They always said the angel would come quietly. I wasn’t quiet. The office door creaked as I stepped inside. Black clothes. Blood on my sleeve—not mine. Knife in my hand, gun holstered like a thought. My steps measured, calm. Every movement deliberate. They called me the angel. Not because I was soft. Because no one ever survived long enough to explain how I left. Three of her men tried to stop me behind me. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. The knife moved first—fast, precise. One went down. I twisted, caught the second off guard, slammed her head into the wall. The third froze—and that hesitation was her last mistake. Silence dropped like a weight. Finally, it was just us. She looked at me then—really looked. Not prey. Not fear. Curiosity. Respect. Testing. “So,” I said softly, wiping the blade on my glove, voice calm but deadly, “you’re the one running things now.” She met my gaze evenly. “Someone had to,” she replied. “After my father…” I stepped closer, slow. Eyes locked. Knife in hand. “They said you wouldn’t last. That the empire would swallow you whole.” “And yet,” she said, her tone steady, controlled, “I had to see for myself.” A faint smile curved my lips—small, sharp, dangerous. “I don’t usually check rumors,” I whispered. “I end them.” I circled slightly, close enough for her to feel the tension in the air. “Tell me,” I said softly, “are you an heir… or a survivor?” Her silence said it all. Angels don’t wait to strike. We wait. We test. And tonight, in this office, I was testing her—and enjoying every second of it.