Lessons could have been great today. They always left me with something new—not just about the craft, but about myself. That was the quiet magic of art: even within the rigid walls of institutional learning, something raw and beautiful still managed to slip through.

  But I didn’t linger. I had to leave in a hurry.

  Penrose had texted me—short, sharp. No word from Honey since we last spoke. That alone said more than it should have.

  It was bad.

  She could’ve gone radio silent—maybe trying to dodge the fallout from my last job. Or worse: maybe she was dead. Fifty thousand wasn’t just the price of a necklace anymore—it might’ve become the price of a life. A bad trade. All life should be priceless. Shouldn’t it?

  Her absence didn’t just feel wrong. It felt dangerous—especially for me.

  Because if Honey had disappeared, then questions would come next. Accusations. Cleaning up loose ends. I knew how these things went. I’d played too many parts not to recognize the shape of a tragedy before it unfolded.

  And so I was on a bus again, heading toward the city center.

  Despite all her secrecy, Miss Honey wasn’t some shadow in the dark. She wasn’t a thief. Not a spy. She was a businesswoman walking a razor’s edge in a world full of wolves. And that made her vulnerable. It also made her trackable.

  She didn’t know I had found her home months ago. Neither did Penrose. But I had followed her trail after our first meeting—discreetly, quietly. Just in case.

  And today… that caution might save my life.

  --

  I was wearing both the face and hair of Jess Hare now—makeup hastily applied in the back of the bus, wig slipped on the moment I found shadow between two buildings. Miss Honey lived in one of those big apartment complexes with a concierge stationed at the front desk, the kind who thinks he’s the final boss of a fortress.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” I said with a polite tone, warm but not overly familiar.

  He nodded back, professional but not unfriendly. “Good afternoon. How may I help you, ma’am?”

  “I’m here because of Jason,” I replied sweetly. Sorry, Jason—but yours was the first name that popped into my head for this little performance.

  “Jason?” His brows furrowed. “Jason who?”

  “What do you mean, sir?” I blinked in mock confusion.

  The concierge frowned—part confusion, part secondhand embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, Jason…” I sighed dramatically, leaning in slightly, like we were about to share a juicy secret. “I don’t remember his last name. He was a good-looking fella. Wore a suit. At first, at least—if you know what I mean.” I made a gesture that was just on the edge of vulgar.

  He flinched, closing his eyes briefly, clearly disturbed. Bingo.

  “He told me he’d call, but of course, he never did,” I added, just loud enough for the discomfort to linger in the air. “Though, to be fair, I was the one who followed him first.”

  That hooked him. He leaned in, despite himself.

  “Do you have his number, ma’am? Maybe it would be best to call him?” he asked, probably already knowing the answer.

  “Unfortunately not. But when I followed him, I saw him meet another woman. Straight after he was done with me.” I let the words hang for effect, then brought my fist down lightly but firmly on the desk. “She seemed like such a nice lady. I thought they might be lovers. Or married. I just want to warn her that he’s a scumbag.”

  His expression shifted—guarded curiosity now tinged with reluctant sympathy. “Do you know her name?”

  “No, but I know what she looks like and that she lives here. African-American, dreads dyed blonde. Full lips, dimples in her cheeks. Fuller-bodied—real curves, you know? That day she wore a sunny yellow suit, looked radiant. Like she lit up the sidewalk just by standing there.”

  I watched his face carefully—and there it was. Recognition.

  I struck quickly: “I know you can’t let me in. I respect that. But maybe you could call her? Tell her someone needs to speak with her—downstairs, just for a minute?”

  “I don’t know…” he murmured, torn.

  Time for the final push.

  “If someone you loved lied to you—cheated on you—wouldn’t you want to know? She seemed so lovely. She deserves to know the truth.”

  “Why didn’t you confront them right then?” he asked, still clinging to protocol.

  “I gave him the benefit of the doubt,” I said, voice softening. “Maybe I hoped it was a misunderstanding. But then he ghosted me.”

  He sighed, heavily. Then reached for the phone and dialed a number marked 419—fourth floor, apartment nineteen, if my guess was right.

  After a few seconds, the line picked up. She was alive—great fucking news for me.

  “Hello, Mrs. Holden.” Mrs.—so she’s married then. Let’s hope I’m not about to wreck a happy home. “There’s a lady here who’d like to speak with you, if that’s possible.”

