Avery lounged back in her chair, the red satin of her dress catching the rooftop lights like liquid fire. The slit traced her leg with deliberate elegance, her black heels crossed at the ankle. Knotless braids framed her face, pulled back just enough to reveal the sharpness in her eyes.
She lifted her wine glass — a slow, graceful motion — and let the crimson swirl.
Across the table, the man in the black suit watched her, stiff and silent, as if afraid to breathe too loudly.
Avery smiled.
"Well," she began, her voice smooth as velvet, "you know… growing up wasn't exactly a fairy tale. I was raised in an orphanage. No parents. No guidance. Just survival."
She took a sip, savoring it.
"When I finally got a job and bought my first phone, I fell into the world of stories — novels, movies, every genre you can imagine. I devoured them. Escaped into them."
Her eyes glimmered with something unreadable.
"I watched The Flash. Barry Allen was my favorite. He made mistakes — big ones — but people still loved him. They forgave him. They rooted for him."
A soft laugh. "But the moment Eobard Thawne stepped into the picture? Suddenly everyone hated him. No one cared why he became what he became."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"Then there were the Avengers. Iron Man — may his soul rest — was my hero. But Thanos?" She tilted her head. "People despised him without ever trying to understand the logic behind his choices."
Her gaze sharpened.
"And don't even get me started on Peaky Blinders. Thomas Shelby… now there was a man forged by circumstance. A man who walked through fire and came out colder, sharper, untouchable."
She let the name linger in the air like smoke.
"You see, people like you and me? They label us with all sorts of pretty little insults. Deviants. Villains. Psychopaths. Sociopaths. Monsters."
She shrugged lightly. "It's almost poetic."
Avery set her glass down with a soft click.
"But here's the difference between you and me," she said, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "If this world were a novel, I wouldn't be the background character. I wouldn't be the footnote. I'd be the main character — the protagonist who rises, who overthrows the so‑called antagonist…"
Her smile widened, slow and chilling.
"…and then becomes the new one."
She leaned back, utterly composed.
"Because villains aren't born. They're made. Sculpted. Forged by the hands of those who underestimate them."
Her eyes locked onto his.
"You made me the villain in this story. And now?"
A pause — elegant, lethal.
"I'm simply returning the favor."
Here is your scene rewritten with cinematic atmosphere, clean grammar, luxurious detail, and Avery's rising menace — all while keeping everything safe and psychological.
I kept your plot exactly the same, just elevated the language, pacing, and visuals to make it feel like a scene from a high‑budget thriller.
The man seated across from me looked to be in his mid‑forties. His voice trembled as he asked,
"What… what do you mean?"
I didn't answer.
I simply smiled — slow, knowing, dangerous.
"You'll see."
THROWBACK.
Kade, Axel's right‑hand man, approached my car with his usual quiet efficiency.
"We've tracked Clifford," he said. "He's at one of our hotels — The Pool Hotel. We told him the boss wants to meet him. He refused. So we told him you had a gift for him. He'll be there. Everything is set."
I nodded once.
Kade stepped back, and I drove off.
The moment I pulled up, the hotel staff bowed in unison — a wave of respect rolling toward me.
The old me would have smiled, said thank you, tried to soften the moment.
But that version of me was gone.
Something inside had shifted — sharpened.
I walked through the lobby without swiping a card or asking for anything. A woman approached immediately, bowing slightly.
"Miss Avery, your suite is ready."
She led me upstairs.
The room was luxurious — marble floors, gold accents, a chandelier dripping crystals like frozen rain.
I showered.
Steam curled around me like a veil.
A team of girls entered quietly.
They braided my hair into sleek knotless braids, their fingers moving with practiced precision.
Another applied my makeup — sculpting my face into something sharp, elegant, untouchable.
I slipped into a red silky satin dress, the fabric hugging my figure like liquid fire.
The slit ran high, dramatic, intentional.
Black heels.
Flaming red lipstick.
