The city was caught between sunset and smoke. Copper-colored light dripped down the glass towers, washing the harbor in blood-red shimmer. On the tallest spire, a woman crouched—Lucy Vale, Division 9's invisible executioner. Her gloves were black silk, her rifle matte gray, her heartbeat perfectly steady.
"Target approaching balcony," came the voice in her ear. Jerome. Smooth, confident, the voice she trusted more than her own.
"Two guards. Thirty seconds."
"Copy," she whispered, breath calm as a sniper's prayer.
Through the scope she watched a man step into the light—a general, medals gleaming. He lit a cigar. The wind shifted, carrying the faint hiss of the harbor and the distant clatter of engines. Lucy exhaled. Time slowed. She squeezed the trigger.
Bang.
The sound barely existed. The general collapsed before the cigar touched the floor. One shot, one life. The mission was done.
"Beautiful as always," Jerome murmured. "Extraction Bravo. I'll be waiting."
She broke the rifle down in three swift motions, slid the pieces into her pack, and rose. From the edge of the spire she launched a cable and descended into the neon dusk, boots kissing steel, coat flaring like a shadow's wing. Below, traffic lights pulsed like veins.
Her boots touched a catwalk. She moved soundlessly between vents and cables, every motion memorized, calculated. The smell of gunpowder and salt air clung to her. This was her world—precision and silence.
Then the power went out.
Every light in the sector died at once. The hum of the city vanished, leaving only the creak of metal and the whisper of wind. Lucy froze. Instinct prickled down her spine. She turned just as a faint click echoed behind her.
Safety off.
She dived. A bullet tore through the space her head had been and punched a hole in the wall. She rolled behind a generator, drew her sidearm, and counted the echoes. Three shooters—north, west, roofline.
"Jerome," she hissed into the comm. "Ambush. What's happening?"
Static.
Another round struck sparks from the railing. She leaned out, fired twice, moved again. The first gunman fell; the second cursed and changed position. They were trained—Division tactics. Her tactics.
Something was very wrong.
She sprinted through a service tunnel, boots ringing against metal. Blood slicked her arm where a bullet had grazed her, but she barely felt it. All she felt was the growing, sick certainty in her gut.
"Jerome," she tried again, "answer me!"
Still nothing.
She burst through a maintenance door and into the open air—an abandoned loading platform overlooking the harbor. The fog rolled in thick waves. And there, stepping out of it, came Jerome.
He wore his field jacket unzipped, pistol in hand, expression unreadable in the dim orange glow.
"Finally," Lucy said, lowering her gun slightly. "They're using Division tactics. We have a leak."
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Her stomach dropped. "Jerome?"
He raised the pistol and aimed it at her chest.
For a long moment, neither breathed. The fog shifted between them like ghosts.
"Orders changed," he said softly.
The words hit harder than the bullet that followed. Pain flared white-hot through her shoulder. She stumbled backward, shock stealing her voice.
"Jerome—what the hell are you doing?"
"I'm sorry, Luce." His voice cracked, just once. "They said you knew too much."
She laughed—a raw, disbelieving sound. "You think they'll let you live after this?"
"Maybe not." He stepped closer, gun steady. "But I was told to finish it."
Blood soaked her sleeve, warm and sticky. She lifted her own pistol, eyes narrowing.
"Then let's finish it."
The storm broke.
They moved like dancers who had rehearsed every step—because they had. Bullets sang against steel; blades flashed as Lucy closed the distance. She kicked his arm, forcing his aim wide; he twisted, countered, fired point-blank. She ducked, feeling the bullet graze her hair.
She slammed her elbow into his jaw, swept his legs, pinned him—but he rolled, driving his knee into her ribs. The pain stole her breath, but she used the momentum to flip him, firing as she moved. Sparks lit the fog in strobe flashes.
They were mirrors—each predicting the other, each too good to win.
He caught her wrist; she caught his. Two weapons between them, both muzzles pressed to flesh.
His eyes—dark, sorrowful—met hers. "I never wanted this."
"Then you shouldn't have aimed first," she hissed.
For a heartbeat they stood frozen, trembling, the world holding its breath.
They fired together.
The impact drove her backward. She hit the railing, the sea far below roaring like applause. Her pistol clattered away. Blood spread through her shirt, warm and endless. She tried to breathe, but the air wouldn't come.
Jerome's figure wavered through the smoke, gun still smoking. He took a step forward, face pale.
"Lucy—please—"
She smiled, small and cruel. "Don't say my name."
Her knees buckled. She reached inside her coat and pulled out a small, weathered book—its cover bent, edges soft from being read too many times. The Kingdom of Ashen Stars. The only thing she ever allowed herself to love besides him.
It slipped from her fingers and fell beside her, pages fluttering in the wind.
Jerome knelt, but she raised a trembling hand.
"Stay back. You already killed me once."
"Lucy, I—"
"Shut up," she whispered. "If I get another life… I'll come for you."
Her hand fell. The world tilted. The harbor lights blurred into streaks of gold. The cold metal beneath her cheek faded into nothing.
For an instant she thought she saw the words on the fallen book shift and glow.
> Welcome back, Lucy Vale.
Then there was only darkness—and the sound of waves closing over her body.