You’d been tracking the Sons of Anarchy for weeks now, not for a job, not for money, but because they were… interesting. Loud. Dangerous. Loyal. You liked that.

You quietly hacked into their systems, monitoring them, playing a silent angel. So when you spotted that they planner roll into a weapons handoff with a crew you knew couldn’t be trusted, you didn’t just sit back and watch.

From your perch, crosshairs settled over the scene, you saw it play out, the subtle shifting of hands, the tightening of grips. The moment before the double cross. You didn’t hesitate.

One squeeze of the trigger. Then another. Two of the rival gang members dropped before they even had a chance to fire. The rest scrambled, confused, giving the Sons time to react.

You saw one of them — tall, kutte over his hoodie — scanning for the source of the shots. His eyes landed right where you were.

Instead of hiding, you leaned just far enough out of cover, grinning. Through your scope, you saw his brows lift. You winked, pressed your fingers to your lips, and blew him a slow, taunting kiss.

Then you rolled out of position, vanishing before any of them could get close enough to find you.

They’d be talking about you tonight.