The sun was sinking, spilling a burnt-orange glow over the skyline. This side of the city pulsed with life, neon signs flickered on, street vendors called out their wares, and traffic snarled in every direction.
A small, forgettable car rolled to a stop in front of a cake shop, directly across the street from the most luxurious hotel in the district: Zilla Five-Star, its glass façade glittering like a jewel. Valets in pressed uniforms ushered sleek cars to the curb, and the revolving doors spun endlessly with guests draped in wealth.
From the car, a tall, broad figure stepped out, Raymond. True to his nature, he was dressed in loud colors, designer chains hanging against his chest, each step radiating careless confidence.
He sauntered down the street toward a coffee stall, buying himself a drink and idling just long enough to be seen. Moments later, he crossed toward Zilla's glowing entrance.
In the driver's seat, Craig slouched behind the wheel. If you didn't know him very well before you'd miss him completely. His cheap jacket, weary eyes, and bored expression made him look exactly like what he was pretending to be, a burned-out taxi driver waiting for his next fare. Beneath that disguise, though, was a master of infiltration. Without looking at her, he slipped a small object into Winter's hand: a silver-green ring that shimmered faintly under the fading light.
"As long as it's near the lock," he murmured, his voice flat, "the door will open."
Winter slid the ring into her finger casually. Her face was calm, unreadable, the mask of someone who had worn deception her whole life. She opened the car door, the evening air brushing against her skin, and walked toward the cake shop opposite the hotel.
Inside, the smell of sugar and fresh bread mingled with coffee. She wore the guise of a woman returning from a casual evening outing, a fitted jacket over her sportswear, hair tied back in a neat ponytail, the faint sheen of sweat making her appear just another city socialite stopping for dessert.
She ordered a slice of chocolate cake and sat by the window, her eyes fixed absently on the television mounted on the wall. The broadcast was loud, another debate over the blockade in the Southern Corridor, but Winter's mind was far from politics.
That was, until a voice pierced her focus.
"This will lead to war if the Varlon refuses" a woman at the next table said to her companion.
The man chuckled darkly. "Anglora will win this time. As long as there aren't traitors like Major General Isaac and his wife…"
Winter's hand moved before her mind could. Her fork darted out, aimed at the man's hand with precise fury. By sheer luck or fate he leaned aside at that very moment to reach for a napkin. The fork struck the wooden table instead, quivering upright.
The couple froze. Shocked eyes turned on her.
Winter forced her features to soften. She gave them a small, apologetic smile, as if the fork had slipped by accident.
In her ear, Raymond's voice crackled through the comms. "Target's moved to the east wing. Passage clear."
Winter rose swiftly, abandoning her cake. She murmured a polite "sorry" to the couple and slipped toward the bathroom, their eyes following her until she disappeared from sight.
---
The nightlife outside Zilla was a display of wealth and power. Cars gleamed beneath the lights, music drifted from the hotel bar, and laughter spilled onto the street. Winter reemerged, but she was no longer the casual woman from the cake shop.
Now she was dressed as a socialite. Her hair was styled, her dress an elegant evening black that whispered of old money. She carried herself with practiced ease, as though she belonged in the glittering world of Zilla's clientele.
She strode to the reception desk, signed under a false name, and secured herself a room. From there, she walked with measured grace to the elevator.
"Now," she muttered.
In the hotel's security room, monitors flickered. To the untrained eye, nothing unusual had happened but in truth, every camera blinked out, just for a heartbeat.
The elevator chimed softly. Winter stepped out on her floor, but instead of turning west toward the room she'd booked, she moved north.
Her footsteps were steady, echoing faintly in the plush-carpeted hallway. She paused before an unmarked door. The silver knob gleamed beneath the soft lights.
She brushed the emerald ring against it.
The lock gave way with a soft click. No ceremony. No warning.
Winter pushed the door open and stepped inside.