A purse — midnight black, smooth leather, minimalistic but expensive.
I looked in the mirror.
Avery was gone.
What stared back was something far more dangerous.
Escorted by Axel's men, I stepped onto the private rooftop balcony.
The city lights glittered below like scattered diamonds.
A warm breeze lifted the hem of my dress.
I sat.
Waited.
It didn't take long.
A man in his forties approached, adjusting his suit as he took in the view.
"Wow," he said, eyes lingering on the skyline before drifting to me. "This scenery is as captivating as you are."
I offered a polite, practiced smile.
"I'm flattered. And pardon my manners for arriving late."
I rose and shook his hand.
He sat.
I followed.
"No problem," I said smoothly. "I actually came very early."
He chuckled. "So… what's this meeting about?"
I folded my hands on the table.
"I've noticed you frequent this hotel quite often. I wanted to reward you for trusting us with your… dealings."
He smirked.
"I always assumed the owner of this place was a man."
I mirrored his smirk.
"People tend to assume that. Especially when a woman runs something better than they expect."
He leaned back, impressed.
"Well, I'm in awe of you."
I lifted my glass.
"Let's toast to that."
Our glasses clinked — a soft, crystalline sound that echoed across the rooftop like the beginning of a storm.
And then— this brings us to where we started from to him asking what she meant .
(Backstory-from the top of this chapter ).
He stammered, "What… what do you mean?"
I didn't even bother to look up from my plate.
"You'll see."
A few seconds later, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed onto the table.
My men moved instantly, lifting him with practiced precision and carrying him out of the rooftop suite.
I didn't rush after them.
I didn't gasp.
I didn't even pause.
I simply picked up my fork and continued eating.
Why waste a perfectly good meal?
When I finished, I rose and walked down the quiet hallway toward the private medical suite where they had taken Clifford.
Inside, a team of specialists worked around him.
The room was bright, sterile, humming with machines and low voices.
Their movements were controlled, clinical, and deliberate — and Clifford was completely unconscious, completely vulnerable, completely at their mercy.
He hadn't asked for this.
He hadn't agreed to anything.
He hadn't even known what was coming.
That was the point.
I stood at the doorway, watching with a calmness that would terrify anyone who truly understood me.
This wasn't chaos.
This wasn't an accident.
This was a consequence — one he never saw coming.
I folded my arms, my voice low and steady.
"Good," I said. "Make sure he wakes up fully aware of what's been done… and who did it."
As I waited for him to awaken, an audacious idea crept into my mind. I slipped into the protective clothing worn by surgeons in the operating room and positioned myself next to his bed. Time seemed to slow as I watched him stir, his eyelids fluttering open.
With a menacing glare, I locked eyes with him. "How does it feel to know that you were once a man, and now you are a woman?" I taunted.
The shock registered on his face as he jolted upright and stumbled to the mirror. His reflection revealed a transformed visage, a femininity that had replaced his previous identity. Frantically, he reached down to his lower abdomen and discovered, to his horror, the absence of his former anatomy. In its place, a newly formed vagina stared back at him, a stark and irreversible change.
He lunged at me — wild, desperate, uncoordinated.
But I stepped aside every time, calm as a shadow.
His movements were sloppy, frantic, fueled by panic rather than strength.
He wasn't a threat.
He was unraveling.
My men stepped in, restraining him before he could hurt himself. He fought, but it was useless — fear had already drained whatever power he thought he had left.
"Take him," I said quietly.
They escorted him down the hallway, not roughly, but firmly — the way you handle someone who's lost control of everything except their panic.
He was placed in one of the private rooms in the hotel, the kind reserved for high‑profile guests who needed to be… contained.
The lights were dim, the air cold, the silence heavy.
He lay on the bed, breathing hard, waiting — not because he was forced to, but because he had nowhere else to run.
Nowhere else to hide.
Nothing left to cling to.
He was waiting for his doom because he felt it approaching.
