The heat hit him first — dry and restless, carrying the smell of sea salt and diesel. Elias Vale stepped out of the taxi, sunglasses cutting the glare of the Spanish morning. Barcelona spread before him in colour and noise — market stalls, the hum of mopeds, the shimmer of the Mediterranean somewhere beyond the skyline.
He paid the driver, slung his single bag over one shoulder, and entered the small hotel tucked in a narrow street off Passeig de Gràcia. Not luxury — but discreet, quiet, the kind of place that asked no questions and forgot faces quickly.
The woman at the reception smiled politely as she handed him his key.
"Room 412, señor. View of the courtyard."
Elias nodded, signed with a practiced alias, and rode the elevator up.
When the doors slid open, he turned down the hallway—and stopped.
The woman unlocking the door across from his looked strangely familiar: sharp features, tired eyes, dark hair tied back in a loose bun. She glanced up, sensing his gaze.
Their eyes met for just a moment.
Marin Cross smiled politely, the kind of greeting shared between travellers who didn't want conversation.
"Looks like we're neighbours," she said.
Elias returned the nod. "Seems so."
Neither lingered. She went inside her room; he did the same. The doors closed almost in unison.
For a long moment, Elias stood just inside his room, listening through the wall — faint footsteps, the shuffle of luggage, the soft thud of a door closing again. His instincts itched, but he brushed the feeling aside. Coincidences happened. Even to him.
He unpacked methodically: clothes, a compact firearm sealed in a false toiletries case, the black notebook, a map of the city marked with Lamina Antonio's clinic and home addresses.
Then he pulled out his phone, inserted a new SIM card, and dialed a number from memory.
The call clicked. A voice answered in Spanish-accented English — smooth, cautious.
"Vale. Been a long time."
"Too long," Elias said. "I need eyes on someone. Lamina Antonio. Doctor. You know her?"
A short silence. Then a low laugh.
"Everyone in the underworld knows Lamina. Smart. Dangerous. Plays both sides. Why do you want her?"
"She's my job."
"Then you'd better move carefully. Word is, she's expecting someone. The city's full of her men."
Elias's jaw tightened. "Crane didn't mention that."
"Crane never does," the voice replied. "You want me to dig?"
"Yes. Find out who she's meeting, where she moves, who guards her. Discreetly."
"Consider it done."
Elias ended the call and looked out the window. Barcelona was waking — sunlight on rooftops, church bells in the distance, and somewhere out there, the woman he was sent to kill.
And across the hallway, the woman who would one day change everything had just unpacked her own bag, unaware that her father's killer was one door away.
Elias slipped his gun into its holster, pulled on his jacket, and whispered to the empty room:
"Time to get to work."
He stepped out into the sun, the scent of salt and danger already heavy in the air.
The day was already hot by midmorning, the air above Barcelona wavering like glass. Elias Vale checked his weapon one last time — sleek, compact, hidden inside his jacket under the false lining. Everything was in order.
He had a lead: one of Lamina Antonio's men was rumored to be managing a transaction during the Rayo Vallecano vs. Almería match that night. A crowded football stadium — thousands of fans, shouting, drinking, distracted. Perfect cover for a meet, and a kill.
Still, Elias thought, a man watching a match alone stood out. And blending in was half the job.
He glanced at the door across the hall. Room 413.
The neighbor he'd met the day before — the one whose eyes had seemed too sharp for a tourist.
He smiled faintly. Nothing wrong with a little human camouflage.
He knocked.
After a few moments, Marin Cross opened the door, towel around her neck, hair still damp from the shower. She blinked in surprise.
"Oh. Hi… uh—"
"Elias," he said smoothly. "We met yesterday. Next door."
"Right," she said, wary but polite. "Can I help you?"
"Strange question," he began, tone casual, "but do you like football?"
That made her blink. "Football?"
He nodded. "There's a match tonight — Rayo Vallecano versus Almería. Hard to get tickets, but I managed. I figured it'd be less suspicious if I didn't go alone."
Marin raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Suspicious? Are you a journalist or a spy?"
Elias shrugged lightly. "Just a man who doesn't like sitting in crowds by himself."
She studied him for a moment — the calm posture, the polite smile, the eyes that gave nothing away. Something about him felt… off, but not in a way she could name. He looked like a businessman, maybe an analyst. Definitely not dangerous.
"Alright," she said finally. "Could use a break before I start work here anyway."
"Good," Elias replied, his smile faint but genuine. "I'll meet you in the lobby at seven."
As he turned to go, Marin leaned against the doorframe, calling after him.
"You don't even know my name."
He paused, glancing back. "Then you can tell me tonight."
The door closed, and Marin found herself smiling — despite the unease curling somewhere deep in her chest. Maybe it was time she did something normal.
Back in his room, Elias holstered his gun beneath his jacket, checked the silencer case in his luggage, and exhaled slowly.
"A football match," he murmured. "Good place for business. Better for blending in."
But for the first time in a long while, he wasn't sure whether he was the one doing the hunting — or walking straight into something else's aim.
The sun had already sunk behind the buildings when Elias Vale stepped out of his room. He wore a tailored Italian suit — dark charcoal with a faint sheen, the kind that blended elegance with anonymity. His hair was neatly combed back, his expression calm. Only the weight under his jacket — the concealed pistol — betrayed his purpose.
He checked his watch. 6:58 PM. Two minutes early.
Elias walked to the door opposite his, lifted a hand, and knocked once.
When Marin Cross opened the door, he almost forgot the line he'd prepared.
