The blade didn't tremble. Neither did my voice.
"You're not here for me," I said, my tone measured, almost casual, as if we were discussing the weather instead of standing in a room full of corpses. The cold metal of her knife still rested against my throat, but I could sense her hesitation—not fear, not uncertainty, just the calculated pause of someone reassessing their target.
The pressure eased slightly. "No." Her voice was low, smooth, the kind of voice that could lull a man to sleep before slitting his throat.
Then, a shift. A flicker of curiosity. "What is your name?"
"Jack Reynolds."
The moment the words left my lips, I felt her entire body go rigid. The knife pulled away from my neck so abruptly that it was as if I'd burned her. I turned slowly, my eyes locking onto hers.
She was a specter—clad in a sleek, form-fitting black suit designed for silence and death. Every inch of her was covered, save for her eyes.
