The rain started sometime after midnight.Soft, rhythmic, and almost calming—if you weren't trained to hear footsteps between the drops.
I sat on the balcony outside my room, watching the neighborhood shimmer in the glow of streetlights. The sound helped me think. Helped me quiet the noise inside my head.
Aria Lorne.Too graceful for her own good. Too quick to react. Too careful with her words.No one else caught it, but I did—the flick of her wrist when she caught that scalpel before it hit the floor, the split-second pause when she said "clean exit" like it was muscle memory.
A normal person wouldn't say that. Not in that tone.
My phone buzzed once. Encrypted message. No name, no number—just a flashing sigil.
Handler 9:
New contract. Priority tier. Target location: Harbor District, warehouse 43B.Eliminate before 0200.No traces.Payment x4 usual rate.Your partner will make contact on-site.
Partner.I frowned. The word annoyed me. I didn't work with partners. Partnerships led to hesitation, hesitation led to mistakes, and mistakes meant corpses that weren't supposed to exist.
I slipped on my gloves, checked the blade hidden in the lining of my jacket, and headed out into the night.
The harbor was nearly empty, save for the hum of distant generators and the occasional echo of seagulls scavenging the dark. The air smelled of rust, rain, and salt—familiar scents that meant silence, precision, death.
Warehouse 43B stood apart, lit by a single hanging bulb that swayed slightly in the wind. My shoes made no sound as I crossed the gravel, every step calculated. I reached the steel door, disabled the cheap lock in three seconds flat, and entered.
Empty.At least, it looked empty.
Then a soft click behind me.
"Nice night for a walk," a voice said.
Female. Calm. Confident.
I turned slowly. A figure stepped from the shadows—hood up, pistol low but ready. Her stance was professional. Controlled. The kind that came from training, not instinct.
"Handler Nine sent you?" I asked.
She tilted her head. "Maybe. You're the infamous ghost, right? The one who doesn't talk much?"
I said nothing. That usually said enough.
"Cute," she said. "Alright, ghost. Here's the deal. Target's upstairs, third floor. Guards are minimal, but surveillance is heavy. We get in, get it done, get out. Clean."
That word again—clean.She said it exactly the same way Aria had earlier today. Same tone. Same clipped precision.
I didn't show it, but my mind went cold.
"Fine," I said. "You lead."
"Smart man," she replied, her lips curving faintly. "Try to keep up."
The climb was silent. She moved well—no wasted motion, no sound. Every step matched mine like choreography. We reached the top floor and crouched near a half-open office door. Through it, I could see the target: a middle-aged man in a white shirt, pacing as he argued with someone over a comm device. I didn't care who. Orders were orders.
The woman glanced at me, then gestured: I distract. You strike.
I nodded once.
She stepped forward, making a deliberate noise near a stack of crates. The man turned, confused, and I moved. A single, silent motion—blade, windpipe, silence. He collapsed before finishing his sentence.
I cleaned the blade on his sleeve. No emotion. No hesitation. Just muscle memory.
When I turned, she was already staring at me. Not in fear. Not even surprise.
Admiration, maybe. Or recognition.
"Quick," she said. "You don't hesitate."
"Never have."
Her lips quirked. "I like that."
We moved to exit, but something made me glance back—a single glint from her wrist, the faint shine of a bracelet. Silver, with an insignia shaped like a half-winged dagger.
My chest went still for a fraction of a second.
That insignia belonged to the Seraph Division—the rival organization. The one I'd crossed paths with twice before. The one whose assassins always left no survivors.
No one outside the underworld wore that symbol.
But she didn't seem to notice my reaction. She just wiped her weapon, turned toward the window, and said, "We're clear. Let's move."
I followed, silent.
We parted ways two streets from the harbor. She walked like someone who belonged anywhere, blending effortlessly into the urban blur. I took a different route, back toward my apartment, the rain masking my footsteps.
When I finally closed my door, I pulled off the gloves and sat down, replaying every moment.
Voice. Gait. Timing. The height. The hair. The way she said clean.
It couldn't be.But every instinct I had screamed otherwise.
I reached for my phone and opened the encrypted records. The Seraph Division had no known female agents operating in this city—except one. Codename: Valkyrie.
I typed a note.
Possible identification: Valkyrie = Aria Lorne?Confirmation pending.
Then I locked the file.
Morning came, and with it, the mundane rhythm of high school life. Students moved through the halls like nothing in the world had changed. For most of them, nothing had.
Claire waved as I entered class. "Pierce! You look like death warmed over. What'd you do, pull another all-nighter with your 'math stuff'?"
"Something like that," I said.
Ryan grinned. "You and your secrets, man. One day, we'll figure out what the hell you actually do at night."
"Don't hold your breath."
Then Aria walked in.
Same calm smile, same effortless grace. Her hair still damp from the rain.
She met my eyes across the room—and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw it. Recognition. A flicker of knowing.But then it was gone. Replaced by her usual, easy charm.
"Morning," she said, sliding into the seat beside me. "You look tired."
"I could say the same," I replied.
She chuckled softly. "Late night. I couldn't sleep."
I watched her set down her bag. Her bracelet glinted in the light. The same silver band. The same insignia.
My mind catalogued every detail—the curve of the mark, the faint scratch near the edge, the exact distance between her thumb and wrist. Identical. No mistake.
"Something wrong?" she asked lightly, noticing my glance.
"No," I said. "Just thought I'd seen that bracelet somewhere before."
"Oh?" she smiled, too easily. "It's a gift from… family."
"Nice piece."
"Thanks. Sentimental value."
Her eyes lingered on mine for a moment too long. Then she looked away.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of meaningless lectures and fake laughter. Claire kept teasing me about "my crush," Ryan kept complaining about the cafeteria food, and Aria… Aria kept smiling that calm, practiced smile that suddenly felt like a mask.
That night, my handler texted again.
Handler 9:
Contract closed. Target confirmed. Excellent work.Regarding your partner—temporary arrangement only. No further contact recommended.
I stared at the message for a while, then deleted it.
If Aria Lorne was who I thought she was… this was no coincidence.
There were no coincidences in my world.
Only masks. And faultlines.