Curious now, I scroll upward.
The comments keep getting wilder.
“That’s not a bounty, that’s a retirement plan.”
“I knew that bitch would piss off the wrong people.”
“I’m calling it now: contract will be claimed by breakfast.”
“If anybody else gets here first, I’m gonna lose my mind.”
“This is gonna be fun.”
I frown, half amused, half confused. They don’t usually gossip this hard unless it’s political. Or personal.
Another notification pops up—bounty listing finalized.
My thumb hesitates.
Then I tap it.
The screen loads and I shoot upright in bed, blankets falling around my waist, the cold AC licking across every inch of exposed skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake.
My throat goes tight.
The bounty is not on some dignitary.
Not on a crime boss.
Not on a traitor.
It’s on me.
My face.
My file.
My kill history.
A price on myfucking head.
My heartbeat stumbles.
“What the hell…?”
The details sharpen as the app registers the full posting:
Saint James has broken the Guild’s #1 law and is sentenced to death.
Payout unrestricted.
Open to all active and former operatives.
My stomach knots.
That law isn’t just written. It’s sacred.
No kill without contract.
