Ash's POV
I never thought walking into a place like this would feel like sinking into a coffin.
The Viper Syndicate's base was carved into the underbelly of the city—part club, part fortress, all danger. The lights overhead flickered like the heartbeat of something alive and pissed off. Music pulsed low beneath the floors, bass thudding like distant gunfire. No signs, no welcome mats. Just steel, shadows, and suspicion.
The guard at the door sized me up like he was picking where to shoot if I moved too fast.
"Name?"
I didn't hesitate. "Ash Vega. I'm here for the recruit program."
He checked a tablet, scrolled. Then his eyes snapped back to me.
"You're late."
"I'm not here to make friends."
The corner of his mouth twitched—was that a smirk? He opened the door.
"Try not to die on your first day."
Sweet. Charming. Real five-star hospitality.
I stepped inside and didn't look back.
The hallway smelled like sweat and expensive perfume. Gunmetal lined the walls, and cameras blinked every few feet. The Vipers didn't believe in privacy—only control.
Each step I took echoed louder in my ears than it did in the hall. It wasn't nerves. It was focus. Hyper-attention. That kind of sharp, cold edge you get when your whole life narrows down to one purpose.
Kill the people who ruined mine.
The Vipers murdered my sister three years ago. Her body was found dumped in the harbor—no ID, just bruises and a bullet in her back. The cops called it gang-related and moved on.
But I didn't.
I tracked every lead. Dug through names, faces, and blood-soaked rumors. And all of it led here.
To them.
To her.
Seraphina Viper.
Daughter of the boss. Ice queen in heels. Rumor said she ran half the organization behind closed doors. Calculated. Ruthless. Untouchable.
She wasn't supposed to be real.
But she was.
And I planned to get close enough to slit her throat if I had to.
The elevator hummed as it lowered me to the main floor. A woman in black tactical gear waited for me at the bottom—black braids, sharp cheekbones, arms crossed like she could break me with one twitch.
"You're the street recruit?" she asked, looking unimpressed.
I nodded.
She tossed me a keycard. "Dorm block C. Orientation briefing's in one hour. Room 9."
I caught it midair. "Got it."
She paused. Her gaze narrowed slightly.
"You sure you know what you're walking into?"
I smiled. Not sweet. Not shy. The kind that hides knives.
"I do now."
She snorted. "Try not to get eaten."
Noted.
Dorm block C was a maze of cement and flickering lights. The room was bare—bed, sink, metal locker. Basic. Functional. Temporary. I dropped my duffel on the bed and sat for a second, letting the quiet crawl in.
I'd made it this far. I was inside.
Now the real work began.
I checked my reflection in the scratched mirror above the sink. Dark eyes. Darker thoughts. My lip was still split from last week's staged bar fight—part of the cover. My nose had a faint bruise, and my knuckles were raw.
Perfect.
I looked like I belonged here.
Orientation was already packed when I walked in. Half a dozen recruits—some twitchy, some too cool, some obviously trying to size everyone up. One girl was spinning a knife like it was a toy. Another guy leaned against the wall like he was posing for a mugshot.
Then the door opened again.
And she walked in.
Her.
Seraphina Viper.
Everything about her screamed dangerous. Black tailored suit. Scarlet heels. Long dark hair swept into a perfect twist. She didn't walk—she glided, like she owned the floor and everyone on it. Her eyes were cold, sharp, calculating.
She scanned the room once.
Her gaze landed on me.
And stopped.
It was just a second. But it felt like a slow-burning match pressed to the skin.
She tilted her head slightly. Like I was a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.
Then she smiled.
Not a real smile. The kind that says, I've already decided whether you're useful or dead. I'm just watching how long it takes you to realize it.
"Welcome to the Syndicate," she said smoothly, her voice velvet and poison. "You're here because someone saw potential in you. Or they want you dead and figured this would be the fastest way."
A few recruits chuckled nervously.
I didn't.
She walked slowly down the line, heels clicking on the floor. As she passed each person, she said one word.
"Forget everything you knew."
Then another step. Another recruit.
"This is not a game."
Another.
"There are no second chances."
Then she stopped in front of me.
I stared back, steady.
She leaned in slightly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
I smiled without warmth. "You look like you've killed one."
Her eyes narrowed. Barely. But I saw it.
Then she stepped back and moved on.
"Good," she said. "You'll need that spine."
My fists clenched behind my back.
I would gut her one day.
But not yet.
The next few hours were drills. Physical assessment. Obedience trials. Standard hazing, but with more blood. A guy dislocated his shoulder during the hand-to-hand test. Another broke down during a simulated interrogation.
I passed everything.
Quiet. Efficient. Watchful.
I wasn't here to impress. I was here to infiltrate.
Seraphina disappeared halfway through the afternoon. Not surprising. Queens don't mingle with pawns.
But later—after the tests, after the sweat, after the blood—they called me.
"Recruit Vega," said a voice over the intercom. "You've been requested."
"Requested?" I asked.
"By Seraphina Viper. Immediately."
Shit.
That was fast.
They led me down a corridor I hadn't seen before—cleaner, colder, silent. At the end was a thick door guarded by two men in suits. They didn't move when I approached. Just scanned me and stepped aside.
Inside, the air was colder.
She stood at a table, pouring herself a glass of whiskey like this was a social visit, not an interrogation.
She didn't look up.
"Sit," she said.
I did.
She finally glanced at me.
"Why are you really here?"
Straight. No games.
I didn't flinch.
"Survival," I said.
"Try again."
I leaned back in the chair. "You want the truth?"
"Always."
"I've got nothing left. No family. No future. Just rage and a talent for hurting people."
She studied me. "Sounds like half the people in this building."
"But I'm smarter than them."
"Are you?"
"I'm still alive."
That made her smile. Just a flicker.
She sipped her drink, then walked around the table and leaned on the edge, right in front of me.
"Here's the thing, Ash Vega. I don't trust you."
Good.
"You're too calm. Too calculated. You didn't flinch when I walked in. You didn't drool, didn't tremble, didn't look away."
"Do you want me to drool?"
Her brow lifted. "I want you to bleed."
I grinned. "That can be arranged."
We locked eyes. The air between us felt electric—dangerous and alive. She was sizing me up. So was I.
She leaned in, close enough that I could smell her perfume—dark florals and something colder underneath.
"Watch your step," she said softly. "There are vipers in every corner. One wrong move, and they'll strike."
I held her gaze. "Maybe I bite back."
That smile again. Sharper this time.
"I hope you do."