VILLA — LYRIC'S COMPUTER ROOM
The rhythmic clatter of keys filled the dimly lit room, blending with the soft hum of multiple monitors flickering to life. Lyric's eyes were sharp, focused, and blazing with intent. Her fingers danced wildly across the keyboard, a language foreign to many spilling from her lips like venom—fluent, authoritative, and cold. She wasn't just typing; she was commanding.
A large digital map flickered on one of the massive screens, glowing red around the Balkans. Dozens of masked faces appeared in video feeds, all responding in synchrony with a simple nod. This was no ordinary video call—it was a war council.
"Éliminez-le. Aucun bruit. Pas de témoins. Nettoyez après," she instructed, her tone crisp in French.
They referred to her as The Ruthless Widow across Europe—feared in the underworld for her lethal mind, precise execution, and unmatched cruelty. But this wasn't a power show. Tonight, justice had a blade and it was wearing red lipstick.
"He killed a family of four last winter in Odessa just to settle a land dispute," she muttered, almost to herself. "Then trafficked over twenty underaged girls from the Baltic coast and had them working in his brothels. Now he's siphoning money meant for war victims and channeling it to his offshore accounts. He's long overdue."
She clicked one final button, and the target's location flashed across the screen in real time.
-----
RIGA, LATVIA — 5:49 AM
In a luxurious estate nestled near the Latvian coastline, Victor Drevlov, age 46, lounged in his silk robe, sipping on premium red wine. His thick salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and his beady blue eyes scanned through financial reports while puffing lazily on a cigar. He had a build typical of someone who believed money made muscles obsolete—round belly, soft hands, and an air of untouchable arrogance.
A knock echoed through the hallway.
"Enter," Victor barked.
A young maid, barely seventeen, stepped into the lavish dining area, carefully balancing a silver tray carrying breakfast. Her eyes were downcast, trembling as she approached. She knew the beast well.
Victor's eyes roamed over her delicate frame, lingering with distasteful hunger. He smiled—disgustingly.
"Forget the tray, sweetheart," he murmured, his thick accent rolling over his tongue like oil on dirty water.
She backed away instinctively, but he lunged forward, grabbing her wrist tightly. "Why fear me? You should be honored," he sneered, yanking her toward him. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled, her tiny hands pushing weakly against his chest.
"I said—"
CRASH!
The massive glass window behind him shattered into shards as a black-gloved hand hurled a smoke canister into the room. Chaos erupted in an instant.
Victor released the girl in confusion, coughing and stumbling backward. A dark figure lunged from the smoke, dressed in tactical black, a crimson insignia—a widow's hourglass—stitched into the chest plate.
Before Victor could scream, another assassin appeared behind him and jabbed a syringe into his neck. He froze, eyes wide, body locking in place—paralyzed.
The leader stepped forward, female, her mask bearing a single red tear drop under the right eye.
"Victor Drevlov," her voice came from a voice modulator, cold and detached, "You have been sentenced to death by the Ruthless Widow. For crimes against the innocent, we carry out justice."
Victor could only watch in horror, unable to speak, his breath caught in his throat.
The assassin pulled out a long steel needle, laced with neurotoxic serum developed by their chemists. "This one is special," she whispered, "It'll make you feel every organ shutting down."
She plunged it straight into his jugular.
Victor thrashed helplessly in place as blood ran down his neck. Within seconds, his eyes bulged, veins darkened, and his body dropped—lifeless, stiff.
The girl ran to the far corner, sobbing uncontrollably. One of the masked operatives approached her, removed his mask gently revealing a young face, maybe 20. He handed her a small pouch.
"For your family. Start over. And leave Riga before noon."
She blinked, confused but relieved.
The team moved with practiced ease, placing a bottle of aged wine in Victor's hand and spreading crushed glass near the balcony—framing it as a drunken fall. Surveillance data had already been wiped by the tech team an hour earlier. By the time authorities arrived, there would be no trace of foul play. Just another corrupt man meeting a tragic accident.
----
VILLA — COMPUTER ROOM
Lyric leaned back, expressionless as the live feed confirmed Victor's death.
"Target down," came the voice through the encrypted channel.
"Dispose and proceed to phase two," she replied.
She ended the call and exhaled sharply, fingers brushing through her long dark hair. There was no pleasure in the kill—but there was purpose.
