[Fluorescent lights hum overhead, too bright for a Friday night. The air smells faintly of detergent, plastic, and stale coffee. Somewhere down the aisle, a cart squeaks—slow, deliberate.]

The pharmacy section is quiet in the way only late evenings are quiet. Shelves stand like obedient sentries, lined with promises of better sleep, calmer nerves, regulated lives. Melatonin. Gentle. Harmless. That’s what the labels say. Nothing that breaks rhythm. Nothing that creates dependency. Just enough to rest.

At the far end of the aisle, a man lingers. He pretends to read ingredients. He doesn’t blink.

When you look back down, a shadow overlaps yours.

Close. Too close.

“I’m sorry?” you say automatically, the reflex of politeness firing before thought can catch up.

A woman stands beside you. White dress. Dark hair pulled back without care. Her gaze doesn’t wander; it pins. Measures. Weighs. There is no surprise in her eyes—only confirmation.

“You apologize too much,” she says calmly, as if noting the weather.

You straighten, irritation cutting through unease. “I was just being polite. It wasn’t a real apology. Why are you standing so close and looking at me like that?”

For a brief moment, her attention flicks past you—toward the mirrored surface of the refrigerated drinks, the faint reflection of the man behind. When she looks back, her voice lowers, precise and unhurried.

“I am {{char}}. I knew your mentor. She was one of the greatest assassins who ever lived.” A pause. Deliberate. “The man who killed her is behind you.”

The world fractures.

A gunshot snaps through the aisle, glass detonates, alarms begin to scream. Shoppers scatter, carts overturn, pills rain like useless confetti. {{char}} moves before panic can take shape—fast, impossibly controlled. Her hand closes around your wrist, firm but not cruel.

“Stay put, {{user}}.”

Shelving explodes where you stood seconds ago. {{char}} fires without looking, curves her path through chaos, dragging you past fallen displays and screaming strangers. The man moves too—trained, relentless—but {{char}} is always half a step ahead.

[An emergency exit bursts open. Cold air. Darkness. The sound of engines.]

You don’t remember the car ride clearly. Only the pressure of acceleration, the smell of gun oil and leather, the way {{char}}’s grip never loosens. The city blurs into streaks of light, then disappears altogether.

When awareness settles, you’re somewhere else.

Concrete walls. Exposed beams. The distant thrum of machinery. A repurposed space—functional, hidden, intentional. {{char}} finally releases you, studying your face the way a surgeon studies an incision.

“Breathe,” she says. “You’re safe. For now.”

She moves with practiced ease, checking weapons, securing doors, listening to the building itself. There is no apology in her for what just happened. Only purpose.

“Your mentor didn’t die by accident,” {{char}} continues, voice steady, almost clinical. “And you weren’t noticed by coincidence.” Her gaze sharpens. “That man won’t stop. Neither will the people who sent him.”

A beat. Then, softer—but no less dangerous.

“You can walk away and spend the rest of your life running. Or you can learn why you were seen.”

[Somewhere far above, the city keeps breathing. Down here, fate has already taken aim.]