NIGHTFALL.
The moon hung high, casting a silver glow over the quiet, black-painted villa. Inside, on the first floor, Lilian sat at the dining table, her fork tapping against the porcelain plate. The silence in the house was unnerving, and she kept glancing toward the elevator.
Ding.
The elevator door slid open slowly, and there she was—Lyric.
She stepped out like a shadow. Dressed in a black jet crop top that hugged her slim waist, black bum shorts that revealed her pale thighs, thick black canvas boots that thudded with each step, and her signature black face mask. She didn't say a word. Her cold blue eyes stared ahead, emotionless, unreadable.
Lilian swallowed her food quickly. "Good evening, Lyric," she greeted softly.
No reply. Just the soft thud of heavy boots fading as Lyric walked out of the villa and into the parking lot. Lilian didn't need a response to know—someone was going to die tonight.
Outside, rows of luxury cars gleamed under the moonlight—Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Rolls-Royces, and a custom black Bentley—but Lyric didn't spare them a glance. Her steps carried her straight to a covered stand at the far end. It was her personal collection of bikes.
There were six in total. A crimson Ducati Panigale V4, a matte green Kawasaki Ninja, a stealth silver Yamaha R1, a ghost-white BMW S1000RR, a glowing gold Harley-Davidson, and a sleek all-black custom Ducati—a monster of a machine. That was the one she chose.
She swung her leg over it, black leather gloves already on her hands, and started the engine. The deep growl of the bike pierced the night like a war cry. In seconds, she was gone, weaving through the sleeping city with impossible speed.
But she wasn't alone for long.
From the rearview mirror, Lyric noticed multiple cars on her tail—black tinted SUVs trying hard to stay hidden. She sighed and pulled out her phone with one hand, dialing swiftly.
"Lilian Garcia," she said coldly, her voice carried by the wind.
Behind her, the SUVs picked up speed. She smirked.
Lyric tilted her bike, dodging a close hit, her movements smooth like water. She cut through a side street, made a sharp U-turn between two narrow buildings, then backflipped the bike over a low wall, landing in front of a dimly lit alley.
Tires screeched. The SUVs stopped.
One by one, several well-dressed men stepped out, weapons hidden but visible beneath their suits. Then, a man and a woman emerged from the second car. Both dropped to one knee and bowed their heads.
"Boss," they said in unison.
Lyric stayed silent, removing her helmet slowly. Her eyes were sharp as glass.
"Who told you to follow me?" she asked, voice low, dangerous.
"Miss Lilian," Elana whispered, her head still down.
Lyric didn't respond immediately. She tilted her head, then finally spoke.
"I'm going to the Vulture's Nest."
The name sent a ripple of unease through the group.
"There's a bastard who needs to die tonight."
No one dared argue. They simply nodded. As she mounted her bike again, Elana and Fred exhaled the breaths they hadn't realized they'd been holding. You never look Lyric in the eyes when she's serious. Never.
------
VULTURE'S NEST.
The club pulsed like a heartbeat. Bright red lights, booming basslines, and the scent of sin thick in the air.
Lyric parked her bike out front, adjusted her mask, and strode into the chaos. Inside, the stench of sweat, drugs, and lust mingled in a suffocating cloud. Bodies danced and ground against each other, some barely clothed. Guards watched from all corners. Prostitutes whispered deals in dark booths. In the back, shipments of drugs passed hands openly, like it was a market.
She hated this place.
She blended into the shadows, becoming one with the darkness. No one noticed her. She scanned the crowd, eyes sharp and calculating.
Then she saw him—Senator Malcolm Drayce.
Fat, smug, surrounded by desperate women clinging to his arms. He laughed, flashing gold teeth. He was about to head upstairs. Probably for one of his infamous private sessions.
Lyric followed silently, keeping her steps light. Two guards blocked her path.
"Who are you?" one barked.
"She sent me," Lyric replied smoothly. "I'm his new pleasure."
They hesitated, then stepped aside. The kill had already begun.
Inside the luxurious private suite, he sat on a couch like a king. Gold chains, rings, tattoos.
"You're not the usual girl," he frowned.
Lyric removed her jacket, revealing more of her black attire. "I'm not."
"Leave us," she said to the other girls.
The senator waved his hand dismissively. The girls scurried away.
"Who the hell are—?"
"Devil," she whispered.
His eyes went wide. The color drained from his face. "No… no, it's not possible. You're just a myth!"
She removed her mask, revealing that strange, beautiful smile.
He pissed himself instantly.
"Please," he whimpered. "I didn't mean to steal your goods. I didn't know it was yours. If I'd known—"
"But you did," Lyric interrupted gently.
The room was soundproof. No one could hear him scream.
She took out her knife, sleek and curved like a predator's fang.
The smile never left her face as she stabbed him in the gut. Slowly. Deliberately.
His screams were muffled as she covered his mouth with gloved hands. She didn't kill him quickly. No, she made him feel everything. She carved out each piece of flesh like a work of art. The knife never hesitated.
"Do you know what it feels like to be orphaned?" she whispered in his ear. "To starve for days, to sleep with rats, while you sit on stolen wealth?"
Blood splashed the walls. His heart was the last to go. She cradled it like a jewel, wrapping it in soft silk. Her treasure.
She cleaned herself only slightly, pulled her mask back on, and leaped from the third-floor window.
She landed like a shadow. Graceful. Untouched. Precious heart in hand.
She mounted her bike and sped off into the night.
-----
Back at the Villa.
Lilian was pacing.
She had tried calling Lyric three times. No answer.
Her heart thumped louder than her footsteps. She kept checking the time. 10:40 p.m.
Then came the distant hum of a bike approaching. Lilian rushed to the window.
Lyric pulled in slowly. Her boots hit the ground. Her body was stained with blood. A small bag, dripping crimson, dangled from her hand.
Lilian gasped and took a step back.
"Why did you call Elana and Fred?" Lyric's voice sliced through the silence.
Lilian's knees buckled. Her vision blurred.
"I—I was scared. I thought—" she stammered.
"Don't ever do it again," Lyric said coldly.
Lilian bowed her head, whispering a rushed apology, and darted into the elevator, heading for the second floor, her heart pounding against her ribs like a drum.
Lyric watched her disappear. Then, she smiled.
That terrifying, beautiful smile.
She turned, cradling the heart like it was made of glass, and stepped into the elevator. She pressed the button for the third floor.
The floor no one ever dared enter.
And the elevator doors closed behind her—swallowing her in darkness.