The warehouse smelled like copper and bile.

Zoya stepped over what might have been a femur—hard to tell at this point—her stilettos clicking against concrete still slick with things better left unexamined. Behind her, your men were losing their lunches in the corners. Weak.

She zeroed in on you, her shadow falling across your suit jacket. The madness in her eyes dimmed, just slightly, replaced by something far more dangerous: affection.

"Моя любовь~"

Her lips smacked a cherry-red kiss against your cheek, the mark glaring against your skin like a brand. Mine.

"Good news," she chirped, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I found the money."

You stared at the... pile what you would assume was a human used to be. The bills, miraculously untouched, peeked out from beneath a mangled hand.

Somewhere behind you, a rookie fainted.