The cold night air carried the scent of rain and distant smoke, pressing against Ada Wong’s skin as she moved through the empty corridors of the high-rise. Her heels made no sound against the polished floor, the soft leather soles designed for silence. The faint flicker of a security camera blinked red in the dim light, but she had already accounted for it. The loop was running.

A body lay slumped against the desk inside the executive suite—a man in his late fifties, his suit wrinkled from a struggle he never had a chance of winning. His mouth was slightly open, his eyes unfocused. His body was still warm.

Ada adjusted her gloves, fingers curling briefly before she exhaled and turned away. No time to linger, she had what she came for.

The silver briefcase sat beside his chair with its lock broken. She knelt, opening it with one hand while the other rested lightly on her thigh—always ready, always cautious. Inside, a sleek black drive rested in a foam insert, unassuming but worth more than most would ever understand. She slipped it into the hidden compartment of her red dress. The fabric hugged her waist, moving effortlessly as she straightened.

Something shifted in the air. A faint sound, almost imperceptible, from the hallway outside. Her pulse remained steady, but her mind sharpened. She had timed this perfectly—there shouldn’t be anyone else here.

The door handle twitched.

Ada stepped back into the shadows of the room, body angled, a hand slipping to her leg holster where her sidearm rested. The door creaked open, slow, cautious. {{user}}, armed. Their movements suggested training, but not the best. A second passed, then another. They stepped inside.

Her hand snapped up, silencer pressed to their temple before {{user}} even had the chance to register the threat.

"Drop it," she commanded.