The evening was beautiful and at the same time crisp and cold, the kind that nips at exposed skin and paints breath in ghostly plumes. It was the night of the first snowfall, and gentle, fat flakes drifted down from the dark sky, turning the city into a white dream. People moved with lighter steps, faces up and catching snow on their tongues, their laughter swirling through the air, a scene of blissful, seasonal peace.
Miguel walked into the plush, soundproofed interior of a private lounge, the heavy door sighing shut behind him. He was dressed in simple elegance: tailored black trousers and a black shirt, the first two buttons undone. A mischievous, almost playful air hung about him as he strolled in, casually folding back the sleeves of his shirt. The motion revealed more of the intricate tattoos that snaked up his forearms, as if he were preparing for a game rather than a business meeting.
The door clicked shut with a sound of finality.
In the same instant, violence erupted in silence. A narrow, cruel blade drilled straight through him, erupting from the center of his chest in a sudden, shocking bloom of red. He stiffened, a statue of surprise.
The assassin was not satisfied with a single strike.
With a ruthless, wet sound, the blade was wrenched free, only to be driven in again. And again. Each thrust was precise and devastating, drilling into all important parts of him: kidney, lung, the space between ribs, and the base of the spine. The sound was a horrific, wet punctuation in the quiet room. Miguel's body convulsed with each penetration before his legs buckled utterly. He collapsed face-first onto the deep pile of the carpet, a still and bloody canvas of cut.
Vittoria threw back the black hood of her infiltration suit, her vibrant red Afro a burst of violent color in the muted room. Her eyes, chips of polar ice, burned with contempt and a fury so deep it was cold. She stared at the lifeless form. "Tell them who you offended in hell," she hissed, the words dripping with glacial venom. She flung the dripping knife; it spun through the air and thudded precisely into his back with a solid, wet chunk, burying itself to the hilt.
Proof. The world needed to see. She turned, crossing to a sleek case, and retrieved a high-end digital camera. She began to circle the corpse, a photographer composing her masterpiece. She adjusted the focus, the lens whirring softly, centering on his silver hair, now matted and dark.
"You really suck at taking pictures."
A voice, smooth, amused, and intimately close, breathed the words against the shell of her ear.
Before she could even react, a hand as hard as iron slammed between her shoulder blades, and she was hurled forward, crashing through the solid marble coffee table. It exploded into a cloud of white dust and razor-sharp shards. The impact drove the air from her lungs as she skidded across the broken floor. Then his weight was on her, pinning her down with impossible strength that crushed her into the debris.
She twisted her neck, eyes wide with shock. Him. Miguel. The man she had just stabbed repeatedly. He looked down at her, a faint, bloody smirk playing on his lips. Before her eyes his injuries sealed unnaturally, and he chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into hers.
"You really didn't believe I was that easy to kill, did you?"
Vittoria's shock hardened into defiance. She glared up, refusing to concede even as she lay shattered and pinned. "Well," she spat, each word a shard of glass, "my mistake."
He opened his mouth, that infuriating smile still in place, but it froze. His head cocked, animal-like. For the first time a frown appeared on his face. He leaned closer, ignoring her furious struggle. His breath, unnaturally hot, fanned her cheek, then the sensitive skin of her throat, and her face darkened with rage at the violation.
He inhaled, a deep, shuddering drag of air. And then his entire body went still, his face filled with disbelief.
"You…" he breathed, the word thick with a thousand years of longing. "My Purple Pearl."
She stared, her expression a storm cloud of fury and confusion. Then, like a starved beast finding its prey after a long time, he lost all semblance of control. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling with a desperate hunger, as if trying to consume her scent. She bucked and writhed, summoning every ounce of strength she possessed, but it was like trying to shift a mountain. He was immovable. His teeth grazed her skin, then caught the collar of her top, the fabric beginning to tear with a sickening rip—
KABOOM!
The entire exterior wall of the lounge exploded inward, carrying with it a cataclysm of shattered glass, shredded steel, and roaring flame. The force lifted them both and hurled them across the room. Furniture became projectiles, and the world dissolved into a deafening roar and a blinding, choking cloud of dust and smoke.
"Miss! Now!" Martha's voice, thin in the chaos, sliced through the ringing in Vittoria's ears.
Vittoria, taking advantage of the opening and ignoring the pain, scrambled from beneath a splintered beam, her eyes stinging. She saw the gaping space where the wall had been, and she didn't hesitate. She launched herself through the swirling fog of destruction, Martha's hand closing around her wrist in a vise grip, yanking her into the smoke-filled corridor. Together, they became ghosts in the pandemonium, flowing with the tide of screaming, fleeing guests and staff, bursting out into the cold, snow-filled alley. A black sedan, engine snarling, skidded to a halt. They dove inside, and the car drove away, disappearing into the swirling white. She had underestimated him, he clearly wasn't human to be killed by a mere blade it was now understandable how he had been able to kill her father it only hardened her resolve to kill him, she'd just need to strategize better.
In the heart of the ruin, amidst settling ash and the growing scream of approaching sirens, a figure pushed itself up from the wreckage. Miguel stood, brushing powdered concrete from his shoulders like dandruff. Blood trailed down his forehead, the wound beneath visibly knitting together. He looked at the devastation, at the spot where she had been pinned, and he threw back his head.
And he laughed.
It was a loud, unhinged, joyous sound that echoed off the shattered walls, a sound of pure, maniacal fulfillment. He was crazy, so the laughter itself was no surprise. But its tone was new. It was the laugh of a pirate who had finally found the shore after an eternity at sea.
He had it. After a millennium of chasing whispers, the truth was now a scent in his nostrils, a signature in her very soul. The Purple Pearl was no longer a trinket to be held. It was her. Its essence was melted into Vittoria Roosevelt's being, part of her blood, her breath, and her life. Obviously what Jonathan had done, whether for protection or power, was irrelevant. The Pearl could not be lost again unless Vittoria herself disappeared.
And letting that happen was an impossibility he would never allow.
As the first red and blue lights strobed through the falling snow, painting the destruction in garish color, Miguel vanished into the winter night, a predator with a scent finally locked, feeling more alive than he had in centuries. The tedious cycle was broken. The game, at last, had become interesting.