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"He'll come for you," Killion continues, voice steady. His fingers dance across the tablet, bringing up building schematics—a high-rise apartment in what looks like downtown. "His contact will want confirmation before authorizing a hit."

"So I'm not just bait," I clarify, "I'm a fucking pinata they'll try to crack open before killing." My fingers curl around the armrests, knuckles white with tension I refuse to show on my face.

"That's the general idea," Harlow confirms, untroubled by the concept of my potential dismemberment. "You'll be positioned at this safehouse—nineteenth floor, corner unit. Enough security to look legitimate, but with deliberate vulnerabilities they can exploit."

My laugh comes out harsher than intended, scraping my throat raw. "And how exactly do I avoid the whole torture-and-death finale to this little screenplay?"

"We'll have eyes on you constantly," Killion says. The tablet flickers as he pulls up surveillance specs—thermal imaging, audio monitoring, motion sensors placed at strategic points throughout the building. "Full surveillance, extraction team ready to move the second they make contact."

"Alpha team will be stationed here," he continues, marking a building across the street with a red X. "Bravo team here, in the service corridor. Response time under ninety seconds from breach."

"And if they take me somewhere off-grid? Or if your surveillance fails? Or if the extraction team hits traffic?" The questions fire from my lips like bullets. Outside, a helicopter passes, its rotors creating a rhythmic thump-thump-thump that matches my accelerating heartbeat. "What then?"

Something shifts in Killion's eyes—a flicker of... what? Concern? Doubt? It's gone before I can name it, buried beneath layers of professional distance.

"You'll have emergency protocols," he says, voice dropping lower. The tablet lights his face from below, casting ghostly shadows across his features. "And you'll have this."

He slides something across the table. A necklace—simple silver chain with a small pendant. Looks like costume jewelry, the kind you'd find in any department store. Up close, I can see the craftsmanship—the clasp reinforced, the links imperceptibly thicker than standard.

"Twist the pendant counterclockwise and pull," Killion instructs.

His fingertips brush mine as he demonstrates, the brief contact sending an electric jolt up my arm.

"It contains a dose of tetrodotoxin derivative.

Not enough to kill, but enough to mimic death for approximately forty minutes.

Slowed heartbeat, minimal respiration. They'll think you've died from their interrogation. "

“Are you kidding me? This is all I get?” I stare at the necklace, mind racing. The pendant feels heavier than it should, warm from Killion's touch. "So instead of being tortured to death, I get to play dead and hope they don't decide to chop me into pieces just to be sure?"

"It buys time," Sienna says quietly. For the first time, I notice the similar pendant around her neck—different design, same purpose. Her fingers touch it unconsciously, a gesture that speaks volumes about past missions, past close calls. "Sometimes that's all we have."

"When?" I ask, fingers closing around the pendant. The metal edges dig into my palm, grounding me in the reality of what's coming.

"Tomorrow night," Harlow answers, already standing, his chair rolling back with a soft hiss against the polished floor.

He checks his watch—Patek Philippe, hand-wound, probably worth more than most people make in a year.

"Sienna will handle your prep. Killion will run point on the operation. Good luck."

He leaves without another word, the door whisking shut behind him. The room feels different with him gone—less sterile, more charged with something I can't quite name. The scent of his cologne lingers—something with notes of cedar and privilege.

Sienna follows, pausing at the door to give me a look I can't fully interpret—warning? Sympathy? Assessment? Her fingertips tap that same rhythm against the doorframe—one-two, pause, three. But then she's gone too, leaving me alone with Killion.

We sit in silence for three heartbeats. I can hear the building's ventilation system cycling, the distant hum of generators, the soft electronic whir of the surveillance cameras adjusting their focus.

"This is fucked," I finally say, turning the necklace over in my hands. The pendant catches the light, throwing tiny reflections against the wall like miniature distress signals.

"Yes," he agrees, surprising me. No justification. No patriotic speech about necessary sacrifices. Just acknowledgment of the obvious. His chair creaks as he leans back, scrutinizing me with those impossible-to-read eyes. “Wasn’t my call.”

I study him, trying to peel back the layers, find the man beneath the killer. The fluorescents highlight the tiny scars that map his face—one above his eyebrow, another at the corner of his mouth, testament to a life lived in the shadows. "Are you setting me up to die?"

His eyes snap to mine, something dangerous flashing in their depths.

