Title: The Man with the Red Quarter Moon*
Mika sighed, her heels clicking steadily against the pavement as she approached the massive, sleek building. The exterior shimmered with a faint golden glow from the lights wrapped around every arch and edge. Music, laughter, and the heavy thud of bass spilled from inside.
"The owner must be a multi-billionaire," she muttered under her breath, flicking a loose curl off her cheek.
It made sense. No wonder her sponsors were offering $50 million. But the task? Ridiculous.
"Kill a man with no name. No face. No digital footprint. Just... a tattoo?"* She scoffed.
A red quarter moon on his chest. That was all the description she had.
She stood now at the front of the extravagant mansion, dressed like an Egyptian princess—gold neckpiece, flowing satin gown, arms decorated in black henna-like designs. Her eyes were lined thick, lashes fluttering like raven wings. She looked like royalty. Dangerous royalty.
Her reflection in the glass doors made her pause. She looked powerful. But inside, uncertainty crept.
"Am I going to sleep with every man in this party?" she mumbled, rolling her eyes.
The thought disgusted her—but she smiled right after.
*She was crazy.*
That's what made her the best.
She didn't plan on doing anything that drastic, but she *had* to get close enough to check men's chests.
*What kind of mission is this?*
She gritted her teeth.
*"Fifty million isn't pocket change... it's fifty million."*
She smirked. "And I'm wild. I can do anything."
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that this mission was absurd. Assassinating someone based on a *tattoo*? What if he had it removed? What if it was painted on someone else?
Her thoughts were drowned by the sudden burst of music from the grand hall.
*"Gasolina" by Daddy Yankee.*
The irony wasn't lost on her.
She walked in.
The moment she stepped onto the marble floors, a thick wave of energy wrapped around her. The air was charged—not with electricity, but something else. *Magnetism. Power. Familiarity.*
She stiffened. Her skin prickled.
She knew this feeling.
Only one person had ever made her feel like this.
*Jordan.*
Her eyes scanned the crowd—partygoers in tailored tuxedos, women in designer gowns, laughter, clinking glasses, and wild dancing. It looked like a party for royalty.
But that aura.
She knew it even with her eyes closed.
*Jordan.*
They grew up in chaos—on the violent edges of a forgotten city where sirens were lullabies and smoke from gunfire replaced the morning fog. No one survived that neighborhood with sanity.
But they had each other.
Jordan, the boy who carried fire in his bones. Silent but fierce. Feared by many. Respected by all. He was a natural-born leader, even as a kid. He wasn't a saint—he had a rage that could level buildings—but Mika always saw the control behind it.
She used to be calm. Naïve. But the streets hardened her. Killed that version. Replaced it with something darker.
One day, Jordan vanished. She thought he was dead. Gone with the ashes of their childhood.
But now...
"Jordan!" she called out, cutting through the crowd like a blade.
Heads turned, but only one pair of eyes mattered.
He was leaning casually against the bar, dressed in a black suit with no tie, shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease a glimpse of his chest. His gaze was sharper than glass. Older. Colder. But unmistakably him.
He didn't smile.
But something in his expression cracked.
Recognition.
He didn't move. Neither did she.
Ten feet of space, a thousand memories between them.
He walked to her slowly, each step deliberate. The crowd seemed to fade. The music dulled. There was only them.