She stood framed in the doorway, her hair loose now, soft curls brushing her shoulders. She wore a light blue blouse and dark jeans, casual but striking, the kind of beauty that didn't need to try. For the first time in years, Elias found himself… still.
"You clean up well," Marin said, smirking.
He blinked once, recovering. "And you… look like trouble."
Her laugh was short, genuine — a sound he hadn't realized he'd missed.
"Trouble's my middle name."
He offered his arm. She hesitated, then took it.
Together, they stepped out into the warm Barcelona evening — the sound of the city swelling around them. Music from bars, the distant roll of waves, the excited chants of fans already filling the streets.
The Estadi Olímpic roared with life. Red and white flags waved across the stands, the crowd a living sea of voices. Vendors shouted, children clung to their parents, and somewhere above it all, the rhythmic beat of drums filled the air.
Elias and Marin found their seats near the middle rows. To anyone watching, they looked like a couple on a casual night out — laughing, leaning close to hear each other over the roar.
But Elias's eyes never stopped moving.
He scanned the aisles, the exits, the faces. A man lingering too long by the concession stand. Another with his hand in his jacket. A group of suited men sitting too straight for fans.
Nothing concrete — but something was off. He could feel it.
Marin noticed his gaze drifting. "You really can't sit still, can you?"
He smiled faintly. "Force of habit."
"Work?" she asked.
"Something like that."
She sipped her drink, eyes glinting under the floodlights. "Let me guess — security consultant, or maybe… intelligence?"
He gave her a look that was almost amused. "You watch too many movies."
She laughed, shaking her head. "Fine, keep your secrets. But I can tell you're not here just for football."
"And you?" he countered. "You seem like someone who doesn't take many vacations."
That earned him a sidelong glance — guarded but curious. "Maybe I'm chasing something," she said softly.
Elias studied her for a second longer than he should have. "I hope you find it."
The crowd erupted suddenly as Rayo Vallecano scored the first goal. Marin jumped up, cheering instinctively. Elias chuckled, clapping politely.
"Don't tell me you're one of them," he said, nodding toward her excitement.
"I'm more of a Barcelona girl," she said proudly, sitting back down. "Loyal to the home team."
He shook his head with mock disapproval. "Then I suppose we'll have to be enemies. I'm Real Madrid."
Marin laughed, eyes bright. "Now that explains the suit."
For the first time in years, Elias felt something he hadn't allowed himself — a flicker of warmth. It was disarming, dangerous.
He turned back to the field, forcing his focus, but his attention kept drifting — not to the crowd, not to Lamina's men, but to the woman beside him.
The second half kicked off, the stadium shaking with noise. Marin leaned closer, her voice raised over the cheers.
"You can't seriously think Ronaldo's better than Messi."
Elias smirked. "Five Champions League titles say otherwise."
"Messi's got eight Ballon d'Ors," she shot back. "And he doesn't switch clubs every few years chasing trophies."
He tilted his head, pretending to consider it. "Loyalty doesn't mean much when you've already won everything."
Marin laughed. "Typical Madrid logic."
He grinned. "And typical Barcelona denial."
Their teasing flowed easily — talk shifting from Bellingham vs. Pedri, to which league had the better defenders, to whether La Liga or the Champions League truly tested greatness.
For a moment, Elias almost forgot why he was there. The laughter, the energy, the warmth beside him — it almost felt real.
Then, mid-sentence, something caught his eye.
Two rows below, a man in a red cap passed a folded envelope to another wearing a leather jacket. The exchange was quick, practiced — too practiced. Elias's instincts sharpened instantly.
His smile faded.
Marin noticed. "What's wrong?"
He forced an easy tone. "Bathroom. Be right back."
She nodded, half-distracted by the match.
Elias slipped out of the row, moving casually until the crowd swallowed him. Then his stride changed — focused, silent. He followed the man in the red cap down the tunnel and out of the stadium's side entrance, the roar of the crowd fading behind him.
The man walked toward the darker edge of the parking area, unaware. Elias caught up, tapped him on the shoulder.
"Got a minute?"
The man turned — confusion flashing into fear when he saw Elias's eyes. "Who—who are you?"
Elias smiled thinly. "Just someone who likes answers."
Within minutes, the man found himself in an empty maintenance corridor behind the stadium. Elias shoved him against the wall, gun pressed under his ribs.
"You're selling for Lamina Antonio," Elias said quietly. "Where's your boss?"
The man stammered. "I—I don't know—"
Elias sighed. "That's not how this works. Three questions. You answer them truthfully, you walk away. Lie, and you don't."
The man's breath came fast, shallow. "Okay. Okay."
Elias stepped back slightly, eyes calm and steady.
"Question one," he began, voice low. "Who do you work for?"
"Lamina Antonio," the man blurted. "Doctor Lamina. She runs the shipments through the stadium crowds, hospitals, everything."
"Question two," Elias said. "Where is she now?"
"Villa outside the city — Montjuïc Hills. Guarded, private. You can't just—"
Elias's tone didn't change. "Question three. Do you believe in redemption?"
The man froze, trembling. "What? What kind of question—"
"Answer it."
He hesitated, tears forming. "No. People like us… we don't get that."
Elias's expression softened — almost imperceptibly.
"You're right," he said quietly.
The silenced shot echoed softly against the concrete. The man fell without a sound.
Elias stood there for a long moment, looking down, before pulling his notebook from his pocket and writing:
Didn't believe it.
He closed the book, tucked it away, and walked back toward the glow of the stadium — toward the woman laughing in the stands, unaware that the man beside her had just killed again.