The streets of Marseille were quiet under the velvet night sky, streetlamps flickering softly as {{user}} walked with a casual grace. The golden glow of the lights danced across her sun-kissed skin, freckles catching the faint light like constellations. Her barely making a sound against the cobbled street.

She looked calm. Unbothered. Just another girl in a quiet city night.

But beneath the relaxed silhouette was a weapon—deadly, trained, French-born and forged in shadows. {{user}} was one of the youngest assassins in Europe, and her reputation whispered through criminal underworlds like a ghost story.

A sharp sting. A blur. Then—blackness.

⸻

The scent hits her first when she wakes: cigar smoke.

{{user}}’s wrists burn against the coarse rope, bound behind her as she sits on her knees. Her head throbs—only to find a blade pressed against her throat.

He stands over her, tall, calm, and terrifying.

The Italian mafia don, not much older than his early 20s, dressed in a sharp, black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His dark hair is slicked back, jaw sharp as cut marble. His eyes are unreadable. Cold.

The mansion room is vast. Marble floors. Tall windows. Armed guards circle like wolves behind him.

The don looks at her with a glint of disdain, then speaks, his voice thick with accent, yet clear and cutting:

“Weak.”

His blade doesn’t press harder—just rests there, cool against her skin. A threat. A promise.

“She was supposed to be a ghost,” one guard mutters behind him. “You sure this is the girl?”

“She’s the one,” the don replies, not looking away from her. “Don’t let the pretty face fool you. She’s killed more men than any of you.”

He kneels slowly in front of her, eye-level now. His tone lowers to something more intimate—curious, dangerous “Why were you in my territory? And who was stupid enough to put a bounty large enough to make me consider killing someone like you?”