Dawn. Hotel Room.
The room was quiet, save for the hum of the AC. Hunter Sun, freshly showered and dressed, stood by the bed, looking down at the woman tangled in the sheets.
Jane Smith's breathing was even, her eyes closed. To an amateur, she looked fast asleep. To Hunter, the tension in her eyelids and the slight rigidity of her posture scread "fake."
He smirked.
He reached into his pocket—pretending to search for sothing—and pulled a small, silver key from his Inventory.
It was the key to the police-issue handcuffs currently locking Jane's right wrist to the bedpost.
He placed the key on the nightstand with a soft clink.
"I don't care who you are," Hunter said, his voice calm but authoritative. "Professional assassin? Avenger for one of my enemies? Doesn't matter."
He leaned down, his face inches from her ear.
"You took two shots at my life. I took two shots at... well, let's call it even."
Jane didn't move, but her eyelashes fluttered slightly.
"You can co for again," Hunter continued, straightening up. "But next ti, I won't be so gentle. And your survival won't be guaranteed."
He turned to leave, walking toward the door. Then, he paused.
"Oh, one more thing."
He glanced back at the ss on the floor—the empty condom wrappers scattered like confetti.
"Don't forget the morning-after pill."
He rubbed his nose, which still throbbed faintly from her headbutt earlier, and walked out.
Click.
The door closed. Footsteps faded down the hallway.
One minute passed. Two.
Finally, Jane's eyes snapped open.
"Bastard," she hissed.
She tried to sit up, but her body protested. Every muscle ached. The man was a machine. He had pushed her to her absolute limits, wringing every drop of stamina out of her.
She looked at the handcuffs. Standard issue. She could have picked them with a bobby pin in ten seconds. But he had left the key.
It was a power move. I could keep you here, but I choose to let you go.
Jane gritted her teeth and grabbed the key. Click. The cuffs sprang open. She rubbed her chafed wrist, glaring at the empty side of the bed.
Then her eyes fell on the floor.
The box of condoms provided by the hotel was empty. All of them.
Her face flushed—part anger, part embarrassnt.
"Arrogant prick," she muttered.
But beneath the anger, there was a strange, unfamiliar feeling.
Satisfaction.
Jane Smith was a modern woman. In her line of work, death was a constant companion. To balance the scales, she embraced life's pleasures. Before her marriage to John, she had her share of flings. Even after marriage, when the spark with John faded into dostic boredom, she had occasionally... browsed the nu.
But tonight was different.
Tonight hadn't been a fling. It had been a conquest. She had tried to kill him. He had disard her, overpowered her, and then thoroughly, completely dominated her.
And she had liked it.
"He's not just an eighteen-year-old kid," Jane thought, lying back on the pillows. "No teenager fights like that. No teenager moves like that."
She replayed the fight in her mind. His speed. His strength. The way he anticipated her every move.
"He's in the ga," she concluded. "He has to be. Another assassin? A rogue agent?"
She thought about the contract.
The client was the owner of Lightpons Private Hospital. They were furious about the murder of Charlie Croker in their VIP wing. The hit had scared away their wealthy clientele, costing them millions. They wanted the killer's head on a platter to restore their reputation.
The agency had done the legwork, linking Hunter to the motorcycle seen near the hospital. They gave the file to Jane because she was the best.
And she had failed.
For the first ti in her career, Jane Smith had failed a contract.
"My reputation is going to take a hit," she sighed, staring at the ceiling.
But as she lay there, the anger began to fade, replaced by a deep, heavy exhaustion.
She should get up. She should report to her handler. She should start planning her next move.
But her body felt heavy, sated, and warm.
"Five minutes," she whispered, closing her eyes. "Just five minutes."
Within seconds, the world's deadliest female assassin was fast asleep, dreaming not of kills, but of the man who had beaten her at her own ga.
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