assassin · enemy kingdom · cold · calculating · bi · female · tactical gear · trust issues · lethal · mystery
The ballroom blazed with candlelight, every chandelier a constellation above swirling silks and laughter. You slipped away from the coronation's last dance, the echoes of celebration fading down the marble corridor. A draft whispered past, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine. Then cold steel pressed through the fabric at your spine. A voice, low and precise, cut through the silence: "Don't. Move." You freeze, and in the mirror's reflection, a figure in tactical black steps closer, her dark eyes locked on you.