SLOANE
The city was never quiet, but tonight it came close.
From the rooftop, I could feel its pulse in a way that went beyond sound. Muffled bass dripped from some underground club, sharp tires hissed through puddles, and somewhere below, a glass bottle clattered in the alley. Yet between the noise, a pause lingered, a stillness that didn't belong. My chest tightened against it like the hitch of breath before a fight.
I hated nights like this.
The air was heavy, wet with asphalt and the sharp bite of metal, thick enough to coat my lungs. My boots stuck slightly to the damp concrete, the friction reminding me that nothing in this city came without resistance. The Glock at my hip felt heavier than usual, though I knew it was only my nerves pretending to weigh me down.
Patience. That was the rule that mattered tonight. Always.
People thought I was cold. Too still. Too focused. Too disciplined. What they didn't understand was that stillness was a weapon. It made them underestimate you. It made them twitch, fumble, second-guess themselves. And watching them squirm was almost… enjoyable.
The street two floors below looked ordinary, at least at first glance. Parked cars, a burned-out streetlamp, a paper cup rolling with the wind. But ordinary was dangerous. Ordinary was camouflage. Ordinary got people killed. I knew that. Always had.
So I studied everything: the man who lingered at the corner too long, the light blinking in the high-rise across the street, the faint click of a door shutting three buildings down. Every sound, every movement told a story if you knew how to listen. And I knew how.
A strand of hair slipped loose from my bun, brushing my cheek. I ignored it. Discomfort was a luxury, and I never indulged. My eyes cut through the darkness, scanning, calculating, waiting for a call that hadn't come. My team had gone silent an hour ago. Dead? Incompetent? I didn't care. I never cared. Depending on people was a mistake.
I'd learned that early.
My father's voice still echoed in my head like gravel ground between teeth: You either watch their backs, Sloane, or you bury them. There's no in between.
I'd buried enough.
A sharp buzz vibrated in my pocket, snapping me from the darkness. My hand moved instinctively before my mind caught up, pulling out the cracked phone. One new message glowed on the screen. No name. Just coordinates.
I stared at it, expression unreadable, though something coiled tight in my gut. Midtown. Expensive ground. Whoever sent it knew me well enough to know I wouldn't ignore it. Two things were obvious: someone had been watching me, and someone wanted me exactly where they said.
A corner of my mouth twitched—not quite a smile. If they thought I'd walk blind into a trap, they were mistaken. Curiosity pricked sharp in my chest.
Whispers in the city spoke of a man whose influence reached half the politicians, whose money flowed like blood through every vein of power. His name slipped across conversations like oil—never confirmed, always implied, always powerful.
If this assignment had anything to do with him, I was already deeper than I liked.
The phone buzzed again. A single line of text.
Protect him. Or don't bother showing up again.
My fist clenched around the device, the plastic creaking under pressure. Nerve. Arrogance. As if anyone could tell me what to do.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket and let my eyes roam across the skyline. Towers sliced into clouds like knives. Somewhere, someone thought they had me cornered. They'd learn, fast. I didn't get cornered. I hunted.
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of rain and exhaust smoke. I let it fill my lungs. Another job. Another mess. But this one was different. It had teeth.
I pulled my coat tighter around me, the leather stiff but protective. My eyes swept the streets again, catching detail after detail: a dark sedan idling across the avenue, a lone figure pacing behind tinted windows, reflections in glass catching movement that didn't belong. Every instinct screamed vigilance.
I reached for my earpiece, toggling the comm channel. Silence. My team had vanished into ghosts. It was always easier alone. Better. Safer.
Time stretched, thick and heavy. I adjusted my stance, letting my boots sink slightly into the slick concrete, feeling the tiny tremors beneath my feet. City vibrations. Heartbeats. Movements. Patterns. Every living thing left a trace if you knew how to read it.
I crouched slightly, leaning closer to the edge, scanning the street below with tactical precision. There. A shadow detached itself from the alleyway, moving too deliberately for a pedestrian. I froze, holding my breath, muscles tight as bowstrings. They didn't see me yet. Didn't suspect a thing. That's how I liked it. They never did.
My phone buzzed again. I resisted the urge to check it, letting curiosity and irritation battle in my chest. Whoever this was wanted to see how I'd react—how I would move. Patience, Sloane. Always patience.
A low, distant rumble of tires drew my attention. Someone was coming, and they weren't casual. Not tonight. Not here. My heart didn't race—control didn't let it—but my senses sharpened. Every sound, every vibration, every flicker of light was a signal.
I shifted slightly, Glock raised, fingers steady. Even in darkness, I could see the shapes, the angles, the opportunities to strike before they struck me. Traps were everywhere; they just hadn't realized I already saw them.
The wind tugged at my coat, carrying the scent of rain that had begun to whisper across the skyline. Clouds thickened, shadowing the neon and the streetlamps, blending danger into beauty. City nights were deceptive like that—appearing ordinary, calm, while hiding predators in plain sight.
I had been trained to embrace it. To anticipate it. To move like water through a storm.
My earpiece buzzed again, this time faintly. A reminder? A warning? I didn't answer. Silence was a weapon, too. Let them wonder. Let them hesitate. Fear was contagious, and hesitation could be lethal.
I crouched fully now, boots planted, Glock ready. Midtown awaited. Whoever wanted me at those coordinates was testing me. I was already analyzing the route, calculating angles, escape options, sightlines. I would arrive prepared, always prepared.
And yet, as the city breathed below me, slick and alive, I felt the first real thrill of anticipation in days. Not for danger—but for challenge. For something that would demand everything I was. Everything I had trained to be.
A final glance over my shoulder, to the skyline stretching endless and merciless before me. Somewhere in that expanse, someone thought they were ready for me.
They weren't.
I didn't get caught. I didn't wait. I didn't hesitate.
I hunted.
Tonight, the city might have been quiet. But it had nothing on me.
And when I stepped off that rooftop and into whatever awaited at the coordinates, I knew one thing for certain: I wasn't walking into just another assignment.
I was walking into war.