  There was a pause—she was speaking on the other end.

  “Well… pretty face, red hair, nicely but plainly dressed.”

  Oh, thank you for that last part, Mr. Concierge. Always lovely to be fashion-reviewed in real time.

  “I’ll ask, Mrs. Holden.” He looked at me now, covering the receiver with his hand. “She wants to know your name.”

  I gave him a small, polite smile. “I’m Jess Hare.”

  --

  She walked down the stairs—not the elevator. Smart. She wanted an easy escape route if things went sideways. I respected that. I’d have done the same.

  She wore an African traditional dress—vibrant yellows, deep reds, warm browns—it was striking, almost ceremonial, and absolutely stunning on her. But her face? It didn’t match the colorful armor she’d wrapped herself in. She looked tense—scared, angry, and maybe even betrayed.

  I was already seated on the corner lounge sofa near the entrance, a shadowy nook with no direct windows, which made it perfect—private, safer for both of us.

  She didn’t even bother with pleasantries.

  “How did you find me here, Ms. Hare?”

  No greetings. That told me all I needed—protocol was out the window, and panic had taken the wheel.

  “I followed you here a while ago. Just in case.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “That’s a breach of trust. I never expected Mr. Penrose to stoop that low.”

  “It was my own decision. He had nothing to do with it. In fact, he still doesn’t know—not about this place, or this meeting.”

  “That might be true.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Or it might not. Why are you here?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You set me up—either for failure or death.”

  “I did no such thing, Ms. Hare.” Her voice was sharper now. “I gave you the information as it was given to me. Just like always.”

  “Was the client a first-timer? Or have I worked for him before?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  Of course. Of course she couldn’t. This was getting old fast.

  “Mrs. Holden—Ms. Honey—whichever version you want to go by today, I’m a patient woman. But I won’t let an attempt on my life slide. That clear?”

  She sank into the armchair across from me, weighing her words like a woman balancing glassware on a rope.

  “First-timer,” she said finally.

  “That why you’ve been dodging calls now?”

  Her expression cracked, fury bubbling just beneath the surface.

  “What did you expect? This was supposed to be a clean job—he said that.”

  A he. Narrowed it down to about half the world, but it was a start.

  “You said it too. And yet what did we get? A disaster. A shootout. Fire. Theft. FBI crawling around like rats in the walls.” Her voice had gone sharp and hushed, clipped syllables and trembling restraint. “And then your so-called exit plan? That went straight to hell too.”

  “You spoke to the buyer again, then?”

  “No.” She crossed her arms. “He never called back. I found out about the mess through... other means.”

  Other means? That sent up flags. Too vague. Too clean.

  “And you didn’t call me? Or him? Why?”

  Her face darkened. “Why?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “That wasn’t in the agreement. You were to bring me the necklace. I would contact the middleman. Then the deal. That’s it. Why would I call anyone when you never showed up?”

  “I get that. But then why ghost Penrose? You made it nearly impossible for me to follow through. I have the necklace—maybe not on me right now, but it’s safe. I can still deliver it, same terms. But you are the one making it messy.”

  “I went dark because I found out who the buyer really is,” she said, almost in a whisper. “And once I did—I needed to disappear for a while. To ride it out. The whole thing turned rotten, and to be honest?” She leaned forward slightly, her eyes locking with mine. “I was afraid—of him, and of you.”

  “Me?” I asked, though I already knew where this was going.

  “Yes, you, Ms. Hare,” she replied, cold and certain. “I know you're capable of killing. So is Mr. Penrose.”

  Not untrue. But not the whole truth, either.

  I’d never killed out of malice, and I never went in planning to. But if things turned bad—really bad—I wasn’t the type to roll over and die for someone else's mistake. As for Penrose? He could eviscerate a man, force-feed him his own intestines just to make a point, then return to his foie gras like nothing had happened. I’d seen it.

  “You really thought I’d come here to take revenge?”

  “Frankly? Yes. I still do. Why else would you show up at my home?” Her fingers were tight against the fabric of her skirt now. “You want to scare me, don’t you? Force me to give you what I know? And don’t sell me the story that Penrose doesn’t know about this visit.”

  It was the truth, but maybe I could use that line of thinking to shift the dynamic.

