The chime above Elysian Petals rang softly, a delicate note that masked the danger stitched into its florist's seams.
Aria Drevan, as always when around, stood behind the counter, hands steady as she arranged a bouquet, innocent as the flowers she was working on—white hydrangeas and crimson roses, blooming under her touch.
Each stem was trimmed with care, but her eyes held the cool detachment of someone who knew what it meant to pull a trigger before breakfast.
Here, she wore calm like silk; outside these walls, her name passed in whispers.
Most who walked in saw only the flowers, not the woman who once vanished three men across two continents. From the back room, Nova emerged—tall, efficient, always five steps ahead.
She carried a black tablet tucked under one arm, and her expression said this wasn't about customer orders.
"We intercepted a floral request," Nova said, her voice low. "Luxury arrangement. Wolven Hotel. Penthouse suite. Name: Viktor Molov." Aria paused, one finger still pressed to a rosebud. "That name's real." Nova nodded once. "Target ID matches. Confirmed asset."
Aria glanced out the shop window, the city blurred behind streaks of afternoon rain. "Ex-Russian intelligence, arms brokering, went off Interpol's radar last winter," Nova added.
"Tied to Marseille and Prague disappearances," Aria said, as if recalling the memory of a bad dinner guest.
The dossier was old but loud—Molov was careful, mobile, and violent.
Perfect candidate for flowers with thorns.
"And the delivery?"
"Originally assigned to a legit vendor," Nova said. Ivy handled their van. Flat tire. Radiator leak. They're conveniently unavailable."
Aria's lips curved faintly. "Subtle."
"I rerouted the invoice. You're confirmed as the replacement florist."
Nova tilted her head. "Want backup?"
Aria shook her head. "No. I'll take this one."
Her tone was soft, but final.
Molov was dangerous, but her routine was precise.
Sometimes, routine was all that kept a life from unraveling.
And besides, Aria needed the rhythm—the control.
That evening, the flower shop dimmed behind her as Aria changed in the back room.
She slipped into beige slacks and a cream blouse, soft lines, low profile.
No jewelry, no scent, no fingerprints.
The blades were folded into her belt lining.
A bouquet of black dahlias rested in her hands—poisonous in symbolism, pristine in appearance.
The Wolven Hotel gleamed like an ivory fortress, all mirrored floors and scentless orchids.
Aria entered differently from how she looked while at the shop. Her hair was painted red, or maybe it was that wig. Without hesitation, she flashed a fake invoice copy of the one that had previously been issued, with a mild, practiced smile.
"Penthouse," she said, voice neutral.
The concierge barely looked at her badge.
"She's expecting you," he said, gesturing to the service elevator.
Perfect.
Upstairs, the penthouse was cloaked in dim lighting and velvet shadows.
Jazz trickled from hidden speakers, unnerving and slow.
Viktor Molov sat in an oversized chair near the fireplace, shirt undone, tumbler in hand.
He didn't rise.
Just looked her over with the lazy indifference of someone who believed himself untouchable.
Aria stepped forward and placed the bouquet on a side table.
"For you," she said, not bothering to mask her voice.
Molov raised an eyebrow and smirked.
"You can leave it and—"
He didn't finish.
In one swift motion, Aria slid behind him, her fingers pulling the wire from her belt like it was silk.
It looped around his throat before he had time to blink.
His body thrashed—heavy, surprised—but she didn't flinch.
Her grip held.
Eight seconds later, the chair fell still.
She moved quickly, efficiently, cleaning what she could.
Surfaces wiped. Wire retrieved.
A side table adjusted to obscure the angle of his slump.
She left no trace—only the illusion of life.
Then, footsteps. Not from the elevator. Wrong direction. Too fast. Aria froze for half a heartbeat, then shifted her stance.
A second figure stormed through the door—male, broad, armed. Not listed in Intel. His eyes found her, and there was no hesitation.
He recognized her. The knife flashed in his hand before words could.
Aria ducked low, slashed upward with a heel blade.
His blade grazed her hip—she hissed.
But her rhythm didn't falter.
She landed clean, slicing upward through his ribs.
He dropped, twitching, a soundless gasp at his lips.
She didn't stop to mourn him.
In ten seconds, she'd stripped off her slacksuit, zipped into the black bodysuit beneath.
Plan A—elevator exit—was gone.
Time for Plan B.
She reached the balcony, secured a steel cable to the railing, and swung down three floors to a service terrace.
The wind bit at her face.
Her grip stayed firm.
No alarms. No eyes.
Only adrenaline, and the hiss of rain against concrete.
Inside a janitor's closet, a uniform waited, hidden that morning.
She changed quickly, stuffing the bodysuit into a waste bag.
Her bouquet? Broken down, rewrapped.
Now, just flowers and foam.
She exited with a mop cart, moving like she belonged.
By 11:57 p.m., Aria pushed open the back door of Elysian Petals. She looked like she had just come back from a morning Jog. However, it was midnight and only witches and thugs move at night.
Ivy glanced up from trimming stems. "That was quick."
"Molov's down," Aria replied, stripping off gloves.
"One stray guard. Took care of it."
Nova looked up from her screen.
"You okay?"
"Clean hit. Clean wound. Nothing internal." She lifted her blouse to reveal the thin red cut across her hip.
Aria paused. The guard hadn't shouted. He hadn't looked confused. He'd looked like he knew her. Not from news clippings or a mission file.
Not professional recognition. It was colder than that. Recognition without surprise.
As if he'd been waiting. "Start scraping Molov's network," she said. "I want to know who he was working with." Nova straightened. "You think we've been breached?" "I think someone's been watching."
Back in her room, A slow, crawling sense of exposure crept.
The feeling of no longer being invisible. She turned toward the dark window. No movement. No shadows. But her gut said otherwise.
Something had shifted. She was still an assassin. But tonight, for the first time in years, she felt like prey.