I step slowly out of the room, and my stomach growls loudly, insistently—a reminder of the ritual that always follows the work.
New clothes.
And a burger.
Desert Oasis (Middle East)
The side of my face burns, raw and taut, like leather left baking in the relentless sun, while my fingers tremble and clamp around the binoculars. The desert air weighs heavily, pressing into my shoulders, constricting my throat. Anxiety coils in my chest, hot and hollow, ready to tip me over the edge. Minutes stretch and smear into hours; the SUV no longer feels like a vehicle, but a tomb where time has frozen, refusing to release me.
I draw a slow, deliberate breath through my nose, forcing a shard of control back into my lungs. My free hand tugs at the hem of my black T-shirt, the sweat-drenched fabric clinging tome as if fused to my skin. Even peeling it an inch away sends a shock of cold racing up my spine, goosebumps erupting along my arms. I close my eyes, wetting my parched lips with my tongue, silently wishing the chill would linger—a fleeting mercy in the desert’s merciless, sun-baked grip.
“It’s your own fault,” Estella murmurs, her voice soft and intimate, brushing against my ear. I shift slightly, the binoculars still warm in my grip. She shrugs, lips pressing thin before quirking at the corners—part scold, part tease—like I’m a child she can’t quite stop pitying. “I don’t understand why you’re taking this so seriously.”
“What?” I rasp, my voice cracking in the dry air. I clear my throat, though it barely makes a difference—the silence between us has grown teeth, snapping at the edges of my patience. She’s been watching me the entire time, still and quiet, offering no plan, and I can’t bring myself to speak first. Not after everything that happened a few days ago.
A storm of emotions tore through me, with shock leading the charge. The last mission had ripped open a truth I couldn’t deny: Estella wasthekiller—the shadow we’d trailed for months. Every other assassin whispered her name, feared her from afar, yet none had any clue who she really was.
A faceless shadow.
A local legend in death itself, her reputation stretching even to the highest ranks, sending ripples of fear through those who thought themselves untouchable. I hadn’t been sure it was really her—until I saw the way she moved, the clothes she wore, and then watched her kill a pedophile through the surveillance cameras. Only then did the pieces click, two plus two forming a picture I couldn’t unsee.
The Order trained her to perfection. She doesn’t follow a predictable pattern—she can’t—and that’s what makes each kill feel like a separate symphony of death. Yet beneath the chaos,there’s a signature, so distinct that it’s how I realized she was the one we’d been hunting.
She doesn’t just take them out one by one, slitting throats like some mechanical ritual. No, for her, killing is a meticulously crafted ceremony. She studies her victims, maps their weaknesses, and selects the perfect outfit for each mission, every choice deliberate, every move executed with precision.
I did my homework on that lawyer—a man whose life was polished to such an obscene sheen it almost hurt to look at. The deeper you dig, the more layers you uncover: a dozen people working in concert, crafting the illusion of perfection. Each detail, each nuance, leaving traces that, to someone like her—or me—reeked of cheapness beneath the glitter.
In reality, he was a sick fuck, and I won’t lie, watching her kill him made something inside me feel lighter. Something dark, quiet, almost reverent, stirred as I watched her deliver her version of justice.
But amid the shock of realizing that Estella was the assassin in question, another, stranger feeling cut through.
Impression.
I know how twisted that sounds, but I couldn’t stop feeling it. Every move she made—every careful, patient, calculated action—screamed skill and the relentless effort it takes to become an untraceable shadow. It’s no wonder even seasoned assassins fear her.
And yet, behind it all, lurking quietly at the edges of my mind, a different thought lingered, faint but persistent.
What could she have endured to become so irreparably broken?
I inhale, but the air feels stale, thick, and oppressive. It presses against my skull until the edges of my vision waver, dizziness licking at me like heat rising off the sand. This is my first real mission, and today I’m supposed to kill a billionaireoil magnate hosting a meeting in a lavish tented camp. Simple instructions: kill him, leave no witnesses.
I’ve run through a dozen different scenarios, each more elaborate than the last, and I chose the one that will impress her.
At least, I fucking hope so.
Because so far, Estella has looked at me with nothing but skepticism, as if waiting for me to prove I’m not dead weight. I need her on my side if I want any chance of making this work.
Her finger glides along my arm, tracing a slow, idle circle that pulls me sharply out of my spiraling thoughts.
“I was talking about your clothes,” she says, voice soft but threaded with a scoff. “Why are you wearing a uniform?”
I glance down at my sweat-soaked shirt and cargo pants, shrugging—a motion that barely lifts past the weight pressing on my shoulders. “To be comfortable?”
She snorts, amused, incredulous. “Why?”
Good question.
A small smile tugs at my mouth as my gaze sweeps over her body in a slow, instinctive reconnaissance, taking in her face first, then the clean dip of her collarbone, and finally the effortless fall of her dress. It’s light and stylish, clinging just enough to imply shape without ever trapping it. The hood casts half her hair into shadow, huge black sunglasses sit on her nose like armor, and thin olive-colored gloves sheath her hands. A loose brown belt rests at her waist, careless and perfect at the same time.
