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I don’t park properly when I reach her building. My Genesis G80 Sport rolls to an abrupt halt in the driveway leading to the underground garage. The door springs open as I leap out and sprint toward the entrance.

Each second another I could lose her. Another second closer to her death.

When the elevator doors finally open on the ninth floor, I’m darting toward her door.

The loud crashes boom from the other side. In-soo is definitely inside, and Monroe is definitely putting up a fight like she had the night I showed up.

My chest contracts at the thought he’s hurting her.

Before I can think, I draw back and then rush forward at full-force. I kick the door wide open, making it bounce on its hinges.

Monroe’s on the far side of the room, clutching a kitchen knife in a trembling hand. Her lip is split as though she’s been struck hard.

In-soo advances on her slowly, herding her into a corner. His sleeves are torn and he bears scratch marks on his arms and his neck from where she must’ve lashed out.

The apartment resembles the scene after a tornado. Books are thrown off shelves. Lamps have been knocked to the floorwhere they’ve shattered. One of the couch cushions is slashed open.

I move at once, launching forward.

In-soo doesn’t even turn in time. I slam into him with my full weight. He collapses against the wall, knocking a picture frame loose.

He tries to swing, but I’m faster. More precise and intuitive.

My fist crushes into his jaw.

What starts as a cross hook turns into a follow up, then another and another. I batter his face until his features are swelling and splitting open and he’s dropping to his knees, no longer able to withstand it.

I kick him back, then wrench my knife free from inside my leather jacket.

He has no chance of fighting back. He scrabbles for a weapon—a broken shard from the lamp, a book, anything—but he’s clumsy, bruised, and slow.

His biggest strengths during these assassinations are the element of surprise and the art of stealth.

Without either, he’s no match for someone like me.

I drive the blade into his gut and revel at how his face pinches in agony. The blade has cut straight through his intestines, made worse when I jerk and twist the handle.

The noise he makes is pitiful and hoarse. A gurgle that’s stuck in his throat.

Monroe screams from behind me, but I don’t give a damn.

I wrest the knife free, then do it all over again. Running him through a second time to make sure the job is done.

Watching as the light goes out in his good eye. The one that isn’t already swollen shut.

He dies like this, crumpled on the floor of her apartment, my knife sticking out of him.

A long moment passes where I heave air into my lungs and feel the rush of adrenaline seep away. It was a sudden and powerful current of electricity that ran through me, blocking out any logic and reason.

I became the white tiger the syndicate is named after, pouncing on an enemy and tearing him to shreds like out in the jungle.

Finally calm, I rise to my feet and push back the hair on my brow.

Monroe backs away when I turn around. She’s still clutching the kitchen knife she clearly grabbed when In-soo was attacking her, though her hand shakes with the same kind of unsteadiness as the other night.

She’s not a killer. She’s not naturally violent.

“Don’t come near me,” she breathes, eyes wide and terrified.