Agent Red is looking at a picture, a handsome young man in his twenties. Green eyes, light wavy hair, and a chiseled face—perfect for a hit.
"What did this poor soul do to get me on his tail?" Red asks in a scoffing, smug manner, her lips curling into a slight, mocking smile.
"Red, kidnapping not Murder. You just need to retain him where he is until further notice." Lincoln says, his tone flat and stern.
"Babysitting? You know I don't do those things. Ask Violetta. She likes handsome men. And younger ones are her type." Red replies, leaning back in her chair, a bored expression on her face.
"Red, they specifically asked for YOU. They've studied your previous...cases." Lincoln responds, his patience thinning.
"Send a decoy. A clone. I don't care."
"Red, this is an order."
Red sighs heavily, a brief flicker of annoyance crossing her features. She nods once, resigned.
No one apart from him knows who she is or where she came from. She was brought here by Lincoln, who found her on the streets—abandoned, a lost soul with no past. Lincoln never disclosed where he found her or even her name. She had been brought to Spectre, an underground organization, to be raised as an assassin. A fragile child, molded into a weapon, trained from the ground up to kill without hesitation. By the time she was seven, Red had already killed—a man in his forties who had crossed a line.
It all started when she was only four years old. She had been friends with a girl named Haeri, and one night, Red had followed her. She had seen Haeri sneaking out every evening, always at the same time. A curious child, Red decided to follow her just once. It would be harmless, she thought—just a bathroom break, nothing more. But what she stumbled upon that night was something no child should ever witness.
Haeri, her best friend, was crumpled on the ground, blood staining her clothes, her body trembling from the pain. The man, in his thirties, was grinning as he drew a knife across Haeri's skin, each cut slow and deliberate. She cried out, pleading for mercy, but he only laughed—dark, cruel—like he was savoring each moment. The sight of his twisted pleasure, the way he took joy in Haeri's suffering, made Red's heart stop. The rage that flooded through her wasn't just anger—it was something deeper. Something primal.
Terrified, Red rushed back to her room, her small hands shaking. She knew something was wrong, but she couldn't make sense of it. Lincoln had gifted her a pocketknife just a few weeks earlier, telling her it was for her safety. At the time, it had seemed like a harmless gesture, but now, she understood its true meaning. A mark. A curse. Her life would be stained forever by this moment, and she didn't even know it yet.
Frantic, Red tore through her drawers, her hands trembling as she grabbed the knife. She ran out of the room, her heart pounding in her chest. She had no plan, no idea what to do—only the instinct to protect Haeri. When she reached the room, the man was still there, his back to her. He hadn't noticed her yet.
Without thinking, Red launched herself at him, gripping the pocketknife tightly in her small hands. Her training, what little she had received at that age, kicked in. She aimed for his neck, just as Lincoln had taught her. The next moment was a blur—a spray of blood, a choking sound, and then silence. Blood splattered everywhere, covering Red's hands, her clothes, her face.
The realization hit her all at once. She had killed him. The weight of it crashed down on her, and she started screaming, her small voice echoing through the room. She had never seen death before—not like this. Not in the way it had come to her. Lincoln arrived at the scene moments later, his face hardening as he took in the sight of the young girl covered in blood.
Red's face was a mask of shock, her hands fidgeting as she muttered, "I—I didn't… I—I don't know. Hurt. Hurt. Haeri—" She fell to the ground, the enormity of the act overwhelming her small body.
Crimson.
That was the first time Lincoln had ever seen her break. And that was the first time anyone ever saw her as something more than just a little girl. A tool. The blood on her hands, on her face, would forever define her. And from that day forward, she was known as Red. The name stuck, becoming her identity, the mark of her first kill, and the symbol of the ruthless assassin she would grow to be. It wasn't just the blood that made her Red—it was the coldness that followed. It was the emotionless killer that Lincoln had helped shape her into.
Now, years later, Red prepares for her next mission. A trip to Italy. A new target. She has to kidnap him and hold him hostage for as long as the client wants. No deadline. No rush. Lincoln convinces her, and even bribes her with a room at the very hotel she has to kidnap him from. The only downside—he'll be there as a hostage.