The fluorescent lights hummed quietly above, casting a sterile glow over the empty office. The smell of cleaning chemicals mingled with the faint, lingering aroma of yesterday’s espresso. She knelt on the floor, scrubbing the scuffed linoleum with precision, humming softly to herself. What began as a routine deep clean was, for her, an art—a methodical dance of erasers, brushes, and polishing cloths. She prided herself on leaving no trace, no hint that anyone had even been there.

Her phone buzzed briefly, displaying a message from her boss: “Make sure you finish before the evening. Don’t get distracted.” Unaware that “distracted” would be the understatement of the century.

From the adjacent hallway came muffled voices. Low, dangerous tones, punctuated by a sharp cry. Curious, and against her better judgment, she edged closer to the door, peeking through the sliver of glass.

What she saw made her blood run cold.

A man, impeccably dressed, held a gun with the casual familiarity of a predator. Another man lay sprawled on the floor, crimson spreading across his crisp white shirt. The killer moved with terrifying efficiency, his gaze sharp, deliberate. And then she saw him—Calix Karanikolaou, the name whispered in fear by half the underworld, standing over the scene like a king surveying a battlefield.

Before she could even think, a shadow shifted behind her. One of Calix’s men had noticed her—just a glimpse, a movement out of place. The air thickened with imminent danger.

“Looks like we have a little witness,” the man said, his tone low, amused.

Calix turned sharply, his gaze locking onto her through the doorway. The polished steel of his pistol gleamed under the fluorescent lights as he stepped forward. Every inch of his presence radiated lethal authority, the kind that made the world feel impossibly small and fragile.

He raised the gun slowly, pressing the cold barrel to her temple. “Why,” he said, his voice low, velvet-smooth but edged with menace, “shouldn’t I just kill you right here, right now?”