Three years later
They called it a deal, but Mirelle knew better. In her world, "deal" was code for "trap with paperwork."
She stood on the rooftop of a half-renovated nightclub in East Brixton, her gloved hands gripping the cold iron railing. Down below, music thumped like a heart that didn't know it was about to stop. Neon flickered across puddles, painting blood-colored reflections across broken concrete.
Behind her, Dale lit a cigarette.
He was the first man she'd ever trusted.
Her mistake.
"You should come down," he said. "The buyer's ready. It's just a handoff."
She didn't turn. "You triple-checked the bags?"
He blew smoke. "Mirelle, relax. I handled it."
That was the third lie of the night.
Ten minutes later, she sat at the negotiation table. On one side: her, dressed in black, a pistol on her thigh and steel in her eyes. On the other: two men in suits too clean for this side of the city, flanked by bodyguards who didn't blink.
The product was on the table—a black duffel, full of pills.
The buyer unzipped it. Glanced in.
Then he smiled.
Mirelle's stomach turned.
He didn't test the product.
He didn't even pretend to.
Because he already knew it was fake.
"Is this a joke?" the man said softly.
Mirelle's eyes slid to Dale. He wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the floor.
Bastard.
In one smooth motion, she stood, gun already in hand. The guards twitched. She didn't care.
"Dale," she said evenly, "tell them the truth."
He didn't move.
"Tell them," she repeated, voice rising, "that you took my stock and replaced it with aspirin and powdered sugar."
Still nothing.
The buyer stood. "We came here in good faith. You people don't walk away from this."
Mirelle nodded.
"You're right."
She turned, and shot Dale in the throat.
Panic.
Screams.
Gunfire cracked like thunder in the narrow room. Mirelle dropped behind the table, fired two rounds into the nearest guard's kneecaps, then sprinted through the back exit.
Blood sprayed the walls.
She made it to her car with a bullet wound grazing her ribs and rage boiling in her chest.
Her phone rang before she even shut the door.
Unknown Number.
She answered. "I'm listening."
A woman's voice—crisp, clean, no nonsense.
"You just made a mess, Ms. Mirelle."
She didn't flinch. "I clean up well."
The woman laughed softly. "Then clean this: you've got three hours before they put a bounty on your head."
Mirelle smiled.
"Good. I've been needing a reason to get creative."