1. Kaden

1

KADEN

10 Years Later

The hazy glow of the neon sign outside bleeds through the grimy windows, painting the world inside the bar with a blood-red sheen. I sit in the corner, shrouded, nursing my whiskey. The sharp burn as it slides down my throat doesn't faze me anymore. It's just another sensation, like the buzz of the worn-out fan overhead or the sticky residue on the glass from a hundred other careless hands.

A man—a weasel in an ill-fitting suit—slides into the booth across from me, his beady eyes flicking around the room before they latch onto my face. I resist a sardonic pull on my lips as his attention slides to my left temple, and with the awe of passing a gruesome car accident on the interstate, he follows the jagged scar up the side of my face, curving under my eyebrow, and ending halfway down the side of my nose.

Just like the Reaper's scythe.

Many of my new associates and rivals believe I received such a maiming from an assassination attempt gone awry, that one of my victims was able to get in one last mark of vengeance before I ended their life. Ironically, the wound isn't from my life now. It's from what I call my Old Life, the Time Before, the Good Life, when the other HUMINT operatives and I had to infiltrate a rebel group in a foreign, volatile region where we were subsequently ambushed. One of the rebels had a nice piece of shattered glass he slashed across my face before I escaped.

The only person who didn't gasp or gag at the time of my healing was my baby daughter, who seemed unperturbed by the whole thing. She recognized me despite my disfigurement; she knew my love for her was unchanged.

This weasel before me, however, receives no such devotion. His presence irks me, a reminder of the petty pawns I'm often forced to interact with.

"It's done," I announce, my voice as rough as the edge of the whiskey glass in my hand.

He flinches as though the words were a physical blow but recovers quickly under my unrelenting, and I'm told very off-putting, stare, offering a jerky nod. His hand trembles slightly as he pushes a plain envelope across the beer-stained wood. It's thick with the promise of freshly printed bills.

I don't bother to check the amount; the numbers are always right. They have to be. People who short me don't get the privilege of making the same mistake twice. I slip the envelope into my jacket, feeling the slight shift in weight.

Without another word, I finish my drink in one final, burning gulp and rise. The chair legs scrape against the floor, the grating sound echoing in the subdued space. The few scattered patrons turn their gazes toward me—silent revulsion playing across their shoulders when I move behind them.

I step outside, and the night greets me with its cold embrace. The chill doesn't bother me. It's an old friend, one that's been with me since the nights I spent without my daughter—3,648 of them. I pause for a moment, letting the darkness settle on my skin, the only cloak I've ever needed.

Behind me, the door to the bar closes, cutting off the murmur of voices and the tinny music that had been trickling out. It's quiet out here, muted. My eyes scan the street—a desolate stretch of forgotten city, my footsteps silent against the cracked pavement as I make my way through the winding backstreets.

Up ahead, a lone streetlamp flickers, its pale-yellow glow revealing two figures lingering in its halo. Their hushed voices stop as I approach, spines straightening in recognition. These are my contacts, the crooked cops on the take who keep me informed.

I pull my mask out of an inner pocket and slip it on, a seamless, matte black piece that covers my entire face, molding perfectly to my features. The most striking feature is the eyes. In normal lighting, they appear as two narrow, horizontal slits, barely discernible from the rest of the mask. However, when activated, a faint, eerie green glow emanates from these slits, indicating the night vision is in use. This glow is subtle enough not to give away my position in darkness but noticeable enough to unnerve anyone who sees it.

"Scythe," the bulkier of the two rasps in greeting as I approach, his breath fogging in the icy air.

I offer a curt nod in return. "Do you have something for me?"

The other man reaches into his coat and retrieves a sealed manila envelope. "Fresh from the top. High-priority target."

His gloved hand trembles as he passes me the envelope, from the cold, or fear, or both .

They've been waiting a long time. They have no choice but to wait until I'm ready to appear.

I tuck it away without inspection. "Payment will be in the usual manner."

They dip their heads in acknowledgment. Our business is concluded.

As I turn to go, the first one calls out, "This one's personal, Scythe. Watch yourself."

I pause, then continue. In this world, it's always personal.

And I trust no one.

Once out of their eyesight, I lean against a grimy brick wall and open the envelope. Unfolding the papers reveals an address, a time, and a photograph.

I pause on the photo.

A woman, striking even in the low resolution as she crosses a busy street, one slim arm up in a thank you to the cars as she's frozen mid-run, her long, bright blond hair flying behind her in waves. Her dark denim jeans are tight, rounded in just the right ways along her backside, with a sleeveless white button-down doing the same amount of justice to her front.

I glide over her body in a short time snap of assessment. It's her face that stops my professional perusal and for much too long.

Haunting multicolored eyes stare out from the image, one pale blue, one dark brown, a genetic rarity that makes her appear otherworldly. They're framed by a pale, heart-shaped face and full pink lips.

I force my gaze away from her high cheekbones, the line of her jaw and confident notch to her chin.

Her eyes.

I frown, turning the photo in my fingers and reading the back.

Layla Verona, age 25.

My next target.

Something about this feels off. My contracts typically target those ensnared in the web of the underworld. But this woman's features are untainted, devoid of the lingering evil I see in so many.

I need to return to my safe house, but I hesitate against the rough brick wall.

This goes against my code, the lines I swore never to cross. My contacts know this.

Why would they give me this girl despite it?

With a quiet curse, I tuck the photo into my inner pocket and burn the rest of the dossier with my lighter.

Some contracts aren't worth the cost.

But the information I gain?

Always priceless.