  “I came to make sure you were alive,” I said, calm and deliberate. “We still want the trade. You’re the one making it difficult.”

  “I had my reasons,” she snapped, more defensive than defiant.

  “And now,” I said, slowly leaning forward, “you’re going to set those reasons aside and organize the exchange like we agreed. Contact the buyer. I want this cursed necklace out of my hands.”

  She hesitated. I saw the storm behind her eyes—fear and doubt and shame fighting for control. What a mess. The job had gone to hell, and now she was just another variable making it worse, tangled in her own fear like a fly in webbing she spun herself.

  I had thought she was a professional.

  “I’ll call his man later,” she said, voice low. “When can you hand me the necklace?”

  “Oh no, Ms. Honey,” I said, folding my arms. “We’re making a few changes to the agreement. I don’t trust you anymore.”

  “What?” Her reaction was immediate, offended—genuinely surprised, as if she couldn’t believe I’d say it aloud.

  I stared at her. Was she seriously playing the victim now?

  “You’re going to call him now,” I said. “And you’re going to organize a meeting—all three of us. Make it somewhere public. A restaurant. A shitty pub. Hell, we could do it right here in the lobby if you prefer. But no more intermediaries.”

  “I won’t agree to that.” Her tone dipped into alarm. “That’s bad for business. Bad for... life.”

  “Then maybe next time you’ll make better decisions,” I said, evenly. “You played this game and you forced my hand. Now make the call.”

  “I can’t do it here,” she protested, glancing toward the front desk.

  Still playing. Still hoping she could squirm her way out. I slipped the pistol from my bag just long enough for her to see it—no theatrics, no threat spoken—then let it disappear again.

  Her breath caught. No more games.

  “You will make that call,” I said.

  She stared at me. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came. Then she nodded. “Okay, Ms. Hare.”

  She reached for her phone, hands suddenly more cooperative.

  Funny, really—how polite people become when they remember they’re not the one holding the gun.

  --

  “Yes, Ms. Hare would like to make an exchange,” she said when the man answered. I could hear his voice through the phone— Calm. Too calm.

  “She proposes—” she began, but I kicked her in the shin under the table.

  “She demands,” she corrected herself, eyes flashing at me, but she understood. “That we meet directly. No intermediaries. Just the three of us.”

  “I see no problem with that,” the man replied smoothly. “Where?”

  “The Sleeping Bear, on—”

  “I know where it is,” he cut her off. “When?”

  She looked at me. I gave a nonchalant shrug. “After nine,” I said. “Tonight.” I had to attend Jason’s party first—ridiculous as that sounds, even in my own head.

  There was a pause on the line. “Nine?” he repeated. “Can you make a reservation at such short notice?”

  Fair question. The Sleeping Bear wasn’t a place you just walked into. It took months to book a table—unless you knew someone. But she was the one who brought it up. She’d made her bed.

  “Yes,” she said, firm now. “Reservation for three. You, me, and Ms. Hare.”

  “Fine. I’ll be there. Good day, Ms. Honey.”

  “Good day,” she replied and hung up.

  “See?” I said, leaning back a little. “That wasn’t so hard.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  She sighed, looking older in that moment. “You’re too eager to celebrate, Ms. Hare. I think I made a terrible mistake getting involved with this man. With his boss.”

  “You might’ve,” I said. “We’ll find out tonight.”

  She stood halfway, hesitated. “May I go now?”

  “You can go—just make that reservation. One last thing.” She froze again. “In case you decide to disappear, which I strongly advise against… What does this man look like?”

  She sat back down. “Asian. Young. Sharp. Always in a tailored suit. Black hair in a bun, goatee, small scar near his lip. And…” she hesitated, then added, “he’s missing half his little finger.”

  Yakuza. Of - fucking - course.

  “Alright,” I said. “Go.”

  She stood, composed again but still shaken. I followed her with my eyes until she stepped into the elevator.

  Then I walked over to the concierge. “Thank you again for your help,” I said. It costs nothing to be polite—usually buys you more than a threat.

  “She looked really distressed,” he said, lowering his voice. “It’s good you told her about that man.”

  “Yes. Sometimes you have to cut off the rotting limb, even if your life won’t ever be the same without it.”

  He swallowed and nodded, solemn. “I hope she makes the right choice.”

