Chapter Four.
I didn't slow my pace as I weaved between cracked sidewalks and shuttered storefronts. Every shadow felt like it could hide a problem, but right now I didn't care.
I needed one thing: privacy. The night smelled like wet asphalt and regret. Streetlights flickered lazily above.
The neon glow of a convenience store buzzed in the distance. A cheap promise of warmth and fluorescent lighting. I walked straight in without hesitation.
The bell above the door jingled. A lone clerk, mid-20s, sat behind the counter, eyes glued to a cracked phone screen.
"I need to use your toilet," I said, No "please," no hesitation. He blinked at me, probably expecting some kind of explanation.
But I didn't give him one, already moving past him, passing the aisles of cheap snacks and energy drinks. I could hear him shifting in his chair, probably debating if he should stop me—but he didn't.
Good choice, The door to the back swung open, and I slipped inside. The small, dimly lit bathroom smelled faintly of bleach and despair as I closed the door, leaning my back against the cold wall.
Finally alone.
I let my shoulders sag, dropped the bag into the sink. My heartbeat was still fast, my hands still shaking slightly from the fight earlier.
A laugh escaped my lips, bitter and low. "You really should slow down," I muttered to no one. "Or at least learn to clean up your mess before anyone notices."
The fluorescent light flickered again, casting long shadows across the cracked tiles. I pressed my palms to the wall, grounding myself for a second before opening my bag.
Inside, everything was neat. Organized. Professional. Wigs sealed in plastic. Face masks folded flat.
A slim passport tucked into a waterproof sleeve. Cash stacked and banded like it had somewhere important to be.
Surprised?
I looked up at the mirror, looking at the blond barbie girl in the glass. The girl staring back at me looked tired. Broke. Ordinary.
Blue eyes dulled by expensive contact lenses and bad decisions. Blonde hair that wasn't mine sitting a little too perfectly on my head.
"Very 'homeless chic.'" I whispered to the reflection, reaching into the bag and pulled out the small plastic case.
This was the part I hated. I pinched the edge of the blue contact lens, peeling it away from my cornea.
Then the other. I blinked, and my real eyes stared back at me—an unnatural gold. Like a cat or a very expensive coin.
Next came the wig. I hooked my fingers under the edge and tugged. The blonde hair came off easily, tossed into the sink like yesterday's mistake.
My real hair spilled free—jet black, thick, and unmistakably mine. And right at the front, cutting through the darkness like a slash of paint, was the white streak.
Pure white, at my forehead. A birthmark from hell, or maybe just a sign that I was born with zero chill.
I looked at the girl in the mirror again. There she was. The ghost. Let me reintroduce myself.
Ariana, no fucking surname. Twenty one and single, surprisingly well most twenty-one-year-olds were currently hungover in a dorm room or crying over a midterm.
Me? I'd spent my developmental years learning more ways to break a body than most people learn math.
Regular school was never an option when your extracurriculars involved live ammunition and high-stakes espionage.
"Really nailed the life plan." I snorted, reaching into the bag, pushing aside the emergency cash and the three different passports that all lied about who I was. I found the face wipes and started scrubbing.
"Those two back at the apartment," I said, talking to the sink because it was the only thing listening.
"David and... whatever-his-name-was. I definitely pissed off their boss at some point. Was it the thing in Prague? Or that guy with the yacht?"
I shrugged. I'd messed with so many powerful, fragile egos over the years that they were starting to blend into one long, boring blur of men who thought they could outsmart me.
Spoilers: They never do.
I finished cleaning the blood off my jaw. My face was pale, sharp, and entirely too recognizable for anyone who knew what to look for.
I looked like a high-end weapon wrapped in a thrift-store coat. The clerk outside tapped on the door. "You okay in there?"
I checked my reflection one last time. Gold eyes? Sharp. White and black streaked hair? Iconic. Murderous intent? Simmering just under the surface.
"Just having a moment with my moisturizer, Kevin!" I yelled back, remembering seeing his name on his tag.
I shrugged into the over sized jacket into my body before zipping the bag shut. I had a name—Marco.
Marco? huh. He was about to find out that "Option C" was a real bitch.
I pulled the hood of my jacket up, tucked the white lock of hair out of sight, and stepped back out into the store.
"Thanks for the hospitality," I chirped at the clerk, who looked like he wanted to call the cops but was too tired to find the '9' key. "Five stars on Yelp."
The bell jingled again as I pushed the door open, cold night air brushing my face like a reset button.
One step out. That was all I got as I collided hard with someone coming in, shoulder to chest, the impact knocking the breath from both of us.
"Watch—" a voice started.
Instinct took over. My hand moved before my brain caught up—sliding into the stranger's coat with smooth, practiced ease.
A reflex so old it didn't even ask permission. Fingers searching, mapping, already planning the exit.
And then...Snap.
Pain shot up my arm as something locked around my wrist.
Not a stumble. Not a startled grab.
A grip. Harsh and unyielding. I froze.
Slowly, I looked up.
The man was tall—annoyingly so—coat dark, expression unreadable under the streetlight bleeding in through the glass.
His hand engulfed my wrist like it had been waiting there all along.
He didn't shout. Didn't curse. Didn't even look down at my hand like a normal person who'd just been robbed blind.
He was already looking at me. Gold eyes met his gray one. His grip wasn't angry—it was correct.
Thumb positioned to cut movement, fingers tight but not desperate. The kind of hold you learn when you're taught to stop people, not scare them.
I'd felt that grip before. This morning.
Same weight. Same stillness. Same unsettling lack of panic.
The streetlight caught his face then, silvering his features, and I finally met the face.
Oh, fuck.
It was that man from this morning.