Elena stood in the hallway, arms loosely folded, listening.
The building was silent...until it wasn't.
Bang!!
A single gunshot cracked through the air.
Elena didn't even blink.
He didn't even last five minutes, she thought with a cold curl of satisfaction.
Bloody coward.
She turned and walked toward the sealed room, heels tapping softly on concrete. When she opened the door, the harsh fluorescent lights flickered over the small figure in the chair.
Lucy.
Fast asleep where she had "collapsed," her chest rising and falling in slow, peaceful breaths.
Elena stepped inside, her expression shifting....just slightly. Not tenderness. Not guilt. But something warmer than the coldness she carried in her chest.
She crouched beside the little girl and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"I didn't hurt you," she murmured. "Don't worry, little one… I'm not that kind of monster."
A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Well… I am a monster. Just not to innocent children."
Her eyes hardened. The warmth evaporated.
"Your father, on the other hand… deserved every second."
She lifted Lucy carefully, light as air, trusting even in her sleep. The child curled naturally into her shoulder, instinctively clinging to the closest source of warmth.
Elena carried her out of the room and out of the building without looking back.
----
The drive took an hour.
Smooth roads. Midnight skies. Lucy asleep in the passenger seat, blissfully unaware of the chaos her father had died in.
Elena kept one hand casually on the steering wheel, the other drumming against her thigh. Her mind wasn't on Lucy anymore—it was already racing ahead, to the name Elijah had given her.
Armstrong.
One of the most powerful families alive.
A family her revenge now pointed toward like a blade.
But first—
She glanced at the child again.
Lucy needed a home.
Not an institution.
Not the streets.
Not foster care roulette.
A real home.
Elena had found the couple, during her initial research on Creed. A husband and wife with clean records, stable finances, years of documented attempts to adopt. Good people. Too good, maybe.
But perfect.
She pulled up to a cozy blue house on a quiet cul-de-sac. Warm light spilled through the curtains. A wreath hung on the door. The kind of place where nightmares didn't exist.
Elena lifted Lucy in her arms, walked to the porch, and rang the bell.
The door opened.
Mrs. Hale gasped softly, hand over her heart, before her eyes softened at the sight of the sleeping child.
"Oh my—who… who is she?"
"A little girl who needs a home," Elena said simply.
Mr. Hale stepped forward, startled, confused, but gentle.
"We've been on a waiting list for two years," he said carefully. "Is she—are you—?"
"She's perfect for you," Elena said, handing Lucy over with surprising care. "And you're perfect for her."
Mrs. Hale clutched the child instinctively, as though Lucy belonged there all along. The woman's voice trembled
"But… who are you?"
Elena's smile was small, secretive, dangerous.
"Someone tying up loose ends."
She turned to leave, her coat catching the wind like a shadow pulling away.
"Wait!" Mr. Hale called. "What's her name?"
Elena paused on the first step, the wind stirring her white hair.
"Lucy," she said. "Just Lucy."
Mrs. Hale hugged the child closer.
"We'll take care of her. I promise."
"I know you will."
Elena headed back to her car without looking over her shoulder.
Lucy would be safe.
And she still had unfinished business. The other hitman was still alive. That was unacceptable.
She turned the car around smoothly, tires humming against the empty road.
Two hours later, she rolled to a stop outside the abandoned warehouse. The night air was colder here, heavier, as though the building itself remembered screams.
Elena stepped inside.
She walked down the hallway, straight to the room where she had left him. Her pace was calm, almost bored. Her mind had already moved ahead, already preparing for the Armstrong's.
The door creaked as she pushed it open.
He was exactly as she had left him,
except for one thing.
He wasn't screaming anymore.
He wasn't even moving.
Elena flicked on the overhead light.
There he was.
Slumped forward in the steel chair, ropes soaked with dried blood, arms limp at his sides. His skin had taken on a grayish tint. His breaths were shallow, ragged—each one a struggle, each one proof he had survived far longer than someone in his condition ever should have.
He looked up at her weakly, eyes unfocused, trying to understand if the figure standing in front of him was real or a hallucination.
It was like his soul had already left, and his body just hadn't gotten the message.
Elena sighed.
A long, disappointed sound.
"What a waste of time."
She nudged the leg of the chair with her boot, watching the metal scrape softly across the floor.
She stepped closer, inspecting him with detached curiosity. His eyelids fluttered, trying to focus on her face. His lips trembled, attempting a sound—maybe a plea, maybe a curse.
She didn't care.
"You're going to die soon anyway," she said simply, brushing dust off her gloves. "Nothing for me to do here."
He made a faint choking noise. Maybe her name. Maybe a prayer.
She leaned down, her voice soft and merciless.
"Say hi to Elijah in hell."
His breath shuddered.
The final one.
Elena straightened, turned off the light, and walked out without a backward glance. The darkness swallowed the room behind her.
Loose end tied.
At last.
Outside, the cold air felt cleaner. Calmer. The wind licked through her white hair as she approached her car again.
As she slid behind the wheel, her expression hardened into something lethal.
"Armstrong," she murmured to herself, starting the engine.
"Your turn."
Her next target wasn't just a man. It was an entire bloodline.
The Armstrong family.
"Time to learn everything about you," she whispered. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel.