The notification sounds from Phoebe's laptop came faster than raindrops in a storm. Each ping meant another assassin had read my declaration of war. Each chime represented another killer who wanted my blood.
"Sixty-three acceptances now," Phoebe reported, her voice tight with tension. "Some of these are A-rank operatives."
I leaned against the window frame, watching the city lights twinkle below. "Is that supposed to scare me?"
"It should terrify you. A-rank assassins don't take contracts lightly. When they accept, they deliver."
The laptop chimed again. And again.
"Seventy-one." Phoebe's fingers flew across the keyboard, tracking the responses. "Wait. This is different."
"What?"
"Someone just posted a counter-message. It's not accepting your challenge. It's mocking it."
I moved behind her chair to read the screen. A new post had appeared below mine, highlighted in red to indicate high-priority communication.
