Isabelle "Dizzy" Cordova had known violence all her life. It was in the cracked pavement of the barrio, in the sirens that wailed like lost souls in the night, in the blood that ran through the gutters like rainwater.
She had been raised on it, molded by it, and now—she had become it.
Dizzy's gloved hands tightened around the grip of her pistol as she crouched in the shadows, her breath steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside her.
Morgan and Swirski. The names had burned into her soul like brands. Two dirty cops who had made their fortune by preying on the weak, who had orchestrated the deaths of the only people she had ever truly loved.
The rain slicked the pavement, turning the streets into shimmering rivers of neon reflections. She had spent months preparing for this night—tracking their routines, mapping their routes, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
That moment was now.
Morgan and Swirski stumbled out of a seedy dive bar, laughing, their breath heavy with the stink of whiskey and cheap cigars. They didn't even notice their patrol car's slashed tires as they climbed inside.
Dizzy stepped out of the shadows.
The weight of the gun in her hands felt lighter than it should. As if all the pain, all the grief, all the rage that had led her to this moment had lifted away, leaving behind only cold, unwavering purpose.
She raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.
The muzzle flashed. A deafening crack split the air.
The windshield exploded into shards. Morgan's head snapped back violently, blood spraying against the cracked glass. Swirski had just enough time to turn, eyes wide, before a bullet tore through his throat. He gurgled, clutching at the wound, but she gave him no chance to suffer—another shot, clean between the eyes, and it was over.
The street was silent.
The few people loitering nearby scattered like roaches, disappearing into alleyways and doorways. No one would come to investigate. This was Chicago. People knew better than to get involved in another person's business.
Dizzy stood there, staring into the ruined car, breathing heavily.
They were dead.
She should have felt relief. She should have felt something.
But the hole in her heart remained.
Slowly, she turned away, the gun feeling heavier in her grasp now. There was nothing left. Nothing to go back to. No family. No future. No reason to keep breathing.
Her free hand trembled as she raised the pistol to her temple.
The cold metal pressed against her skin.
She closed her eyes, taking a shuddering breath.
"Hector. Santiago. I'll be joining you."
She pulled the trigger.
There was a bang.
But no pain.
Her eyes snapped open.
The bullet hung in the air, less than a centimeter from her forehead, suspended as if time itself had frozen.
A shadow loomed over her.
She turned, her breath catching in her throat.
Floating above the pavement, arms folded behind his back, was Chicago's newest self-proclaimed protector. Nova.
His purple bodysuit shimmered under the flickering streetlights, the gold accents gleaming. His smooth, Spartan-style helmet gave no indication of emotion, but his posture radiated calm authority.
Dizzy's fingers twitched on the gun. "I don't even get to die on my own terms?" she rasped, voice raw with frustration and sorrow.
Nova didn't answer. Instead, to her surprise, she felt herself rising.
The ground disappeared beneath her feet as an invisible force lifted her into the air. The city blurred below as they ascended, the world shrinking into a glittering maze of streets and skyscrapers.
Her stomach clenched, but she forced herself to remain still. She wasn't going to die—yet.
They landed on the rooftop of an apartment building, the wind howling around them.
Nova finally spoke. "I was investigating Morgan and Swirski," he said, his voice deep and steady. "A source tipped me off about their crimes. I wanted them taken down. I just didn't expect someone to beat me to it."
Dizzy snorted bitterly. "Yeah, well. They had it coming."
Nova tilted his head slightly. "Why did you kill them?"
Dizzy clenched her fists, her breath hitching. The memories were suffocating, clawing at her throat. She didn't want to tell him. She didn't want to relive it.
But she did.
She told him everything.
Her childhood. Her gang life. The years rotting in prison. Her husband and child, gunned down in cold blood because of her sins. The old man, Agent Graves, on the train with a briefcase full of truth and vengeance. A gun with 100 bullets.
Nova listened without interrupting interrupt.
When she finished, there was silence between them. The city stretched out endlessly below, but the rooftop felt like the only place in the world.
Finally, Nova spoke.
"Your husband and son would not want you to end your life," he said. "Live on. If not for your sake, then for the other children of Chicago."
Dizzy scoffed, looking away. "And do what? Pretend to be a normal person? I don't even know how."
"You don't have to be normal," Nova said. "You just have to be useful."
She frowned, turning back to him. "What are you saying?"
"I will try to clean this city of all filth," he said. "From corrupt politicians to rotten police. But some people are too heinous to simply be locked up. I could use your help."
Dizzy stared at him, searching for any sign of deception. But his helmet revealed nothing.
She thought about what he was offering.
A purpose. A way to channel her anger. A chance to do something meaningful, even if it was outside the law.
A slow, bitter smile crept onto her lips.
"You saying you want me to be your hitman?"
Nova didn't answer directly. "I'm saying you have a choice. Live for something. Or die for nothing."
Dizzy took a deep breath.
For the first time in years, she felt something flicker inside her.
Not happiness. Not peace.
But something close to hope.
She looked at Nova, her jaw tightening.
"...I'm in."