Hunter sat on a quiet corner of a Los Angeles street, his easel set up before him.
Yesterday, Slater had been erased. The overdose had been executed with clinical precision. A syringe of lethal heroin-saline solution, a dead-of-night infiltration, and a clean exit. The coroner would find a tragic, self-inflicted end to a troubled man.
With the last loose end of the Toretto betrayal tied up, Hunter felt lighter. But paranoia was a survival trait. To ensure no suspicion fell on him, he decided to lay low for a few days, returning to his harmless artist persona.
He couldn't afford a mistake. In the US, a Chinese immigrant linked to multiple homicides and grand larceny wouldn't just get prison time. He'd get the needle. And with half a billion dollars in assets waiting to be laundered, Hunter wasn't ready to check out early. He had barely scratched the surface of his new wealth—or his new lovers.
He dipped his brush into the oil paint, focusing on the canvas.
Step. Step.
Footsteps stopped nearby.
Hunter's enhanced senses flared. He didn't look up, but his mind analyzed the data instantly.
Female. Light tread. And a scent...
It was a distinctive fragrance. Not the generic Chanel or Dior found in every department store. It wasn't rose or lavender. It was wilder. Darker. Like a rare flower blooming in a rainforest.
I know this smell, Hunter realized. Where have I smelled this before?
His [Memory] stat was high, bordering on photographic, but the chaos of the last few weeks had buried the file. He couldn't place it immediately.
The woman didn't move. She stood silently, watching him paint.
Hunter suppressed his curiosity and channeled his focus into the brushwork. His [Painting] skill had skyrocketed recently, thanks to expensive private lessons from art professors and hours of practice. Just last night, inspired by the post-coital glow of Margie's naked form, he had sketched a masterpiece that finally pushed the skill to LV4.
He was no longer an amateur. He was a professional.
Passersby had already stopped earlier, offering cash for the unfinished piece. Hunter had politely declined. His materials alone cost hundreds of dollars; he wasn't selling his work for pocket change.
He layered the oils, capturing the interplay of light and shadow on the old brick buildings across the street.
One minute. Two minutes. Five.
He added the final highlight. The System pinged: [Experience +100].
Hunter sat back, admiring the work. It was good. Easily worth a few thousand in a gallery.
"Beautiful."
The voice was smoky, accented.
Hunter feigned surprise, turning his head sharply. "Oh! You startled me."
His eyes landed on the woman, and the memory file clicked open instantly.
The Black Orchid.
Standing before him was a stunning, dark-skinned beauty in her mid-twenties. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and dangerous.
It was Cataleya Restrepo. The assassin from Colombiana.
He had met her days ago on this very street. Back then, she had approached him because she suspected he might have accidentally sketched her face while she was scouting a target. She had been tense, ready to kill him if he was a threat.
Today, she was relaxed.
"It's you," Hunter said, standing up and flashing a charming smile. "Miss Lia, right?"
"That's me," Cataleya replied, her lips curving into a rare, genuine smile.
"Well, Miss Lia," Hunter gestured to the canvas. "As you can see, I didn't paint you this time."
Cataleya laughed softly. The tension from their first encounter evaporated.
"It really is fate," she said, extending her hand. "Last time, I was... rushing to a job. I promised that if we met again, I'd buy you a drink."
She looked him in the eye, her gaze intense. "Today, I have time. Do I have the honor?"
Hunter took her hand. Her skin was cool, but his enhanced touch felt the story written on her palm.
Calluses.
Thick, hardened skin on the index finger and the web of the thumb. The marks of a person who spent thousands of hours gripping a pistol and wielding a knife.
Hunter released her hand smoothly, his smile never faltering.
"A beautiful woman inviting me for a drink?" Hunter chuckled. "There isn't a man alive who could refuse that offer. I'd be honored, Miss Lia."
Cataleya's smile widened, blooming like the deadly flower she was named after.
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