  “I hope I did, too,” I said.

  And then I left.

  --

  “It’s not a good idea, Alexandra,” Mr. Penrose said, handing me the necklace. His face was carved from stone, but his eyes flickered with something close to approval. “Though I didn’t expect Ms. Honey to turn so… sour. Good instincts, following her.”

  “Do you think she’ll show up?” I asked, slipping the necklace into the hidden pouch under my jacket. It nestled in like it belonged there. It was starting to feel like it did.

  He paused. “Before I knew she’d gone underground, I would’ve said yes. Now?” He shook his head. “I don’t trust her at all.”

  “Same,” I muttered. “Still going. I want this thing gone.”

  “She’s afraid,” he said. “People like her usually are. You and I—we don’t get that luxury, do we?”

  “No. We don’t.”

  “You need anything else?”

  “Yes, actually.” I leaned slightly on the edge of his desk. “I’m out of the blue sleeping pills. Used the last one during my daring escape. Thought I had a stash at home, but…” I shrugged.

  He opened a drawer, pulled out a small container, and handed it over. “Twenty. Should last you for a while.”

  “Appreciated.” I weighed the bottle in my hand, then reached inside my coat again—this time pulling the gun from the wreck. I flicked the safety off and leveled it at his forehead.

  “Give me all my money.”

  He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just looked at me as if I’d told him the weather was turning.

  “Where did you find it?” he asked calmly, and reached out. I handed it over with a smirk.

  “Guy who tried to kill me didn’t need it anymore.”

  He inspected it with a practiced hand, then flipped the safety back on. “Staccato 2011. Nine mil. Good choice—clean recoil, light weight. You keeping it?”

  “I was going to buy one anyway. This saves me the trip.”

  He handed it back. “Practical. Anything else?”

  Always so stiff. Like a butler who moonlights as a war criminal.

  “No, thank you.”

  --

  I still had time before Jason’s party, so naturally, I went straight to The Sleeping Bear. A famous place—fancy enough to charge you double for half a steak, but with just enough grit to keep the pose real. Mostly meat: steaks, burgers, ribs. Dressed up with gold flakes, truffle foam, or whatever was trending. I liked their confidence.

  The building was tucked between two mid-rise apartment blocks, like a secret hiding in plain sight. A narrow alley led to a back entrance—tight, no fire escapes, no side doors. Just one big courtyard-like well in the middle of the surrounding buildings.

  I spotted a service ladder and, of course, climbed it. Why wouldn’t I?

  The roof was a gift—flat and connected clean across several blocks. There were gaps here and there, but nothing serious. Some of them already had planks laid across, like someone before me had the same idea. The city always whispers to people like me if you listen close enough.

  I went back down the same way and checked the back door of the restaurant. Locked, as expected. There were windows too. I peered inside—men’s restroom. Unremarkable, but useful. The window was big enough and looked easy to pop from the inside. I made a mental note: in case of trouble, break for the toilet. Then either run out the alley or climb.

  Not a bad setup. Quiet. Tucked away. Predictable escape routes. Could be worse.

  I took out my spray cans and started painting on the wall opposite the toilet windows and the back door. If he decided to follow me out, this would be the first thing he’d see. A visual gut punch. Maybe enough to freeze him for a few seconds—and that’s all I’d need.

  I painted a Ningyo. Learned about them in my Symbolism in Art class. Mermaid-like beings from Japanese folklore, but twisted—grotesque, otherworldly. No Disney charm, just nightmare fuel wrapped in seaweed and myth.

  I pushed hard into the horror, went all in. Oversized eyes, jagged teeth, hair like algae and wire. The kind of face that didn’t haunt your dreams—it shredded them.

  When I was done, I ran my hand gently over the edge of its face—a silent wish that it would do what I needed: be the most terrifying thing he had ever seen. That’s when it happened.

  A warmth pulsed from my palm. A familiar tingling. Then the light again—soft, strange—slipping through my skin, clinging to the painting just for a moment before vanishing.

  I blinked. Was I imagining it? The air felt still, thick, like the moment before a match is struck. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel like nothing.

  --

  Jason had organized his party at the Alpha Kappa something fraternity house. He was either a member or just a close friend—didn’t really matter. What mattered was that he was the real driving force behind all their best parties. The so-called "alpha" guys? Useless at organizing anything without him. But credit where it’s due: their building looked nice. Big, clean yard, plenty of grass and just enough trees to give the space a touch of privacy.

