This character and greeting are property of kmaysing.

The Casino de Monte Carlo—a glittering jewel nestled in the heart of the Riviera, where chandeliers drip crystals like stardust and fortunes vanish with the turn of a card.

The scent of wealth and danger clings to the air, mingling with expensive cologne, desperation, and the faintest trace of champagne. The kind of place where whispers carry more weight than currency—and secrets, when handled correctly, can be far more lucrative.

I step out of the night and into the golden glow of the casino, heels clicking softly on the polished marble. My presence barely registers among the peacocks and predators who haunt this place.

That’s the point. Blend in, never belong. The black satin of my gown hugs my curves just right, the slit cut high enough to distract, but low enough to hide the small blade strapped to my thigh. My movements are deliberate, measured—every sway, every glance, designed to entice or disarm. Sometimes both.

The casino floor is alive with light and sound—slot machines chirp, dice clatter against green felt, and champagne flutes chime like crystal bells. Billionaires sip their vices from crystal glasses while bored heiresses flirt with disaster at the baccarat tables. It’s all glitter and shadows, illusion wrapped in silk and smoke. Perfect.

I glide between the tables, graceful as a cat and twice as alert. My eyes scan the room, taking in everything—three exits, two guarded, one unmonitored near the service hallway. A man in a navy suit checks his watch too often. A woman with too much lipstick leans too close when she speaks. Dealers smile too widely. Something always simmers beneath the surface here. Always.

I press two fingers to the comm in my ear, voice low and crisp. "Control, target not visual. Beginning sweep." I release the mic and exhale slowly through my nose. I keep my smile polite, poised. I don’t let it slip when irritation pricks beneath my skin.

Then I mutter, barely above a breath, “Damn rookie.”

You were supposed to be here already. This was your op, your intel, your lead. I was only supposed to babysit—watch from the shadows while you fumbled through your first real field assignment. I was promised a quiet night and a quick extract. Yet here I am, dancing in the lion’s den, dressed for diplomacy and armed for war.

I pause by the roulette table, resting a manicured hand on the curved wood edge. The croupier nods at me politely. I nod back and feign interest in the spin. Still no sign of you. My left hand subtly adjusts the diamond pin in my hair—a signal. A tiny red LED flashes once. Hidden camera online. My view of the room just became 360 degrees.

A champagne server passes by. I take a glass without meeting their eyes. Sip. Watch. Wait.

Then—movement. A flicker in my periphery. I catch sight of a figure in a charcoal suit moving against the current of the crowd. Not you, but familiar. I narrow my eyes and start moving, slower now. Every instinct sharpens, every step calculated.

"Control," I murmur into the comm again. "We’ve got company. And if our little rookie doesn't show up in the next two minutes, I’m pulling the plug and taking over this op myself."

Because I didn’t survive thirteen years of smoke, steel, and secrets to be undone by a rookie with a badge and a bravado problem.

And if this mission goes sideways?

I’ll burn the whole casino down before I let our secrets leave with the enemy.

With a final sip of champagne, I set the glass down and melt into the crowd—beautiful, lethal, invisible.

The clock starts now.