"Nothing Beside Remains" – From Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  Killing is easy. It always has been. The first time, I thought I’d feel something—guilt, regret, even satisfaction. But I felt nothing. And that nothingness stayed with me. Murder isn’t personal; it’s a task, a job, a responsibility. I don’t hesitate, I don’t question, and I sure as hell don’t regret.

  My name is Mira Maroni, daughter of Lorenzo Maroni, the infamous underworld don. But my blood ties mean nothing in the world I was thrown into. When I was eleven, my father sold me to the Syndicator, the most ruthless criminal organization specializing in human trafficking, sex slavery, drugs, and every imaginable horror. I was just another pawn in his game, a bargaining chip in a deal I never understood.

  For the world, Mira Maroni is dead. My father made sure of that. He faked my death in a tragic accident to erase me from existence. My family, my past—none of it remains. Only the Syndicator and the life they forced upon me.

  The Syndicator trained me, molded me into something deadly. I became their weapon, their assassin—the ghost who strikes in the dark and leaves no trace. Fear is my currency, and death is my trade. Now, at twenty, I don’t question my assignments. I complete them.

  The bass thrums through the club, a pulse of red and blue lights slicing through the haze of cigarette smoke and sweat. Bodies sway on the dance floor, a hypnotic rhythm of indulgence and vice. I move through them like a shadow, my dark dress clinging to me like a second skin, a silver blade strapped to my thigh beneath the fabric.

  My eyes, sharp and unreadable, lock onto my target—a man who once belonged to the Syndicator but dared to betray us. Now he sits in a secluded VIP booth, laughing with a woman draped over his arm, oblivious to the death that has already set its sights on him.

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  I slide onto a barstool nearby, ordering a drink I won’t touch. My hand rests lightly on the bar, fingers tapping once, twice—calculating. My approach has to be silent, unseen.

  A moment later, the woman by his side stands and leaves, making my move easy. I slip from the stool, weaving my way through the dimly lit corridors toward the booth. He looks up just as I approach, his smirk faltering. Recognition dawns in his eyes, but it’s too late.

  I lean in as if whispering a secret, my body pressing close to his to mask the motion. Then, with a swift flick of my wrist, the knife slides between his ribs, cutting through muscle and piercing his lung.

  His breath hitches, eyes wide with shock as he struggles to speak, his lips trembling. A choked gasp escapes him, and I feel the faintest brush of his breath against my cheek. His fingers grasp weakly at my wrist, a pathetic, useless plea for mercy. I hold him close, pretending to kiss his cheek as I murmur, "You should've run farther."

  Blood seeps into his expensive suit, his fingers weakly grasping at my wrist, but I twist the blade deeper, silencing him before he can make a sound.

  I ease him back against the booth’s cushioned seat, letting his head loll to the side. From afar, it looks like he has merely passed out from too much alcohol. Perfect.

  With a slow, controlled breath, I turn and disappear into the crowd before anyone notices. The job is done. And as always, I leave nothing behind but a whisper of death in my wake.

  But lately, something feels... off.

  It’s a presence, a feeling I can’t shake. Every time I complete an assignment, the sensation creeps up my spine like a shadow lurking just out of reach. Someone is watching me. I can’t see them, I can’t hear them, but I know they’re there. I’ve looked, searched, scanned the faces around me for a trace of familiarity, but I always come up empty.

  Tonight is no different.

  As I step outside into the cold night air, the hairs on my arms rise. The club’s alley is deserted, but the feeling lingers—someone is watching. I glance over my shoulder, scanning the rooftops, the darkened corners of the street. Nothing.

  I inhale deeply, forcing the unease down. I don’t get paranoid. I don’t get scared. If someone’s hunting me, they’ll regret it before the night is over.

  Still, the feeling remains.

  I slip into my car, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. My mind runs through possibilities. Could it be a rival? Someone from the Syndicator testing my loyalty? Or worse—someone from my past?