Alexandra hated first nights.
They were full of lies—false security, rehearsed calm, the illusion that nothing bad would happen simply because it hadn't yet.
What she hated even more was the calmness that descended over her - like it was something she practiced, rehearsed and followed everyday. She also absolutely despised how her body automatically responded to the slight changes and small indications, like it was something she was born to do. Forged. Forced.
Andre's penthouse changed after midnight. Lights dimmed automatically. Curtains slid shut. The city outside blurred into a muted glow. Alexandra moved through the space slowly, memorizing it not as a home but as a battlefield.
Corners first. Then blind spots. Then habits.
Andre watched her once, briefly, before returning to his tablet. He didn't ask questions. That made her trust him less and respect him more.
"Bedroom," she said eventually. "Now."
He looked up. "Excuse me?"
"You sleep," she clarified. "I don't."
A pause. Then a nod. "I'll leave the door open."
"Don't."
His lips twitched. "Of course."
Alexandra waited until he disappeared before exhaling. She rolled her shoulders once, loosening tension, then checked the windows again. The locks were good. Not perfect. Nothing ever was.
She took position in the shadowed corner of the living area, back to the wall, eyes on the hallway and the glass beyond. Her breathing slowed. Her mind emptied.
This—this stillness—was familiar.
At 2:17 a.m., something changed.
Not a sound. Not movement.
Pressure.
Alexandra's fingers flexed near the blade in her boot.
The air felt wrong, like a held breath. She scanned the windows again, slower this time. That's when she saw it—a faint shimmer near the balcony railing. Almost nothing. Almost missed.
She didn't hesitate.
Lights off. She crossed the room silently, pulled Andre from his bed, and shoved him to the floor just as the glass shattered.
The sound exploded.
Gunfire cracked through the space, sharp and controlled. Alexandra dragged Andre behind the reinforced kitchen island, body shielding his without thinking.
"Stay down," she hissed.
"What—"
"Quiet."
Another shot. Then another. Not wild. Not panicked.
Professional.
Alexandra peeked just long enough to confirm movement on the balcony—one shooter, retreating already.
She didn't pursue. Not yet.
Sirens wailed in the distance—too fast.
Inside job, she thought grimly.
Andre stared at her, breath shallow but steady. "You knew."
"I noticed," she corrected.
Security flooded the penthouse moments later, shouting, weapons raised. Alexandra stood slowly, hands visible, already annoyed.
"Clear," she said. "One shooter. Gone."
Andre rose to his feet, eyes never leaving her. "You saved my life."
"I did my job."
He studied the shattered glass, the bullet lodged harmlessly in reinforced steel. "They didn't want chaos."
"No," Alexandra said. "They wanted proof."
"Of what?"
"That you're vulnerable."
Andre turned back to her. "And now?"
"Now," she said, retrieving her jacket, "we assume they'll escalate."
A beat.
"You could still walk," Andre said quietly.
Alexandra met his gaze. Something old and sharp stirred in her chest—not fear, not anger.
Resolve.
"I don't walk mid-hunt," she replied.
For the first time, Andre smiled without calculation.
And somewhere in the city below, someone marked Alexandra's name off a list—and moved her to the top of another.