She glanced at a frame on the far table—an old, worn-out photo of a little girl with her family. Happy. Whole. Alive.
"They'll all pay," she whispered to herself. "Even if it costs me everything."
Behind her, a subtle beep echoed. A new message.
Ace: "I want to talk. It's about Jade."
Lyric's eyes narrowed as she turned back toward the screen. With one final click on the keyboard, the screens flickered and changed. A new video loaded.
Static.
Then—clarity.
It was shaky footage, grainy and dull in color—clearly from a security drone or an embedded military-grade surveillance camera. Wind howled through the feed, carrying thick clouds of dust and sand. The visibility was poor. A raging sandstorm devoured the horizon.
In the midst of it, four frail figures stumbled barefoot across the desert, their bodies trembling from exhaustion.
Hitomi, face streaked with tears, held onto Ariana, who was limping, her ankle bruised and swollen. Jade's once-flawless skin was covered in grime, and her hair, tangled and unrecognizable, whipped around violently in the wind. Arabella trailed behind them, coughing uncontrollably, hugging her arms tightly to herself for warmth. All of them were in tattered pajamas, their eyes hollow, skin pale, and lips cracked from dehydration.
Lyric leaned in, her lips curled into a slow, venomous smile.
"They look better than I expected," she murmured sarcastically, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass before downing it. "Aren't karma and sandstorms poetic?"
She reclined in her chair, crossing one leg over the other as she watched them suffer. They weren't just being punished—they were being broken. Piece by piece.
"Tomorrow night," she whispered. "They come crawling back tomorrow night."
A brief flicker of irritation danced across her face. She didn't like interruptions to her peace. Even when she orchestrated the chaos herself.
With a sigh, she stood and stretched, her black silk robe clinging to her lithe frame. As she left the computer room, she pressed a button on the wall, locking down the systems. All screens turned black. The room sealed itself in silence.
She walked calmly to the elevator and pressed the Ground Floor button.
As the elevator descended, a soft ping sounded from her phone.
She glanced at the screen.
1 New Message — Elena
She opened it.
It wasn't a message. It was a locked file—marked with a red icon and flashing encryption warning: Tier 9 Security Key Required. That meant one thing: Highly classified data. Hacked from a top-level source. Possibly military. Possibly worse.
"No subject. No message. Just this?" Lyric's brow lifted. "Cryptic little witch."
She tapped the screen once more—no access.
Needs an active decode. Firewall protected. Non-traceable origin.
She grinned to herself. "Things are getting funnier."
DING!
The elevator doors slid open with a hiss. The grand marble-floored ground floor was eerily quiet, bathed in soft morning light spilling through the tall windows. No guards. No staff. Not even the usual housekeeper.
Not that she cared.
She didn't bother calling out. They knew better than to hover.
Walking barefoot across the floor, she headed to the kitchen. The coldness of the marble kissed her soles, grounding her in the moment.
She reached into the cabinet, grabbed a bowl, and poured in cereal. Dry. No milk.
She liked the crunch. It reminded her of breaking bones.
A few silent bites passed before another vibration shook her phone. She didn't look immediately. Instead, she finished chewing, slowly and deliberately.
She finally swiped the screen.
This time it wasn't from Elena.
Unknown Number: [Secure Line]
> "She knows. We were too slow."
Her eyes narrowed. She set the bowl down carefully and walked to the sink, rinsing her fingers clean.
> "Don't panic," she texted back. "Let her know whatever she 'thinks' she knows... is a lie."
Then, with one swipe, she dropped into her encrypted hacking interface, sat on the edge of the marble counter, legs dangling like a bored goddess of vengeance, and began to work on Elena's file.
Layers of code spun before her eyes. Her fingers moved again—this time not out of rage, but with clinical curiosity.
"I hope it's a video," she whispered to herself. "I like surprises before brunch."
Suddenly, the lights above flickered. A quick surge. Then normal again.
Her head tilted.
"I didn't authorize a system update…"
Behind her, a subtle sound echoed from the hallway.
A soft creak.
Like a door opening.
Her hand reached toward the knife drawer but paused when her phone chimed again.
Elena:
> "Don't trust your own shadows today. Check the west wing. Something slipped past me."
She stilled.
For the first time in hours… Lyric didn't smile, she grinned