The silence hung in the air, thick and heavy.
Not even the wind dared to stir through the shattered windows. Mischa stood there, perfectly poised, every muscle tense beneath her graceful exterior. Mya could feel her heart pounding in her ears, louder than her own breath.
Assad tilted his head slightly, a grin plastered across his face, his shadow twisting under the dim streetlight like a predator ready to strike.
No one moved.
No one blinked.
Then—
Click.
A sound sliced through the stillness sharp, metallic, but not from a gun. Mischa's eyes flicked to Assad's hand, but he was empty.
"What was that?" Mya whispered, her breath barely escaping her lips.
Assad's grin grew wider. "That?" he replied softly, his voice smooth like silk. "That was the sound of hesitation."
Mischa's expression hardened. "You talk too much."
"And yet," he cut in, "you still haven't budged. Looks like the rules of the game are working just fine."
The tension was suffocating.
Every second felt like a trigger just waiting to be pulled.
Then, Mischa's calm smile returned cold, calculated, and utterly chilling.
"Well," she said, her voice laced with mockery, "if this is a game… maybe it's time I stopped playing by your rules."
The streetlight buzzed softly above them, flickering just a bit. For a moment, everything was still until Mischa shifted her heel, just a tiny bit.
Then she sprang into action.
A flash of white and black silk whirled through the air as Mischa's leg shot forward like a knife. Assad ducked instinctively, feeling the rush of air from her kick brush against his cheek. She moved with fluidity, her body bending and twisting with an almost magical precision, like a ballerina performing for an audience that only she could see.
Her next move came from above, a downward heel aimed right at his shoulder. Assad managed to catch her ankle midair.
He smirked. "Graceful… but a bit predictable."
Before he could respond, she spun her body in his grip and slammed her free heel into his jaw. The impact sent him reeling back, blood staining the corner of his lip.
Mischa landed flawlessly, one leg raised, arms outstretched like a dancer taking her final bow. "Do mind your footing," she said sweetly. "You're throwing off my rhythm."
Assad wiped his mouth, his grin unwavering. "Your rhythm's a bit off-beat."
He lunged forward with surprising speed, his movements unorthodox. Each step was raw and jagged, heavy with intent. He wasn't dancing; he was shattering the rhythm.
Mischa twirled, narrowly dodging a punch. Her hand flicked out, nails grazing the air near his throat before she spun again, kicking the back of his knee.
He fell caught himself then swept low, catching her off guard. His foot connected with her calf, and for the first time, she stumbled.
Assad stood over her, his eyes dark yet strangely vacant. "Not so graceful now, are you?"
Her smile remained steady. "You confuse grace with weakness."
She leapt spinning, striking, flowing. Every movement matched the beat of her own heartbeat. It wasn't just a fight anymore it was a work of art. She kicked, flipped, ducked, and struck in a seamless ballet of violence.
Assad's instincts struggled to keep pace. Every parry left him vulnerable to another strike, and every dodge brought her closer.
A spin kick landed hard against his ribs. A swift palm strike followed, hitting him right in the neck. Then came a final sweep across his chest and just like that, Assad was on the ground. He attempted to get back up, but his body had other plans. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his vision started to fade.
Mischa loomed over him, poised and graceful, casually brushing off nonexistent dust from her glove.
"Don't take it personally," she said in a gentle tone. "I've had to silence far worse men than you."
"Mya, my dear, it's time to move along."
Mya hesitated, glancing at Mischa's outstretched hand, torn between leaving and staying with Assad. She had witnessed the fight; Assad had been arrogant, yet he had listened to her story. Maybe there was more to him than met the eye.
"What are you waiting for? Come on, we have no time to waste."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Mischa, but I want to stay with Assad," she replied, her voice trembling.
"Is that so? Well then, may we meet again if you're still alive."
Assad groaned as he pushed himself off the ground, dust swirling from his jacket like he'd just lost a battle with gravity. He straightened his clothes with a flair that was almost theatrical, brushing off imaginary dirt from his shoulders. "Well," he muttered dryly, "that went… splendidly."
He surveyed the wreckage of the shop—flickering lights, overturned tables, and a dent in the wall that looked suspiciously like a shoe. "Ten out of ten," he said, nodding sagely. "Would definitely get my ass kicked again."
Mya blinked, still trying to wrap her head around it all. "Um… so… what's next?"
Assad let out a dramatic sigh, cracking his neck like a boxer gearing up for another round of questionable choices. "We go."
"Go where?"
He looked at her as if she'd just asked the most profound question ever. "Away. Preferably from wherever I just got ballet-slapped into the floor."
As he spoke, he casually pulled out his phone, which immediately erupted into a ringing fit, vibrating so wildly it almost slipped from his grasp. "Ah. Speak of the devil and she shall call," he muttered, squinting at the screen. "Taura."
He answered. "Hey, how's it going—"
"ASSAD?!" Taura's voice blasted through the speaker, loud enough to make Mya take a step back. "WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?! I'VE BEEN TRYING TO REACH YOU FOR AN HOUR!"
Assad's spirit seemed to leave his body for a moment. "Uh… bathroom break?"
"FOR AN HOUR?!"
"Constipation?" he suggested weakly.
Mya pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation.
"Don't you dare get smart with me! You vanish mid-mission and think a simple sorry will fix it?!"
Assad winced, holding the phone a bit farther from his ear. "Look, long story short — I had a run-in with our little homicidal maid ballerina, lost both briefcases, but hey—"
"Wait. What."
He froze mid-step. "…Funny story, actually…"
"No. No no no. Assad. Tell me you didn't."
He chuckled nervously, glancing at Mya for some moral support. She just shook her head, mouthing you're on
The other end of the line erupted.
"YOU FUCKING LOST THEM?! WHAAAT?!"
"Seriously, why are you yelling? You're supposed to be the fun sister. What's going on?"
Assad winced, pulling the phone a bit away from his ear as Taura's furious voice crackled through the static.
"Anyway, just chill out," he said, forcing a nervous smile. "They, um… kind of wandered off."
"Wandered off?! Assad, I swear to God—"
He cut her off mid-rant, tucking the phone back into his pocket with a dry chuckle. "She's definitely going to kill me later."
Mya just stared at him, completely at a loss for words. "You're… laughing about this?"
Mya looked at him, utterly exasperated. "You're laughing? We just lost everything!"
Assad shrugged, his eyes half-closed. "Eh. I've lost worse. Like my sanity. More than once."
Mya crossed her arms. "You're unbelievable."
He shot her a thumbs-up. "Yea sure whatever."
She looked at him as if she was reevaluating every decision that led her to this moment.
"Anyway," Assad said, strolling toward the neon-lit street, "let's get out of here."
"Go where?"
"You'll see and I know we might be of help," he said, waving his hand dismissively.
As he stepped out of the broken doorway, the streetlights caught the edge of his grin tired but defiant.
"C'mon, Mya," he called out. "We've got a long night ahead.
Mya sighed, trailing behind him. "You are so dead."
Assad smirked. "Not yet. But she's definitely drafting the obituary."