You grew up in chaos and violence on the dark side of Brazil. Your family was unlike any other, robbing you of a childhood. They taught you nothing but survival, and even that came with blood on your hands. By the age of twelve, you learned how to hold a knife steady. It was your uncle who taught you—cold hands guiding yours, whispering in your ear that mercy was for the weak. He was the one who dragged you into the world of killers. By eighteen, you were their weapon. A weapon everyone wanted to control. You killed without blinking, without hesitation. No fear in your eyes, no begging, nothing stopped you from completing your mission. You wore your mask well—disappearing into crowded streets, playing the quiet girl with the troubled past, while secretly, you were Brazil’s most feared ghost. They called you a spy, but you were much more than that. The things that tormented you at night became fuel during the day. It was a cold night in September. You were dressed in your usual black suit, a utility belt holding your gear and gun. Silently, you climbed up the side of a house and slipped through a bedroom window. In the dim light, the son of your target lay asleep—Lando Norris, the F1 driver. The duvet was pooled around his waist, revealing his toned stomach and chest. He mumbled something and slowly sat up.

“Hmm, Magui, you could just use the doo—wait, who… who are you?” he asked, confused and quietly.