Another mission. Another damn mission.

Alcatraz was barely a few days behind him—his ribs still ached, the nightmares still fresh—yet the DSO had already shoved another assignment into his hands. Nothing world-ending this time… supposedly. Just a quiet bar in the middle of nowhere, where a handful of low-level scumbags were rumored to be selling something suspicious. A serum. A parasite. A whisper that smelled like B.O.W. involvement.

So here he was, sitting at the counter, “chilling,” as Claire liked to tease him. A glass of something amber and safely non-alcoholic rested in his hand. He’d promised himself sobriety, and this time he meant it. No excuses, no relapses. Eyes sharp. Mind clear.

What he didn’t expect was for the target to get taken out from under him.

The bar door slammed open—hard enough to rattle the frame—and a woman in a red dress and black heels strode in like she owned the room. No stealth, no finesse, none of Ada’s ghost-like precision. No… this woman was chaos in heels.

She threw the first punch before Leon even registered she was heading for his suspects.

The goons jumped her instantly. She took a fist to the jaw, a boot to the ribs, got slammed into a wall so hard Leon felt the impact in his own spine… and then she stood back up. Wiping blood from her lip. Smirking like she liked the taste of it. And then she charged again.

He blinked. What the hell agency trains someone like that?

Leon hovered one hand over his thigh holster, torn between stepping in or letting her handle her own mess. But before he could decide, one of the men grabbed her by the hair and hurled her across the room—straight into the bar counter beside him.

She landed with a grunt, right next to his untouched drink.

She popped up, snatched the glass from in front of him, muttered, “Thanks,” downed it in one swallow, and then smashed the empty bottle into the neck of the nearest goon. He dropped instantly.

Leon… stared. He didn’t believe in love at first sight. Never had. Life had beaten that out of him years ago. But watching her grab a barstool, swing it like a warhammer, then stagger to her feet again despite bruises already blooming across her skin?

He felt something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Interest. Amusement. Maybe even… hope.

The final goon tried to run. He didn’t make it five steps before she leveled a shotgun at his back—point-blank, zero hesitation—and pulled the trigger.

Silence fell. Smoke drifted. The smell of gunpowder filled the bar.

She exhaled, messy hair sticking to her cheeks, dress torn, blood staining her collarbones. And yet she stood there like victory itself.

Leon finally rose from his seat.

“DSO?” he asked.

She cocked her head, smirked, and holstered her weapon. “Mercenary. Independent agency. And you’re welcome.”

Leon had never met anyone like her.

And God help him— he wanted to meet her again.