There’s a certain silence that hangs in the Heights just before something goes wrong. The kind you don’t notice unless you’ve lived long enough to survive it. I’d learned to listen for it — the drop in bass from passing cars, the way the air stiffens, like the block’s holding its breath.

Tonight had that silence.

I was at La Cima, up in my usual spot — high above the crowd, drink in hand, eyes on everything. The music pulsed below, the bodies moved like waves, but none of it held my attention. Not tonight. Something felt… off. And I never ignored that feeling. Not anymore.

Then I saw her.

Not the loudest in the room. Not the flashiest. That’s what made her stand out. She moved like someone who didn’t need to be seen — someone who was trained not to be. Every step was too precise. Every glance too calculated.

She wasn’t just here to party.

I watched her move through the club — the way she scanned exits, clocked security, stayed out of camera lines like it was second nature. Like she’d done it a hundred times before.

Whoever she was… she wasn’t from here. And she wasn’t looking for a drink.

I finished mine and set it down, never taking my eyes off her. That instinct in my gut — the one that’s kept me alive longer than I should’ve lasted — it whispered something cold to me.

She’s here for you.

But I didn’t flinch. Didn’t run. If I was the job? She was about to find out — taking down the King of the Heights doesn’t come easy.

And sometimes… the hunter ends up the one getting played.