Past midnight, out on the open water, a luxury cruise ship drifted under a gauzy veil of cloud.
Inside, light spilled and music swelled. Out on the deck, it was all hush and shadow—the steady breath of the sea and nothing else.
A blonde girl sat alone at the railing, watching the moon blur behind thin, gray weather. Beautiful, yes—razor-fine features, milk‑pale skin, curves that drew eyes, and a mane of sultry waves—but colder than the wind off the water.
Few knew her for what she really was: the killer the underground whispered about, Blood Rose.
Fewer still knew she was sixty seconds from making her move.
And then—
Knock, knock, knock.
Footsteps. An ordinary-looking Asian kid in a waiter's vest ambled over, carrying a small, polished wooden box. He had the wide-open smile of someone who'd never scared a soul in his life.
"Miss," he said, easy and polite, "a gentleman asked me to pass you something."
Her brows ticked. She didn't bother masking her disinterest.
With her face, she'd long ago learned to ignore a hundred cheap pickup tricks a night. If a man didn't even have the spine to come up himself, he wasn't worth a second thought.
She lifted a pale hand—dismissal, cool and effortless. "Take it back. Or toss it overboard."
"He said if you look inside, you won't refuse," the kid replied, still smiling as he flipped the box open.
She was already losing patience. Seen it all before—trust‑fund boys flashing jewels they thought could buy any woman in sight. Cute theory. One job fee from her could buy out half their family.
She raised her hand to slap the box into the dark, until—
She saw what lay inside.
A diamond.
Common enough, right?
Except this one was at least the size of a quail egg.
Not common at all.
It was a deep, lucid blue, skin of light on stone, gleaming even in the dim. It looked alive.
"The Heart of the Ocean?" she breathed, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
She wasn't wrong. She couldn't be wrong. This was one of her objectives.
Kill the target. Take the Heart of the Ocean. That was the job.
Except—
Why was it here? In a waiter's hands?
Her body snapped tight. One toe pressed, she sprang; left hand flashed and a matte-black dagger slid into her palm—
"Caught on yet? Shame… you're a beat too slow."
The kid's smile shed its innocence, turning sly. His hand was somehow already at her shoulder; he tapped a spot at the base of her neck—
The world went black. Her knees gave. Thought scattered like sand.
"For an assassin, carelessness is fatal," his voice drifted as she fell.
"That guy, Philo? Already dead. I need his head to close out my end. Sorry. As compensation, the Heart of the Ocean's yours."
"Don't thank me. Call me Good Samaritan."
She heard that last part like a prayer through cotton—and dropped all the way under.
—
She woke to daylight.
She was in her cabin. Through the window, she could see the ship had docked; most passengers were already gone.
On the nightstand, the same little wooden box sat open, the blue diamond winking in its cradle.
The memory of last night rushed back, leaving her eyes tight and complicated.
Then heat rose—pride, and a sting of fury.
She was not a girl who took losses lying down.
"Whoever you are… I'll find you," she whispered. "And I'll kill you."
But even she heard it—a softness in the words, a kill promise not quite sharpened.
…
A day later.
High in the American mountains, smoke curling past a battered cabin, an old man sat cross‑legged, nursing a pipe.
Jason Hale pushed through the door with a canvas bundle and dropped it at the old man's feet.
Thud.
The old man cut him a sideways look. "Kid, you get more rude every year."
He said it, but his hands were already on the bundle. He flipped open the wooden box inside—and stared at a freshly severed head, the face twisted in a rictus.
He barely blinked. "And the other thing?"
"Gave it away," Jason said, palms up, pure innocence.
Three veins popped in the old man's forehead. He swore with feeling. "You money‑burning brat! Do you have any clue what the Heart of the Ocean is worth? You could buy yourself truckloads of rolls with that!"
"Whoa—serious?" Jason's eyes went wide. "Why didn't you say so?"
The old man sighed, long and put‑upon. "Forget it. I never expected you to bring it back."
He stood, crossed to a cabinet, and pulled out a thick stack of papers. He set them in front of Jason. "Rest tonight. Tomorrow you're heading down the mountain."
Jason froze. "Hey! C'mon, old man—seriously? I just got back. Also, we had a deal: finish this job and I retire. I stay up here, eat for free, and get extra rolls. You can't just move the goalposts."
A crafty smile wrinkled the old man's face. "I said you'd retire. I never said you get to rot up here. You're the only male left in our line. If you don't go down and plant the flag—grow the house—who will?"
"Grow the house? What are you even talking about?" Jason blinked.
The old man chuckled and tapped the stack. "Look."
Jason looked—and went still.
"Betrothal."
Two big block letters across the top.
He flipped the first page, then the next—and swore. "You've gotta be kidding me."
They were exactly what they looked like: marriage contracts.
Each one named him—Jason Hale—as the groom. Each one named a different bride.
"In Harbor City, a few old-timers owed this master healer their lives," the old man said, chest out. "As payback, I asked each for a formal betrothal. As long as you agree, you can pick any of their granddaughters."
"Are you insane? It's the twenty-first century. Arranged marriage? Hard pass." Jason shook his head hard, the picture of principled youth.
"Oh?" The old man's eyes narrowed, smile sharpening. "You could refuse. But I should mention—their granddaughters are all drop-dead gorgeous."
Jason snorted. "So? I'm not that easy."
The old man's smile died. He almost choked.
This kid wouldn't even bite for beauties?
He sighed again, deeper. Time for the nuclear option.
"What if I told you," he said slowly, "their families have more rolls than you could ever eat?"
"Deal!"
Jason tossed his principles in the fire without a backward glance.
…
Years ago, in a whiteout blizzard—
A small boy, stomach empty and face gray, huddled by a dumpster and a brick wall. Behind the wall, a lit window glowed. Warmth and the smell of food spilled out into the night.
None of it was his.
It only made him hungrier. Colder. His thoughts thinned to nothing.
Then someone appeared and held something out.
A plain, white roll, still warm, not yet claimed by winter air.
It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
In his mind, it was the most expensive food in the world.
He never had another. His mentor dragged him up into the mountains not long after.
Even now—
Turns out, in this world, only hamburger never lets you down.