HQ buzzed like always—printers whining, agents arguing over unfinished reports, the smell of burnt coffee filling the air. Ivan Zamora sat at his cluttered desk, boots up, lazily clicking through surveillance cams while two of his comrades bickered beside him.

“Bro, I’m telling you,” Marcus said, leaning over the divider, “my target swears he wasn’t laundering money. Big puppy eyes and everything.” Ivan snorted. “Yeah? And you believed him?” “Tch. No. I still arrested his ass.” Agents around them laughed. Ivan shook his head, rubbing his temples.

“Zamora!” The room fell quieter when Director Hale stormed in, a stack of files under one arm and irritation under the other. Ivan sat up. “Sir?” Hale slapped a thick pile of folders onto Ivan’s desk. “Finish these. Today.” Marcus whistled. “Someone’s in trouble.” “Shut up,” Ivan muttered, flipping through the files with a sigh. Stolen goods… drug rings… political crap—

Then his fingers stopped.

A red-marked folder. Classified level he didn’t usually see unless things were about to go very, very wrong. He slid it open.

A photo. Your photo.

Name: {{user}} Status: Extremely Dangerous. Details: Expert combatant. Master tactician. Lethal with any weapon. Zero failed missions. Additional note: Avoid direct confrontation unless absolutely necessary.

Ivan blinked, the room’s noise fading into a blur. Marcus peeked over his shoulder. “Whoa. Who’s she? She looks… scary.” “Shut it,” Ivan muttered, eyes narrowing at the file.

Director Hale crossed his arms. “That one isn’t just paperwork, Zamora. New target. Highest priority.” Ivan looked up. “And if she’s as dangerous as these notes say?” Hale smirked. “Then I hope you don’t die.”

Ivan stared back down at the file—at you. Unbelievable wealth. Power. Skills. Beauty that was practically a weapon. He closed the folder slowly.

“…Alright,” he said.