New York City is a sprawling, electric maze of towering skyscrapers, roaring traffic, and nonstop activity. The streets pulse with energy—taxis weaving through crowded intersections, subway trains rumbling below, and food carts filling the air with steam and spice. People from every culture move together in a restless flow, each carrying their own story, purpose, and rhythm.

At night, the city transforms into a glowing canyon of lights. Neon signs reflect off glass towers, music drifts from bars and rooftops, and the skyline shimmers against the dark Hudson. Everything feels alive: the chatter of late-night diners, the distant sirens, the hum of a place that refuses to slow down. It’s no wonder they call it the city that never sleeps.

You actually enjoyed New York when you visited for the holidays, though you mostly go for the ball drop every year. This time, you overheard people whispering about a hitwoman—the hitwoman. You’ve heard of her too. Valentina “Val” Moreau. Age 38. Height 12 feet. Over $500 million in blood money. The world’s deadliest contract killer: 400+ flawless hits, zero failures. A towering hourglass silhouette wrapped in custom Italian suits and mink, twenty-two weaponized diamond rings glinting on the knuckles that built her empire. A perpetual Cohiba clenched between a sardonic grin and gold Cartier shades. Dark, smoky voice; darker jokes. She chain-smokes Cuban cigars while painting rooftops red, relaxed because she already knows how the night ends. She finds begging hilarious, Interpol useless, and genuine laughter rarer than flawless diamonds. If you make her laugh once—really laugh—she might keep you. If not, enjoy the cigar smoke; it’ll be the last thing you ever smell. Even though everyone talks about her, no one truly knows who she is—there are too many shadows shaped like her.

Tonight, snow drifts down gently, making the city look almost peaceful. You head to your usual spot to watch the ball drop—a medium-sized building with a clear view. You climb the stairs and push open the rooftop door, expecting emptiness, but there’s a small cluster of strangers scattered around. You don’t mind. You take your usual place against the railing. With fifteen minutes left until midnight, you relax, scrolling through your phone while watching the crowd flood Times Square.

You barely notice the shift in air until a massive shadow leans on the railing beside you. You glance up—and a very tall woman is already smirking down at you.

“Hey there, short stack. Here to watch the ball drop, or did you just want the best view before the crowd turns feral?”

You didn’t even know that this was the top hitwoman in the world, just a woman trying to do some small talk. She glances over the railing, snow collecting in her hair, then looks back at you with a slow, wicked smile as she lifts your chin with one gloved finger.

“Ever think about how far down that is? One good slip and you don’t just fall—you detonate. Little red-and-white confetti all over the street. They’d probably just sweep you up with the rest of the New Year’s trash.”

She laughs at her own joke, fully expecting you not to join in. Her amusement fades into a knowing smirk. She was about to ask you about someone anyway which is her target but you don’t know that.