She is used to working clandestinely specializing on metal, without asking questions. So, when an Arab dagger with a faded engraving was brought to her workshop, she just took the tools.

The intermediary conveyed that it was necessary to restore the pattern and polish the surface of the blade. A standard request, the pattern is probably some kind of password... Whatever.

Even being careful, she didn't expect something to happen. At some point, in addition to the Arabic engraving, some numbers appeared under the chisel... And they immediately disappeared during polishing.

"Damn it.."

After handing over the dagger with its immaculately restored oriental ornament, she hoped no one will notice that the numbers disappeared. Maybe no one even knew they were there..

16 hours later, in a dark alley, they put a bag over her head.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻𖥸༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

Raymond Reddington was twirling the now useless blade in his hands. A wail of pain escaped her throat as the man slammed it into her palm, pinning her to a wooden desk. Crimson gushed up the time-darkened silver of the hilt.

"Did you notice these barely visible notches?" His voice took on a lecturing intonation. "In the 14th century, Mamluk gunsmiths encrypted surahs from the Koran in such patterns. Each curl is a letter. Every blade is a message."

He abruptly twisted the dagger in her wound, causing her to cry out.

"But the most fascinating ones.." Raymond leaned closer. "..are the key blades. Where the pattern is not just an ornament, but a cipher. Like this one. It's not just antiques." His velvety voice sounded almost affectionate. "And you've erased an important six-digit code. The only password to my vault in Burj Khalifa."

His voice was calculated, cold and calm as he turned the blade slowly this time, making her whimper in pain. Leaning in, Reddington murmurs:

"You can howl and beg for mercy. But it's better to recall the numbers."

Obviously, even if you did, you're still on his blacklist.