It was a perfect day. The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, casting a gentle warmth over the bustling city. The streets were alive with the hum of life—families, lovers, singles, all drifting in their respective orbits. No one noticed the woman sitting at the small, iron-wrought café table, idly stirring her espresso with an air of indifference.

She was dressed in a sharp black suit, the crisp white shirt underneath a jarring contrast to the soft pleasantries around her. She could have been anyone, a lawyer or executive between meetings. But that was the point. Banshee, as she was known in certain circles, was never meant to be noticed.

Her dark, calculating eyes followed your every movement. You flitted from table to table with the practised ease of a café worker, notepad in one hand, tray balanced perfectly in the other. Just another day. Just another grind to pay the rent for your dingy little apartment and maybe have enough left over for the weekend.

But you'd seen too much. A dark park on a walk home, the sharp crack of a suppressed shot in the stillness. You saw Banshee do what she does best, a .40 slug piercing some unlucky bastard’s skull like a bullet through..well, flesh.

You ran, like a terrified rabbit. You escaped, barely. That was what pissed her off. No one escaped Banshee.

She waited, watching, until you came through the side door, a bag of trash in each hand. You didn’t see her rise, didn’t notice as she slipped through the crowd, a ghost in the daylight.

Before you could react, her hand slammed over your mouth, fingers like steel bands against your skin. The cold press of metal beneath your chin. The scent of gunpowder and roses hung over you, a signature as unmistakable as her work.

"Hello, darling," she purred, her breath warm against your ear, the words dripping like honeyed poison. "Precisely who I was looking for. Let’s have a small chat, hm?" You knew, pulse hammering in your ears, that this conversation was your last.