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Vincent's breathing deepened into sleep's steady rhythm before I slipped away.

His arms tightened reflexively, seeking my heat, before he settled back into unconsciousness.

My chest hollowed out as I watched him a moment longer, burning into memory the peaceful curve of his mouth, his dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, that slight furrow between his brows stubbornly remaining even in sleep.

"Goodbye," I whispered, though he couldn't hear me.

An hour later, the city sprawled beneath me, a glittering tapestry of lights and shadows that stretched to the horizon.

From twenty-two stories up, the people below looked like ants.

Tiny, insignificant specks going about their meaningless lives, unaware of the monsters that moved among them. Unaware of monsters like me.

Or the bigger monster I'd come to kill.

I crouched at the edge of the office building's roof, the wind sharp and cold against my face.

It tugged at my tactical gear, nylon straps creaking against my chest, metal clasps clicking with each powerful gust. My skin tingled with electricity, every nerve ending alive and singing.

The wind carried the taste of freedom and vengeance.

Lightning split the distant sky, briefly illuminating storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Thunder rumbled seconds later, a primal war drum beating in perfect sync with my heart. A storm approached. Fucking fitting.

My heart thundered, not from fear but from raw, primal power.

Tonight, I wasn't prey. I wasn't a victim.

I was the apex predator, the hunter, the weapon turned against its maker.

Adrenaline scorched through my veins like liquid lightning, sharpening my senses until conversations twenty-two stories below reached my ears, until individual lights in buildings a mile away stood out crystal clear. I felt fucking invincible.

Lincoln Mercer's penthouse occupied the top three floors of the most expensive residential building in the city. From my position, I made out sleek minimalist furniture, tasteful art on walls, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a complete view of his domain. Everything exact, controlled, expensive.

Just like the man himself.

Through my scope, I spotted armed guards patrolling the perimeter of the roof garden.

Lo's intel proved spot-on, as usual. Two men, moving in predictable patterns, carrying standard-issue Glock 19s in shoulder holsters.

Not ferrymen, just regular security. Dangerous enough to normal people, but to me?

About as threatening as aggressive kittens.

Barely a speedbump on my road to vengeance.

A six-foot gap separated the buildings. Challenging for most, but after twenty-six years of training in urban mobility, just another Tuesday for me .

"I'm coming for you, you fucking monster," I whispered, the words lost to the wind as I secured my equipment and moved back from the edge, calculating my run-up.

Funny how things come full circle.

That recurring nightmare where I was chained to a rock while an eagle devoured my liver repeatedly haunted me since childhood, ever since Prometheus first told me the myth.

All these years, I'd thought of myself as Prometheus in that ancient story.

I stole fire from the gods, I dared to challenge my place in the world, and for that, I deserved punishment.

That's what he told me every time he hurt me.

My pain served as a necessary consequence.

He really enjoyed his fancy turns of phrase. Fucker.

But tonight, I finally understood the truth.

I wasn't Prometheus in this story.

I was the goddamn eagle.

And I'd come to collect.

I took three deep breaths, my lungs expanding fully. My fingers pressed against the rough concrete edge of the roof, the gritty texture anchoring me to this moment. This glorious, terrible moment where I would finally face the god who had created me, and destroy him.

The world narrowed to a laser focus, colors intensifying until the night pulsed with vibrant energy. The wind's howl faded to a whisper, and the city's chaos below silenced. Nothing existed but the objective.

I launched into a silent sprint and leapt off the edge of the roof.

I soared through darkness, suspended between buildings, between past and future, between death and rebirth. The wind rushed past my face, cold and fierce, whipping tears from the corners of my eyes. My heart stopped beating for that eternal second. I flew, power incarnate, vengeance with wings .

Then I hit the opposite roof in a practiced roll, absorbing the impact and coming up in a crouch, knife already in hand.

The first guard never registered surprise.

My blade slipped between his ribs, puncturing his heart.

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second before glazing over.