  I arrived with Sophie and Peter. It didn’t take long before someone pointed us toward Jason and the usual crowd. All smiles and noise and the illusion that everything in the world was just fine.

  A few guys manned stone grills, flipping meat and laughing too loudly. Four long tables hugged the building walls, piled with cold snacks. Drinks flowed freely—alcoholic, non-alcoholic, and whatever sat in between.

  “I’m gonna go make myself look busy. Have fun, guys.” And just like that, Sophie drifted off toward the other girls from her course.

  Elena was already knee-deep in some animated conversation, gesturing wildly—probably reenacting a plot from another rom-com. She noticed Sophie, lit up, and hugged her. The other girls offered a few lazy hellos.

  Peter watched her go too, sighed, then turned to me with as much subtlety as he could muster. “Why did I come here again?”

  “Oh, come on, Pete. You always fit in just fine.”

  It was true. Despite all my crafted personas and tactical charm, he was naturally better at this. No effort, no false smiles—just honesty, and people loved him for it. He was tall, built like someone who swam every day of his life, with soft brown hair, ocean-blue eyes, and a spatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Not full-faced like mine—just enough to be disarming. He was handsome in a way that made people trust him before he even spoke.

  “I might,” he said, “but I’d still rather be doing something else.”

  “Listen to me, pool boy.”

  He looked at me, sharp and focused.

  “Jason’s a fool, but he’s right. You’ve got to put yourself out there—let the vultures circle, even—just for the chance to meet that one girl you could actually spend your life with. You get me?”

  “I have to?” He gave me that look. “What about you, sis?”

  Damn. I don’t have time for boys. Not with everything I’ve got going.

  “You know I’ve got... extra-curriculars. Stuff that takes time, Pete.”

  “Do you have to have them? Don’t you already have enough money?”

  He leaned in. “He’s still paying you every month, right? For at least three more years—just to balance out the money you made him. Even if you stopped now.”

  Well. He wasn’t wrong.

  Penrose can’t just dump the whole sum in one go. Would raise eyebrows, bring the tax hounds sniffing. The money has to be laundered, layered, trickled down. That pipeline got bottlenecked a while ago. But still—why am I doing this?

  My body still hurts from the last job. I have a Yakuza meeting after this party.

  But the truth is simple: I like it. I like the thrill. It’s been half my life, and I’m good at it. How do you quit something that feels like part of who you are?

  “You’re right, I could stop. But I like it, Pete. And I’m good. I’d stop if I found anything—or anyone—I liked just as much.”

  He sighed. He got it.

  He loves swimming the same way. Competing. He’s damn good, Olympic-tier.

  “I get it,” he said quietly. “I’ll try tonight. For three reasons.”

  “Oh yeah? Hit me.”

  “First, as an incentive—for you to try someday.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Second, to shut Jason’s mouth.”

  I clapped. Standing ovation. Solid reason, probably the best.

  “Third,” he said, and paused, “because I feel like it. I’m tired of always thinking about you, Lex. I worry every time you step out the door. I need someone else to worry about. Someone a little more... grounded, you know?”

  That one hurt.

  But I understood it.

  I nodded, no smile this time. He didn’t mean to hurt me—he just meant it.

  Then he flipped the mood. Hopped a few times in place, like a boxer loosening up before a bout, smiled and said,

  “I’m heading toward that group.”

  He pointed at a small circle of five girls nearby. A few guys had already tried their luck over there, only to be casually deflected. I really hoped Peter would fare better—his mood might take a hit if this went sideways.

  “You coming with me?”

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  I was curious to see how it’d go for him—at least at the start.

  We made our way over. I didn’t recognize any of the girls. There was a chubby, radiant Black girl with a warm energy that practically shimmered. Two others stood like twins fused at the shoulder, whispering into each other’s ears—bad habit in bigger crowds. Another was a tall ginger with freckles like mine but built more like a willow tree. And then there was the mystery.

  Plain clothes. Hoodie. Cap. Slim. A little taller than me. But with the setting sun and shadows, her face was hidden.

  “Hi, girls,” Peter said, bold voice on full display. “I’m Peter. Would love to spend some time with you tonight.”