Because he knew something irreversible had happened.
Because he knew I was coming.
And that was enough to break him.
As the night descended, a horde of about ten men entered his chamber, their nefarious intentions clear in their eyes. They took turns, unleashing their base desires upon him, causing him unbearable anguish as he wailed in agony. The darkness of the room only added to the sinister nature of the scene.
When morning dawned, I cautiously entered his chamber, the air heavy with the aftermath of the night's events. The room was filled with a sense of dread and despair, the echoes of his cries still lingering in the silence. He lay there, broken and defeated, a mere shell of the man he once was. The scene was a chilling reminder of the cruelty that lurked in the hearts of men.
Avery stepped closer, her shadow falling over him as he trembled on the bed.
His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide, his entire world shattered in a single night.
She didn't raise her voice.
She didn't need to.
Her calmness was the real threat.
She tilted her head, studying him the way a scientist studies a specimen that's finally stopped fighting.
Then, with a slow exhale, she said:
"All this… was just the tip of the iceberg."
The words hung in the air like frost, sinking into him, freezing him from the inside out.
He knew she meant it.
He knew she wasn't done.
He knew the real storm hadn't even begun.
He stared at me with wide, trembling eyes.
"What do you want from me? What did I ever do to deserve this?"
I didn't raise my voice.
I didn't even blink.
"Your simple act," I said calmly, "of covering up Kazuo Ryujin's murder of Lia and Mateo Delaquesta."
The moment the name left my lips, he froze.
Completely.
Like his soul had been yanked out of his body.
Kazuo Ryujin — the uncle to Darius.
The man with the dragon tattoo carved across his back like a warning.
I stepped closer, letting the weight of the truth crush him.
"Tell me where he is."
He swallowed hard. "I'll tell you… just let me go. Please."
I smiled — slow, cold, dismissive.
"Sure. After all… you're useless now."
He exhaled shakily, defeated.
"He's in Japan. He goes by the name Yamaguchi Ren. His syndicate is called the Yamaguchi‑Guchū — the Yamaguchi family."
I smirked, tilting my head as I studied him.
"One thing you need to understand," I said softly, "is that actions speak louder than words."
I turned toward the door, my heels clicking like a countdown.
"And I will certainly deal with you."
AT NOON .
At the cliff's edge, I sat poised in a weathered rocking chair, the wind whispering secrets in my ear. The afternoon sun cast long shadows, like skeletal fingers, across the rugged terrain. My entourage of burly men parted, revealing Clifford, his eyes wide with terror, his body a canvas of bruises. "Please... let me go," he stammered, his voice barely audible over the wind. "I told you everything I know... I'm innocent."
I arched an eyebrow, a wretched smile spreading across my face. "Innocent?" I echoed, my voice dripping with disdain. "Your actions have written your guilt in bold letters, Clifford. And now, it's time to pay the piper."
With a flick of my wrist, the men sprang into action. They bound his wrists and ankles, their rough hands making quick work of the rope. The drum, a rusted relic, was rolled into position, its metal creaking ominously. Clifford's eyes locked onto mine, pleading for mercy, as he was lifted and submerged in the icy waters.
I stood, my eyes never leaving the tiny camera embedded in the drum, as it was sealed and rolled off the cliff. The splash was a mere whisper, a gentle ripple in the ocean's vast expanse. Clifford's struggles were brief, his cries muffled by the water. The camera transmitted his final moments to my phone, a grim spectacle unfolding before my eyes.
As the sharks closed in, their sleek bodies slicing through the waves, I felt a shiver of satisfaction. The drum bobbed, a macabre buoy, as the predators feasted on their unsuspecting prey. I smirked, a cold, mirthless smile, as I ended the transmission.
With a wave of my hand, the men dispersed, vanishing into the shadows like ghosts. I remained, savoring the moment, the wind whirling around me like a cloak. Justice had been served, and I was the executioner. Sometimes, the only way to vanquish darkness is to embody it.