone was crushed. His blood was mopped up with a solution that smelled like mint and bleach. A folded plastic square was placed under the velvet seat before they even moved him. No trace. No stains.
By the time a curious server peeked behind the curtain, the scene was spotless. Pristine.
Just a lounge. Just a night. Just business.
Zha’ni stood by the tinted glass, drink in hand, untouched.
“Extra for disposal,” she said softly, not turning around.
One of the cleaners nodded once, slipping a burner phone into her coat pocket.
“Usual drop point?”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to.
The bin was wheeled out. The duffel disappeared. And the air felt... new. Like nothing had ever happened.
Delano Ortiz never existed.
Not in here
This wasn’t new though bodies vanished every day in Nocta.
But the execution? The precision?
That was new.
She turned back toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, letting the skyline sharpen her thoughts. Below, the city breathed smoke and secrets. Neon and crime. Her kind of place.
Her reflection ghosted in the glass—long hair cascading down her back like liquid ink, body outlined in soft satin, the faintest glimmer of rose gold in her jewelry and nails. She looked untouchable. Like sin wrapped in silk.
But behind her eyes... questions brewed.
Him.
She hadn’t forgotten his face. The killer. The mercenary. That... phantom in all black who moved like the night had raised him.
He hadn’t hesitated. Not once.
Zha’ni’s nails tapped her glass as her mind replayed the moment.
The grip. The aim. The exit.
Clean. Calculated. Gone.
Like he was never there.
But she saw him. She felt him, and it bothered her that she couldn’t place him. Not fully.
He wasn’t a ghost to her—not anymore.
Her voice, low and dry, curled into the silence like a spell:
“You don’t shoot like a stranger.”
Her reflection stared back, unreadable and then she turned. She didn’t thank the staff. She didn’t speak to security. She didn’t even finish her drink.
She just walked.
Heels sharp. Shoulders straight.
The queen of Nocta had her crown on. But now she had a name to find.
And the hunt was starting to feel... personal.
I will be editing this through and rechecking as i’m writing and posting but i really hope you all enjoy this chapter as well as the book as a whole 🫶🏾
— N. A.