  The two whispering girls didn’t even glance at him.

  It was the faceless one who stepped forward. She pulled her hood down and tilted her head up toward us.

  Blonde hair, high ponytail swaying with the breeze. One hand around her drink, the other idly twirling her straw.

  “Oh?” she said. “And what would you want to do with that time, Mister Peter?”

  Peter blinked. “Sorry... I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I’m not mad about it,” she said.

  The group giggled, entertained.

  Damn. That probably made Peter’s courage wilt just a little.

  “I’d be happy to be the butt of your jokes,” he replied, recovering like a champ.

  Smooth boy. Told you you had it in you.

  She set her drink down on a nearby table, pulled off her cap, and folded her arms.

  Peter froze. I did too.

  Her face was straight out of a dream—soft cheeks and dimples, full lips, and eyes so blue they looked like winter paused just to admire her. She smiled slyly.

  “Lucky for you, I’m not cruel enough to do a public dissection. Lead the way, Mister Peter.”

  She held out her arm. Peter, still blinking, offered his with the grace of a slightly stunned gentleman.

  “I can’t keep up with your pace. Where are we going?” he asked.

  Behind them, the two girls whispered again. Then the warm-skinned one spoke up, voice amused:

  “Don’t torment the poor guy. He’s the first one to walk over and be polite, and you’re already grilling him.”

  “Oh, Peter’s taking me on a stroll,” the blonde said, unfazed. “A stroll where he tells me about himself, and I decide if I’ll tell him about me.”

  I kind of liked her. She had style.

  Now I really wanted to see how this would play out, but she took Peter away from the group. So I did the next best thing—started talking with her friends.

  “Hi, I’m Alexa May. I study Art. What about you guys?”

  The willowy one answered in a slightly awkward tone, “Computer sciences. We all do.”

  The chubby girl nodded. The two conjoined-at-the-hip girls just gasped and moved away without a word. Rude as hell—but honestly, it tracked. Didn’t sting nearly as much as they might’ve hoped. Not when you’re used to dodging bullets and having tea with gangsters.

  “My name is Lily,” the willowy one added.

  “I’m Pamela,” said the chubby girl, offering a warm smile. “But everyone calls me Peaches.”

  “I go by Lex. Nice to meet you guys.” I gestured vaguely in Peter’s direction. “So... was my boy just kidnapped for sacrifice, or does he have a shot at making it back?”

  “Your boy?” Peaches asked, raising her brows.

  “I meant as a friend. More like a brother. We lived in the same orphanage.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Peaches said, voice softening. Lily just looked down, clearly unsure how to respond to that kind of revelation.

  “He should be fine,” Peaches added after a beat. “To be honest, I’m surprised. Zoe usually doesn’t do stuff like that. She’s... pretty reserved when it comes to boys.”

  Is that so? Maybe they are made for each other. Damn.

  We talked for about half an hour. Lily was a bit of a closed book, but Peaches was a joy—open, curious, and sharp as hell. She was working on an AI that generated images, so I guess she was a kind of artist too. A very digital one. We actually had a few ideas in common.

  Jason stopped by at one point with a plate of grilled meat, trying his usual charm. I introduced him to the girls and made sure to scare him off right after—didn’t want Lily getting caught in that nonsense. I saw the way he looked at her already.

  At some point, I lost track of Peter. He was still with Zoe, walking and talking, heads close together. No dramatic gestures, no laughter—just quiet words, lost to the wind. I hoped he’d tell me about it later. More than that, I hoped it was going well.

  Eventually I said my goodbyes to the girls—after exchanging numbers with Peaches, of course. She was as sweet as her nickname promised. And her skills could be useful for my studies, too. Always good to make friends. Even better to make smart ones.

  --

  Unfortunately, I had to leave before Peter came back from his stroll.

  At home, I changed into Jess Hare.

  I put on my silver sport suit first—sleek, flexible, built for movement. Over it, I slipped into a short red dress and layered it with my iceberg jacket. Silver and red—sharp, vivid, commanding. The kind of palette that said don’t get in my way without raising its voice.

  Then I packed my medium-sized handbag with the essentials.

  Mask, makeup kit, blonde wig, sleeping pills, wallet, keys and pistol.

  I stood for a moment, staring at myself in the mirror. I wondered—was there even one other girl in this city walking around with a kit like mine? Somehow, I doubted it.

