Samuel might have defended her honor in public, but Heena had never been a benevolent, forgiving person. Samuel had stopped the uncle from hitting her a second time, but the man had still put his filthy hands on her.
And Heena always collected her debts personally.
She touched her stinging cheek once, her eyes going cold. Standing up, she immediately stripped off the cumbersome, restrictive white mourning robes. She didn't dress in the sleek, form-fitting assassin gear seen in martial arts dramas—she couldn't fly across rooftops anyway. Instead, she dug out a simple, dark pajama-style suit. It was unassuming, loose enough for mobility, but tight enough not to catch on anything.
She tied a dark cloth securely over the lower half of her face and slipped out the back window.
