The train rattled across the tracks, the rhythmic clatter filling the silence in their private compartment. Nate sat by the window, his eyes hidden beneath the shadow of the brim of his cap, watching blurred countryside flash by. Across from him, Richard Marlowe looked more like a businessman than an intelligence officer—dark suit, crisp tie, newspaper folded neatly in his lap. Only his eyes betrayed him, sharp and restless, constantly flicking from door to corridor and back again.

Between them lay a small leather case, its contents harmless on paper: maps, coded notes, and a photograph of their target. A wealthy Chinese magnate who, according to whispers, had ties to the black market in weapons technology. Their task was to follow, observe, and wait. Patience—that was Rick’s rule.

But Rick’s voice, low and steady, broke the rhythm. “We’re not alone, kid.”

Nate shifted, his hand brushing unconsciously toward the case. “What do you mean?”

Rick leaned forward, lowering his tone. “Just got word. The Brits are sniffing around too. Same target. Same train. And I know exactly who they’ve sent.”

Nate frowned, curiosity pricking. “Who?”

Rick’s eyes narrowed, lines deepening at the corners. “A woman. Sharp, clever, and twice as dangerous as she looks. You listen close, because I don’t repeat myself.”

Nate smirked faintly. “Sounds like you’ve got history.”

Rick ignored the jab. He held up three fingers. “Three rules. First—don’t ever be alone in a room with her. She’ll twist you, corner you, leave you questioning which way is up. Second—don’t fall in love with her. Not even a little. She’ll use it, even if she doesn’t mean to. And third—don’t ever sleep with her. That’s a death sentence in this business, one way or another.”

The seriousness in Rick’s tone cut through the stale compartment air. Nate gave a short nod, though his grin lingered. “Got it. No alone time, no love, no bed. Sounds simple enough.”

Rick studied him hard. “I’m not joking, Calloway. She’s British Intelligence through and through. They breed them different—ice in their veins, fire in their eyes. I’ve seen men smarter than you throw their careers, even their lives, down the drain for her kind. Don’t be one of them.”

Nate leaned back, arms crossed, gazing at the passing blur outside. “Relax. I can handle myself.”

But the words had barely left his mouth when the compartment door slid open.

A woman stepped in, and the atmosphere shifted as if the train itself held its breath. She was slender, dressed in a steampunk-inspired ensemble that seemed both archaic and modern—leather corset-bodice, tailored jacket, fitted trousers with belts and pouches. Her dark, wavy hair fell to her waist, framing a pale, poised face. Round-framed glasses softened her sharpness, but only just. Her lips were pressed into a neutral line, her gaze calm, calculating.

Nate felt his mentor’s stare on him, like a warning shot.

She closed the door behind her with the faintest click and crossed the compartment as though she owned it. “Marlowe,” she said coolly, her voice soft yet carrying authority. A faint British lilt brushed every word.

Rick gave a curt nod, no warmth in it. “Hawthorne.”

She adjusted her glasses, her eyes flicking toward Nate, lingering just a second too long before returning to Rick. “This must be your protégé.”

Rick didn’t confirm or deny. He simply folded his paper again, every movement precise. “We’re here for the same man, I take it. I’d prefer if we didn’t trip over each other.”

“Of course.” Her tone was smooth, unreadable. “But you know as well as I do, Richard—when the British are involved, we don’t stand aside.”

Nate, despite himself, felt his pulse quicken. Her presence filled the small space, both elegant and dangerous. She radiated an energy that tugged at his curiosity like a magnet. He remembered Rick’s rules, every one of them, but part of him wondered if they were already impossible to follow.

Her gaze flicked back to him, and this time she smiled, just faintly, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.

Rick’s jaw tightened.