  When I arrived at the Sleeping Bear, I stayed back for a while, just out of sight, keeping watch. The man from Honey’s description arrived first—young, sharp, in a tailored suit. Sleek black hair in a bun, a goatee. Yakuza, no doubt.

  He went in. A few minutes later, Honey followed.

  I let a breath out, straightened my shoulders, and stepped forward.

  Time to go in.

  --

  I was politely led to my table by the sweet boy at the front. He guided me with care, weaving us between packed tables—each one bursting with chatter and the scent of sizzling meat.

  The smell was intoxicating. Herbs, smoke, fat—rich and savory, the kind that made your mouth water without permission. It was the kind of scent that made you forget everything else.

  But not me. I couldn’t forget. Not now.

  Because just as easily, I could have been led to slaughter—same as whatever poor creature once walked around before ending up on these plates.

  They were already seated.

  Honey, wrapped in a well-tailored, pompous evening gown—fresh grass green, flowing, too elegant for someone in her position.

  The man beside her, sharp and composed, in a suit tailored like a second skin. Sleek black hair tied in a bun, goatee perfectly trimmed. He didn’t slouch. He didn’t smile.

  And then there was me.

  Red dress, iceberg jacket, silver sport suit underneath that clung like yoga gear. I looked like I was ready to go to a gala and then run a triathlon halfway through.

  I sat down. Smiled.

  First at Honey. Then at him.

  “Konichiwa,” I said to the man.

  “I’m an American. Born here,” he replied. “But thank you for your consideration, Ms. Hare.”

  Every word was measured. Like every breath. The kind of deliberate control you only see in martial artists or professional killers.

  “Good evening, Ms. Honey,” I added politely. I didn’t see a future in our cooperation anymore, but good manners cost nothing.

  “It seems I’m on uneven ground here,” I said. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  “You may call me Shiroi.”

  “White?”

  “Oh? You know Japanese after all?”

  “Enough words to go by,” I answered with a slight bow.

  “I apologize for breaking up this pleasant conversation,” Honey cut in, visibly uneasy, “but can we conclude our business first—and then come back to the pleasantries?”

  So serious, Honey. Can’t play a little?

  Still, I decided to indulge her.

  “I don’t mind either way,” I said. “What do you say, Mr. Shiroi?”

  “Just Shiroi. No ‘mister’ needed.” He smiled—sly and smooth. “I’d prefer to eat first. Last time I was here, I could only watch.”

  So we waited.

  When the waiters arrived with our food, I was surprised. The portions weren’t as tiny as I’d expected—still fancy, still expensive, but plenty on the plate. It smelled incredible. I didn’t eat much, though. Never liked running on a full stomach, and I always planned for the possibility of running.

  Honey, meanwhile, cleared her plate like a woman on the edge.

  Stress eater. That would explain the slightly puffed cheeks and the way she kept wiping her fingers, even though they were spotless.

  Shiroi ate like he talked. Every cut deliberate. Every bite savored. Chewed slow, eyes never quite leaving me.

  “You won’t finish that?” he asked, pointing at my steak with his knife.

  “No. I’m a small girl. I’m already full.”

  “Full of shit.”

  So, not as subtle as I thought. But observant. Very observant.

  “Aren’t we all?” I said.

  He laughed. A low, honest one.

  “I like you, Hare. Jess. May I call you Jess?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Jess, then. Do you have the necklace?”

  “Yes. Do you have the money?”

  “Of course.”

  He reached inside his jacket and slid a thick envelope across the table. I didn’t touch it. Instead, I pulled the necklace from my hidden pouch and placed it down beside the cash.

  Under the candlelight, the gem caught the flame and shimmered.

  It looked alive.

  “This thing…” Ms. Honey said suddenly. She looked shaken—sweating heavily now.

  “…this thing is full of authority.”

  "Authority?" What the hell does she mean by that?

  “You’re a seer, Ms. Honey?” Shiroi asked, genuinely surprised. “That is an unexpected development.”

  Okay. I’m definitely in the dark here. Just stay calm. Be cool. Read the room.

  Honey turned toward me, eyes wide. “What is this necklace?” she asked, inching her chair slowly back from the table. Shiroi clocked the movement. He sighed.