I caught his collapsing body, lowering it silently.

The second guard had better instincts. He spun toward the sound, hand scrambling for his weapon, mouth opening for a warning shout.

I reached him before air hit his vocal cords, one hand smothering his mouth, the other driving my knife upward through the soft tissue under his chin.

The blade crunched through bone, straight into his brain stem.

His body spasmed once, then went slack. A quick, merciful death.

More mercy than he deserved for working for Prometheus, but I hadn't come for the supporting cast. I came for the star of this fucked-up show.

Two bodies, no alarms. Phase one complete.

I moved to the service door Lo had identified, pausing to extract the synthetic skin pocket from my tactical vest. Three special pennies it had cost me, this perfect replica of Prometheus's handprint crafted into a fleshy glove.

Costa's work justified every penny. I slid it onto my hand and rubbed it to warm it before pressing it against the scanner, holding my breath.

A soft beep, a flash of green light, and the door clicked open.

The storm moved closer, lightning flashing more frequently now, the gaps between light and thunder narrowing.

I slipped inside, moving through the darkness.

The penthouse matched Lo's blueprints exactly.

A private elevator lobby, leading to a massive great room with those floor-to-ceiling windows.

A spiral staircase connected the three levels, and hallways branched off in multiple directions.

All sleek lines and minimalist design, cold and impersonal despite the obvious wealth .

I avoided the main areas, sticking to service corridors that ran like veins through the heart of the building.

The kitchen gleamed with state-of-the-art appliances, large enough to serve two dozen guests, though I doubted Prometheus entertained often.

Men like him didn't have friends, only assets and enemies.

I frowned.

Too easy. This was all too fucking easy.

From somewhere deep in the penthouse, faint strains of classical music reached my ears. Bach, I recognized. One of the cello suites Jane had taught me to identify during cultural education.

A trap, then. Of course it was a trap. I'd known this from the beginning, hadn't I? Prometheus wouldn't go down without a fight, without one final game. One final test for his favorite pupil.

And yet I moved forward, anyway. Sometimes the only way out was through.

Outside, lightning flashed again, closer now, thunder following almost immediately. The storm loomed nearly overhead.

The master bedroom occupied most of the top floor, a sprawling suite larger than most people's entire homes. The door stood slightly ajar, a thin blade of light slicing through darkness. An invitation.

I drew my gun, a custom Glock with a suppressor. Not that I expected to use it. Guns created noise, mess. Personal wasn't the word for what this was. This was intimate. This was closure.

This was twenty-six years in the making.

I pushed the door open with the barrel of my gun, scanning the room quickly.

Empty, except for the king-sized bed against the far wall, black silk sheets perfectly made.

Above it hung a large painting: Prometheus being chained by Vulcan.

The titan's face contorted in agony as the god of fire secured his bonds, preparing him for eternal torment.

Subtle, Prometheus. Real fucking subtle.

The faint scent of perfume lingered in the air. Not Prometheus's cologne, something lighter, floral with notes of jasmine. Expensive. Recent.

My stomach twisted. Ana. She'd been here. Today. Hours ago, maybe.

The thought of her in this place, in his bed, nearly broke my focus. Every protective instinct roared to life, demanding I find her, save her, now. But first, I needed to deal with him. Permanently.

Thunder crashed directly overhead, the sound powerful enough to shake the entire building. Rain began to lash against the windows, distorting city lights beyond, transforming them into blurred watercolor smears. The storm arrived in full force.

The balcony doors stood open, white curtains billowing inward like ghosts in the storm winds. And there, silhouetted against the raging tempest, a figure stood with his back to me, hands clasped behind him as he gazed out at the chaos of the elements.

Lincoln Mercer. Prometheus. The bogeyman who had haunted my nightmares for twenty-six years.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said without turning, his voice carrying easily over the storm's fury. "Zeus' wrath made manifest. The ancient Greeks believed thunderstorms were divine punishment, that it was the gods expressing their displeasure with mortals."