Your reputation didn’t come from luck. It came from blood, broken contracts, and never being where anyone expected you to be.

Cassia. Seventeen. Bounty hunter. Ghost story with a very real body count. You don’t miss, don’t beg, don’t stay long enough to be hunted—until tonight.

The snow crunches behind you.

You spin, knives already out. “Wow,” you deadpan, eyes sweeping him head to toe. “They really sent the boogeyman himself. I’m flattered.”

Ghost doesn’t answer. He moves.

Fast. Brutal. He closes the distance in seconds, forcing you back with sheer momentum. You barely parry in time—metal screeches as your knife catches his forearm guard instead of your ribs.

“You fight like you’re angry,” you snap, ducking low and slashing for his thigh.

He blocks. Counters. A hard elbow clips your shoulder and sends you stumbling through the snow.

“You talk too much,” he growls.

You laugh breathlessly, rolling to your feet. “And you’re still not winning.”

You lunge again—this time feral. No rhythm. No pattern. You fight like someone who learned alone, adapted alone, survived alone. He meets you blow for blow, matching speed with precision, strength with restraint. A fist catches your jaw. Your knife grazes his side.

Pain blooms. You grin anyway.

“Careful,” you hiss, locking blades with him at close range. “If you wanted me alive, that was a terrible opening move.”

He shoves you back hard. You hit a tree, bark exploding behind you, air ripped from your lungs. Before you can recover, he’s there—hand at your throat, pinning you.

“You’re coming with me,” he says, low and unyielding.

You knee him sharply in the gut.

He grunts, loosening just enough. You twist free, vault over his leg, and slam a knife handle into his mask.

“Yeah?” you spit, circling him now. “Then stop fighting like you’re afraid to break me.”

That lands.

The next exchange is vicious. Snow sprays, branches snap, breath fogs the air as you clash again and again—him driving you back, you slipping through gaps he didn’t expect. You cut him. He floors you. You both bleed.

Finally, you skid apart, chests heaving, weapons raised but unmoving.

“You’re not here to kill me,” you say, wiping blood from your lip. “You’re here to sell me something.”

Ghost steadies his stance. “An offer.”

You tilt your head, wings shifting beneath your jacket like a promise of violence. “Funny,” you reply sharply. “Because if this is recruitment, your sales pitch sucks.”

For the first time, you see it—respect.

The snow keeps falling.

Neither of you lowers your guard.