  And just like that—his entire posture changed. Calm gave way to quiet resolve.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  This is about to turn ugly. He wouldn’t make a move in public, would he?

  “Ms. Honey,” Shiroi said gently, reaching out and taking her hand.

  His grip locked. Her eyes locked on me—terrified, pleading.

  “It won’t hurt,” he said. “For what it’s worth.”

  And then it happened.

  No warning. No chant. Just a slow purple glow.

  She unraveled.

  There’s no better word for it. Where he touched her, her skin came apart—threads, fibers, strands—unspooling like a pulled seam. It raced across her body. Skin. Muscles. Bones. All of it. In seconds, she was nothing but a slow-settling pile of silken strings on the restaurant floor.

  Fuck this. I’m out.

  I left the cash. Left the necklace. Shoved the table hard into him, plates and silver clattering in protest. People around us gasped, shouted, froze.

  For a heartbeat, Shiroi was caught off guard. But then the table crumbled—splinters to dust, dissolving like sand in the wind.

  I was already halfway to the restroom.

  He followed.

  Between stunned waiters and a pair of angry men coming out of the toilets—shouting about “wrong bathroom” and whatever else—I didn’t stop.

  Get bent, all of you. I’m trying not to die.

  I slammed a window open, hauled myself through in seconds. As I pulled myself out, Shiroi entered the restroom. A glance back—

  He walked through the wall.

  The bricks crumbled, mortar unspooled, dissolving around him like melting sugar.

  What the hell is this man?!

  A strange purple glow shimmered around him before vanishing. It looked… familiar. Like something I’d seen—felt—before.

  I climbed the fire escape, desperate, feet slipping on the metal. Almost to the second floor—

  He stopped.

  He was staring at my painting on the wall.

  The grotesque, fishlike creature with the face of a deformed old man—its jaw open, as if mid-scream.

  He just stood there, transfixed.

  I felt something tingle inside me.

  The painting responded.

  Whatever connection I had to that thing—it bought me seconds.

  I vaulted off the ladder just before he touched it. As his fingers reached the metal, it unraveled beneath my hands.

  But I’d already launched.

  I flew over him—landed hard, rolled, came up running.

  “Nice acrobatics!” he shouted behind me, laughing—until he grabbed my jacket sleeve.

  Shit. That’s it. I’m done.

  But then—he hissed in pain.

  He pulled back, clutching his hand. Frost covered his skin where he touched me.

  “What the fuck? She was a seer and you are a mage!?”

  What is he talking about?

  I didn’t wait to find out.

  I reached into my bag, yanked the pistol free, aimed—and fired.

  The shot rang out, deafening in the alley.

  He staggered, hit clean through the chest, and fell.

  I turned and ran.

  Down the alley, out the back.

  And I didn’t stop.

  --

  When I finally made it home, I collapsed onto the couch.

  I needed to call Mr. Penrose. Tell him the exchange went sideways. Tell him Ms. Honey was dead—shot by that man.

  Wait.

  Was she shot?

  In the middle of the restaurant?

  My thoughts swam. Everything felt heavy, like trying to recall a name you know well but just can't place. It had only been an hour ago. Maybe less. But the memories already felt distant, warped, like something from a dream—or a nightmare.

  I gave up trying to piece it together. My head throbbed.

  Instead, I grabbed my phone and dialed.

  “Alexandra. Good to hear you,” Penrose answered smoothly on the other end.

  “Hello,” I said, voice flat. “The exchange was a bust. That guy—Shiroi—he killed Ms. Honey. Tried to kill me too. I shot him and ran.”

  He didn’t speak right away.

  “Let me handle the clients for now,” he said at last. “It’s better if Ms. Hare disappears for a while. Did you recover either the money or the item?”

  “No.”

  A beat.

  “And to be honest, Mr. Penrose… I can’t even remember why I didn’t. I think I might’ve been drugged. I can’t remember much from the meeting. It’s like smoke in my brain.”

  “That’s an interesting development,” he said, tone tightening slightly. “Do you feel drugged now?”

  I took a moment to scan myself.

  “My mind’s foggy, but physically… I feel fine.”

  “I’ll ask around,” he said. “Let Ms. Hare rest. Keep her quiet. No noise for a few days.”

  “Understood. Good night, Mr. Penrose.”

  “Good night, Alexandra.”