I'm not going to make it.
This is how I die?—
Steel flashes.
Not the assassin's blade.
Another one.
I watch, frozen in the microsecond before impact, as the man's body separates.
Literally separates.
Top from bottom, cleaved in two by a strike so powerful and precise that the cut is almostartistic—a clean horizontal line that parts flesh and bone and organ like they're made of paper instead of biology.
The two halves fall in opposite directions.
Blood sprays.
Organs spill.
And standing behind where he used to be, dual blades gleaming in the moonlight, is Seraphine.
"Oops."
The word is soft.
Surprised.
She's staring at what she just did—at the bisected corpse that used to be a person, at the violence she's just unleashedwith apparently minimal effort—and there's something almostchildlikein her expression.
Wonder.
Curiosity.
The particular kind of detachment that comes from viewing death as an interesting phenomenon rather than a moral weight.
Then she giggles.
High, bright, absolutely unhinged—the sound I've come to associate with her particular brand of chaos. She claps a hand over her mouth immediately, eyes going wide, and when they meet mine there's something almostnervousin their mismatched depths.
"I wasn't trying to make my body count go over twenty this year," she says, words tumbling out in a rush. "But at this rate, I'll probably reach thirty. Because I just killed three other people."
Three other people.
Plus this one.
Four assassins, dealt with by a single Omega while I was standing here contemplating my feelings.
"When did you show up?" The question comes out flat—my default setting, the emotional distance I maintain even when my heart is racing. "More important—weren't you sleeping?"
Her grin is sharp.
Knowing.
Absolutely devastating.
"No. I was riding Sage's cock." She says it casually, matter-of-factly, like she's discussing the weather instead of sexual activity. "He's in the shower now. But Ro detected warm body activity outside the premises, so I thought I'd come investigate."
