The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the hotel room. It was late—past 11. The remnants of dinner still sat on the table, two empty glasses and a half-eaten plate pushed aside. Red leaned back against the headboard, her hands resting on her lap. Or rather, her handcuffed hands.
André sat across from her in the armchair, legs stretched out, one ankle lazily resting over the other. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes weren't. He was studying her, even when he pretended not to be.
"I can't tell if you're tired or just bored," he mused.
She rolled her eyes. "Neither."
The metal cuffs pressed cold against her skin, a quiet reminder that—for now—he had the upper hand. Not that it would last.
Then, her phone vibrated against the nightstand. Once. Twice. A pause. Then again.
André picked it up first. He glanced at the screen, then smirked. "Lincoln."
Red tensed. Lincoln didn't text unless it was urgent.
André turned the screen toward her, tilting his head. "Want me to read it out loud?"
"Just hand me the damn phone."
André hummed, debating, before leaning forward and pressing the device into her cuffed hands. The moment her fingers wrapped around it, it vibrated again. A call.
André stared at her expectantly. "Go on."
She answered, bringing the phone to her ear. "Talk."
Lincoln's voice was sharp, direct. "How fast can you get to Hotel Belmond's back entrance?"
Her fingers flexed. Something in his tone wasn't right.
"That depends," she said slowly.
"On?"
Red glanced at André, then back at the ceiling, exhaling. "On how fast I can break a pair of handcuffs."
A pause. Then Lincoln sighed, irritated. "Handle it. I need you moving now. There's a man near the Belmond—our problem. Make him disappear."
Red's jaw tightened. Normally, she would've just taken the order. But something about this didn't sit right.
"André's still my problem," she said, testing.
"Not anymore. Leave him."
Her fingers curled around the phone. "You sure about that?"
Lincoln's tone darkened. "Did I stutter?"
Red's instincts flared. Something's wrong. Lincoln never called her off a job this suddenly-except that one time.
Across from her, André had been watching quietly, but at that, he tilted his head slightly. He wasn't stupid. He picked up on shifts in tone, even when he wasn't the one on the line.
She exhaled sharply through her nose. "Fine."
She tossed the phone back onto the bed, and André caught it before it could bounce off.
"Looks like you're free."
André blinked. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
Her fingers twisted slightly, testing the cuffs, before she yanked forward sharply. The mechanism gave just enough give for her to slip one wrist free. She shook it off like it had never been there.
"Well, Princeling, I'm done entertaining you." Her voice is sharp, final, but there's something restless beneath it. She takes a step back—hesitates—then her gaze snags on the bed. The cuff, broken and useless, lies there like a bad joke.
With a slow drag of her fingers over the metal, she exhales, something between frustration and amusement lacing her words. "And these?" She flicks the shattered restraint aside, letting it hit the floor with a dull clink. "They never stood a chance."
André huffed a laugh, rubbing his jaw. "Figures."
But he was still watching her. Too closely.
She stood, stretching, but didn't move toward the door just yet.
André leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "You seem hesitant."
"I don't hesitate."
"Mm." He didn't sound convinced. His gaze flickered toward her phone. "Lincoln in a bad mood?"
She met his eyes. For once, she wasn't sure what to say.
André let the silence hang, then smirked slightly. "You could always stay. I could even handcuff you again—if you ask nicely this time."
Red snorted, shaking her head. "Try that again, and I'll break your arm."
He sighed dramatically. "I'll take that as a 'maybe.'"
She rolled her shoulders. Focus. Whatever was off about this situation, she couldn't afford to stall.
André exhaled through his nose, amusement fading just a fraction. "If you're this reluctant to leave, maybe you shouldn't."
She hesitated. Just for a second.
Then, she turned to the door. "I'll be back."
And she wasn't sure if it was a promise or a threat.
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The night was cool. Red moved like a shadow, her boots silent on the pavement as she slipped into the alley behind Hotel Belmond.
Her phone vibrated. Another text from Lincoln.
Name: Arthur Devereux.
French, late forties. Grey streak in his beard. Expensive watch. Glasses. Should be near the waterfront. Make it loud.
Red tilted her head slightly, reading it again. Make it loud. That wasn't like Lincoln.
Her fingers hovered over the screen, debating whether to ask why. But she didn't. Lincoln didn't like questions.
Instead, she slid the phone into her pocket and melted into the city, heading toward the waterfront.
The air smelled like salt and damp stone by the time she reached the docks. The wooden planks groaned under her weight as she stepped forward, hidden in the deep shadows cast by the streetlights.
It didn't take long to find him.
Arthur Devereux stood near the edge of the dock, his hands in the pockets of an expensive wool coat. He looked like a man waiting for something—or someone. His posture was stiff, but not nervous. Confident. That annoyed her.
Red exhaled slowly, flexing her fingers. No hesitation. No mercy.
She moved.
Silent, quick—closing the distance in seconds.
Devereux barely had time to turn before she was on him. Her knife sliced through the tendon behind his knee. He buckled with a strangled gasp, barely catching himself against the railing.
He tried to speak, but she didn't care. She grabbed him by the collar, slamming his head against the metal bar. Once. Twice. Hard enough that his glasses snapped and blood splattered onto the wood.
Then, she pulled him back and drove the knife into his stomach.
The sound he made was wet, choked. His hands clawed weakly at her wrist, but she twisted the blade, and his body seized.
She leaned in close, voice barely a whisper. "Loud enough for you?"
Then, she dragged the knife up, carving through muscle, flesh, and ribs in a single, brutal motion. Blood poured onto the wooden planks, pooling around her boots.
She let go, and he slumped against the railing, wheezing. Still alive.
That wouldn't do.
Red grabbed him by the collar and lifted. He wasn't small, but adrenaline and sheer force made up for it. With a sharp heave, she threw him over the railing. A thick, rusted chain hung from the dock, and as he fell, she snatched it, looping it around his throat before he hit the water.
The weight snapped tight. His body jerked mid-air, then dangled lifelessly, swaying gently over the waves.
Blood dripped into the sea, vanishing into the dark.
Red tilted her head, watching the way his body hung there, motionless. A warning. A message.
Done.
She exhaled, shaking off the tension in her shoulders. Lincoln had better have a damn good reason for pulling her off André for this.
She turned away, slipping into the shadows once more.
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The city was quieter by the time she reached Hotel Belmond again. Too quiet.
Something felt off.
Red slowed her pace, scanning the street. Then she saw him.
André.
He was near the hotel entrance, talking to someone.
Her body went rigid.
The man was well-dressed, wearing a tailored coat. His posture was casual, but Red immediately noticed the positioning—angled just slightly toward André, leading him. Guiding him.
André frowned, looking half-annoyed, half-intrigued. Whatever the guy was saying, he was buying it.
Red narrowed her eyes, stepping closer without making a sound. She caught pieces of the conversation.
"…Just a quick word. No need to—"
André sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "If this is about—"
A shift.
The man's fingers moved subtly, adjusting something near his sleeve. Red recognized the motion a second too late.
Shit.
André's body jerked as the needle plunged into his neck.
For a moment, he just stood there, blinking in confusion. Then his knees buckled.
The man caught him before he could hit the ground, shifting his weight effortlessly, like he'd done this a thousand times before.
Red moved.
But the second she stepped forward, another figure emerged from the shadows near the hotel. A second man. He turned his head slightly, just enough for her to catch the glint of a blade under his coat.
A guard.
They had planned this.
Her heart pounded once—sharp, angry—before settling into cold precision.
They were taking André.