The tablet between us goes dark, plunging half his face into shadow.

"If I wanted you dead, Landry, I'd kill you myself.

Cleanly. Respectfully." The words come low, intense, vibrating with a truth I can't ignore. "I don't outsource my executions."

"How comforting," I mutter, but oddly enough, it is. In this upside-down moral universe I've landed in, Killion's direct approach to murder feels almost ethical. The pendant grows warmer in my palm, as if absorbing my rising body heat.

He leans forward, close enough that I catch his scent—gun oil and something spicy, expensive, with undertones of strong coffee and sleep deprivation. "Listen carefully. This operation is high-risk. The survival rate for bait missions is?—"

"Spare me the odds and just tell me what's really going on," I cut him off. "Why am I being sent in as bait."

For a moment, I think he'll shut me down, pull rank, remind me I'm just an asset.

The air between us thickens with tension, with possibilities.

But instead, his voice drops lower, almost a whisper.

His breath fans warm against my cheek as he leans in closer, eyes darting to the corners of the room where surveillance might be watching.

"There are layers here you're not seeing," he says carefully. "Watch your back. Some traps aren't set by the enemy you can see."

The cryptic warning hangs between us, unexpected and sharp as a blade. My throat constricts, a cold sweat breaking out across my back despite the room's carefully controlled temperature.

"So, why tell me this?" I ask, genuinely confused. "Why warn me at all?"

Killion stands, towering over me, all controlled power and lethal grace.

His shadow stretches across the table, across me, like a physical manifestation of his influence.

But his eyes—for just a second—show something almost human.

The overhead light catches the gold flecks in his irises, turning them from cerulean to something complex and layered.

"Because you remind me of someone," he says, words tight with something that might be regret. His knuckles whiten as he grips the back of his chair. "Someone I couldn't save."

I hold his stare, probably the longest I’ve allowed myself to do so. There’s something there, I can't put my finger on what it is and if Killion knows, he sure as hell won’t tell me. The man is a locked box unless he chooses to share intel —and he only shares when he has a reason.

“Why Nova?” I ask.

He straightens. “Field names are safer when you’re on mission.”

“Yeah, I get that but why’d you pick the name ‘Nova’?”

His gaze narrows. “You don’t like the name?”

“No, actually, I do. Feels…right. I’m just curious…why you picked it.”

“Don’t read into something that’s not there,” he warns, immediately irritated. “It’s just a name, Landry.” He moves toward the door, spine straight, shoulders set. His boots make no sound against the floor—the practiced silence of a predator. At the threshold, he pauses, not looking back.

"Get some rest. Tomorrow we make you into perfect bait." The professional mask slides back into place, cold and efficient. The door panel reads his biometrics with a soft blue glow. "And Landry? Don't trust anyone. Not even me."

The door shuts behind him with a click—quiet, deliberate, and damning. The pneumatic seal hisses like a coffin lid locking into place.

“Don’t trust anyone?” Really? That’s the pep talk?

I’m about to hand over my life to a team of strangers, and my “boss” thinks cryptic doom-posting is helpful.

Figures. Only the government would build a castle out of quicksand and call it secure.

I sit alone in the suddenly too-large room, turning the poison necklace over in my hands.

The metal warms against my skin, the weight of it both promise and threat.

The surveillance cameras whir softly as they adjust to the change in occupancy, red lights blinking like artificial stars in the ceiling corners.

I'm left wondering which is more dangerous—Volkov, the organization I've sworn loyalty to, or the twisted part of me that's actually looking forward to tomorrow. My reflection in the blank screen shows a woman I barely recognize—harder, sharper, a weapon still being honed.

A strange headache pulses behind my eyes as I stare at the pendant. For a fraction of a second, something feels familiar about it—not just as a tool, but as something I should recognize. The feeling passes as quickly as it came, leaving nothing but confusion and that same dull ache.

My skin prickles along my ribcage, like a hundred ants just marched across my butterfly tattoo. I wince and rub the skin to shock my nerve endings into a different sensation.

A normal person would’ve said, ‘Fuck this shit, I’m out’ but I’m not normal and I gave up hoping for normal a long time ago.

They're making me bait for a shark, and all I can think is: I've always wanted to go swimming with predators.

The necklace dangles from my fingers, catching the light, winking like a deadly promise—a tiny lifeline in what's sure to be a sea of blood.

It’s a good thing I’m an excellent swimmer.