S-2879 • L11 Irraluna • D16 Tramili
(eq. Gregorian calendar, 03/02/2135)
"Irraluna radiates fully risen light above. Tramili weaves the return in a gentle thread. The tide draws silver in a living curve. The story moves whole, in deep brilliance."
Trix held the cigarette between her lips and took a long drag.
Then she adjusted the sniper rifle against the ground.
A snowstorm concealed her on the hill, flakes brushing her pale skin, yet the cold barely registered.
In the Maiden, seven moons after the blood, Trix breathed the horizon—thin, sharp, a promise of germination.
Her body still carried the memory of retreat, but it already shimmered with the clarity rising from the blizzard.
The scope was fixed on him—direct and inescapable.
The man's forehead sat perfectly at the center of the target as he spoke with that guy—his right hand.
Of course.
Because he was smiling. And he only smiled with that bastard.
Only with him.
No one else.
She dragged too hard.
Coughed.
Pulled her hands away from the rifle to steady the cigarette.
Fuck.
She sent the command to the nanites implanted in her eyes.
In an instant, the scope projected into a hologram before her.
She moved slightly from side to side, her eyes locked onto his every motion.
The rifle responded instantly, mirroring every tilt of his head and every gesture, as if it could see on its own.
They made sure she would always hit her target.
Her eyes would see everything and everyone—
and her bullets would pierce every single one of them.
Trix and the weapon were one;
the only thing that would always meet her expectations—
and never miss.
I See You. That was its name.
Would that shit ever end?
The thought surfaced, persistent.
She always pushed it away.
She hated that life, yet there was a certain pleasure in hunting her millionaire targets in Zenith—
men whose public lives were built on her back.
But sometimes, she wondered:
What would it be like to be in their place?
Living in the shadows could be exhausting.
Did their father screw them over too?
Her vision zoomed in, focusing on the figure seated at the table—her father.
Papers scattered around him.
He held a financial report of the Vorovskoy mir—
numbers worth more than lives.
Trix zoomed further into the documents.
She couldn't care less about that shit.
Truth was, she never had.
Only blood paid for scars.
What irritated her was hearing him repeat, endlessly, that she would be the next to carry the Vorovskoy mir—
and that she should obey.
She obeyed.
He lied.
They hurt her.
Trix took another drag and closed her eyes, letting the memories flow.
She felt every scar carved into her.
She wanted to be sure that the last drop of that blood would spill—
And with it, every pain he had inflicted on her.
And it would.