Molly never had the luxury of time.
She was born in a place where warmth was something you earned, a quiet town buried deep in the frozen north of Russia. Her real name was Anastasia Morozova, but that name belonged to a girl who did not survive. It ended the moment she walked away from her childhood home, left behind like a coat too thin for the cold.
Her parents were ordinary people, working hard just to stay afloat. She learned early that effort alone was never enough. Survival demanded sharper tools. Control. Awareness. The willingness to trade pieces of yourself until the reflection staring back felt unfamiliar. Moscow called to her like a promise she knew better than to trust. She did not arrive by choice. She stayed because she had no other option.
By sixteen, Anastasia was gone.
Molly took her place. Harder. Smarter. Colder.
She learned how to move through the world without being consumed by it. How to smile without offering anything real. How to listen without revealing. How to make men believe they held power while never letting them touch what mattered. She navigated money and influence with careful precision, slipping between dangerous hands without ever being fully caught.
Until the night he came.
The private room was thick with smoke and laughter, the clink of glasses cutting through low conversation. Molly sat on a man's lap, nodding at words she did not care about, waiting for the night to end. The girls around her did the same. Want was irrelevant. Survival paid better than dignity.
Then the door came apart.
Wood splintered. Hinges screamed.
Molly flinched just enough to turn her head.
The man standing in the doorway did not belong there.
He was tall, composed, utterly still. Cold in a way that had nothing to do with expression. His presence drained the room of air. He drew a gun from his jacket with practiced ease. No warning. No words. The first shot rang out, and before anyone could react, he was already moving.
Chaos followed.
Screams. Shattered glass. Bodies collapsing onto carpet soaked in spilled liquor. The women ran. Some bolted for the door. Others crawled beneath tables, driven by instinct.
Molly stayed where she was.
She could not look away.
The men never stood a chance. He did not waste bullets. Each shot was deliberate. Efficient. When the last body hit the floor, silence rushed back in, broken only by the ringing in her ears.
Then he did something that made no sense at all.
He crouched beside one of the corpses and reached into his pocket. A marker. He removed the cap with care and pressed the tip to the man's forehead. The number nine took shape slowly, ink bleeding into cooling skin.
He laughed.
Not aloud. Not fully. Just enough to exist. A private sound meant for no one else.
Molly should have run. Should have screamed. Should have felt terror.
She felt nothing.
He stood and finally noticed her. Their eyes met and held. For a moment, she was certain he would kill her. Raise the gun. End it.
Instead, he reached for her.
His fingers brushed a dyed strand of her hair, the pale streak catching the light. He twirled it between his fingers, almost amused.
"You're still here," he said.
Not a question.
Molly did not move. Did not blink. She let him touch her hair.
Seconds passed.
Then he released her and walked away, stepping over bodies as if they were debris.
When the door closed behind him, she exhaled and realized she had not breathed the entire time.
She was alone.
Surrounded by the dead.
And for the first time in her life, she did not feel alone at all.
⁕
Now.
Blood hit the floor in slow drops.
Molly staggered down the hallway, one hand pressed to her side, struggling to breathe, to stay upright, to keep moving. The pain was sharp and unreal, flashing through her with every step.
She could not remember the moment it happened. One second she was leaving. The next there was sound and heat and impact.
Footsteps followed behind her. Calm. Unhurried.
A shadow stretched along the wall, growing longer.
Her vision blurred as she reached for the corner, her strength slipping away. The hallway felt endless.
The last thing she saw before darkness took her was the figure stepping out of the shadows.