Red stared at the scene for a moment. Then she looked away.
André's half-unconscious body was slung over the man's shoulder, his limbs weak, his fight already fading. There had been a struggle—not much, but enough. Just before his eyes fluttered shut, they found hers. For a second. A plea. A question.
She turned away.
She tried to run. Tried to scream. Just one word.
Nothing.
Not a sound left her lips. Silence held her in place.
She couldn't help him. No. She shouldn't help him. He wasn't her problem anymore. The assignment was over. He wasn't her responsibility. He wasn't her headache.
Then why did her chest feel hollow? Why was there this strange, gnawing emptiness? It wasn't grief. It wasn't loss. Just—melancholy. A dull ache, like something had been misplaced but not quite lost.
It wasn't like they were soulmates. They weren't lifelong friends. Hell, she hadn't even known the guy twenty-four hours ago.
They were just two passing strangers caught in the same storm. Nothing more.
Hundreds of thoughts clawed at her mind, but she just stood there, arms limp at her sides, watching as André's body was carried away.
Then, finally—
She turned.
She walked away.
Back to where she belonged.
Back to Spectre.
People like her didn't get attached. They weren't supposed to.
She didn't care about him.
She didn't.
The next morning, Red woke up with heavy eyes and a restless mind.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Lincoln.
"You should take a vacation."
She frowned. A vacation? Lincoln never said things like that. She had never taken a break—not since the first kill. Since Haeri. Since the moment she proved she was ready to kill on command.
A break? Did she even know what that meant?
She wanted to ask Lincoln about Andre.
But why would she.
She had no reason.
Lincoln had trained her ruthlessly. Not like a father. Not like a guardian. But like a Master.
She was his apprentice. His weapon. His machine.
________________________________________________________________
"You did good with that dagger, Little Red."
"Red?" she had asked once, the name rolling on her tongue. "Am I part of Spectre now?"
"We'll see about that."
She had been overjoyed. Lincoln was the one who built Spectre from the ground up. He had shaped her, sharpened her, turned her into something lethal.
______________________________________________________
"Shoot the gun."
"But Lincoln—"
"Sir."
"Sir, how can I shoot you?"
"Did I ask you to hesitate?"
Bang.
__________________________________________________________________Afternoons bled into nights of relentless training. Days of stitching wounds, nights of inflicting them. Lincoln had taught her everything.
Everything except—
How to exist without a purpose.
How to be human.
That little part of her had been buried long, long ago.
Then why the hell couldn't she get André out of her mind?
He had been—entertaining. He had made her laugh.
But.
Red exhaled, stretching her neck as she tossed her phone onto the couch. She had moved out of Hotel Belmond overnight, booking a cheap hotel instead.
She got ready. Not sure where to go.
Not sure what to do with her—
Vacation.