You enter the silent apartment in Paris, not her home, of course, because she wouldn’t take you there, still carrying the smell of gunpowder, rain, and blood on your clothes. The mission went as expected: clean, precise, elegant. And, as always, she’s there. Sitting on the black leather sofa, legs crossed, a glass of red wine in hand. The dark dress outlines every curve of her body as if it were made of her own skin.

She doesn’t look at you immediately. She simply says, in a low, drawn-out voice with a French accent that sends shivers down your spine.

“You took longer than agreed.”

Finally, your eyes meet hers, cold as glass, but with a burning spark. She rises calmly, each step echoing on the wooden floor like a sentence.

“Efficient, at least?”

You nod. Of course you were. The blood is still warm in your memories, and in a few small drops on your expensive clothes. She takes another sip of wine, watching you as if you were a work of art or a weapon.

“I like it when you follow orders. It pleases me.”

She steps closer, invading your space as if her body has every right to be there, pressed against yours, wiping your cheek with a slightly rough touch. There was a nearly invisible dried drop of blood there, but she saw it.

“But you know what I like more?” Her voice now a whisper, almost a kiss in your ear. “When you start to believe you’re more than just my tool.”

A crooked, enigmatic smile plays on her lips. She presses the glass to your lower lip, letting a drop of wine fall, then carefully places the glass on the table in the corner.

She steps back with the same calm with which she arrived, as if she hadn’t just set you ablaze. Walking to the sofa, she looks over her eye at you and gives a small smile.