I roll a small metal bolt across the floor—something I pocketed in the alley because I am nothing if not resourceful and petty. The tinytingechoes. His head turns. His flashlight follows.
I close the distance in three steps and drive the bat into his knee. He buckles. I twist behind him and clamp one hand over his mouth as I hook the bat under his throat—not hard enough to break anything, just enough to promise I could. “Sleep,” I whisper.
He goes slack. I lower him gently. Because I’m a lady.
The stairwell smells like old concrete and expensive cologne leaking down from the club above. I descend fast and silent.The deeper I go, the colder the air gets. The more the building changes from glamour to utility— from champagne sin to industrial truth.
The lights are still out down here. But that’s fine. I can see everything I need. The dark has never scared me. I grew up in it. I learned how to make it my ally.
At the bottom landing, two more guards stand outside a reinforced door. They’re arguing quietly, irritated by the blackout. One of them mutters something about getting the generator online. The other complains about “that Knight guy” being more trouble than he’s worth.
I inhale.
Exhale.
Then I become the storm. I step into range, swing high, and take out the first guard. He’s down after I hit him in the head. I pivot and drive the bat into the second guard’s ribs—hard enough to drop him, controlled enough to keep the sound minimal. The first one reaches for his gun. I plant my boot on his wrist and he hisses.
I lean down, calm as morning coffee. “Bad choice.” Then I tap his temple with the bat.
He goes out. I stand there for one beat, listening. No alarms. No shouting. No footsteps charging toward me.
Good.
I crack the door open.
The basement is the kind of place that tries to convince you it’s permanent. Concrete floors. Steel beams. A drain in the center like somebody planned for a mess.
Knight is there. Tied to a chair. Blood on his mouth. Anger in his eyes like a lit fuse.
Viktor Luka stands three feet away, half in shadow, flanked by two men. He’s mid-sentence when I step into the doorway. And because the universe enjoys timing— the lights flicker.
Then flare on. Bright. Harsh. The generator’s back. The stage lights, restored.
Viktor turns slowly toward me. His smile spreads with the delighted surprise of a man who just discovered a new toy. “Well,” he says. His gaze sweeps me—mask, bat, boots, posture. “Impressive.”
I take one step down. Then another. My heartbeat is steady. My grip is steady. My rage is a laser.
“I should hire you,” he says.
I tilt my head. “You couldn’t afford me.”
He laughs. A genuinely entertained sound. “I like you.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
His eyes gleam. “You’re the little bird,” he says softly.
I don’t flinch. “I’m the girl who’s about to ruin your night.”
He lifts a hand, casual. “Get her,” he tells his men.
They move. Two of them advance at once. They’re big. They’re trained. They are not prepared for me. The first one goes for mywrist. I let him. Then I pivot my hips, use his momentum against him, and slam the bat into his shoulder joint. He drops with a roar of pain. The second tries to flank. I step in close and drive my elbow into his throat, then swing the bat up into his jaw. He collapses in a heap of ego and bad choices.
Silence follows.
Viktor blinks like he’s recalibrating. “Okay,” he says, almost delighted. “That was excellent.”
“You’re not going to be so charmed in thirty seconds.”
