The city was a smear of neon and wet pavement.
Esme moved through the shadows like breath through a garden—silent, scented, unseen. The hem of her coat kissed her calves as she stepped into the alley behind El Sagrario, a high-end bar with a dark reputation and a revolving VIP list that could make a priest weep.
Mateo Lopez was the first on that list.
And tonight, he was hers.
She'd been tracking him for weeks—following whispers, payoffs, buried court transcripts, and bruises the law didn't bother to photograph. Mateo was the kind of man who wore charm like armor, and pain like perfume—left it on everyone he touched.
Esme crouched behind a dumpster, breath low, gaze steady.
Mateo emerged from the bar's back door in a rush of laughter and cologne, dragging a girl—no more than nineteen—by the elbow. Her eyes were wide, wet, shimmering with the kind of fear that made Esme's pulse go flat.
"Come on, bebita," Mateo coaxed, voice smooth as honey spilled on tile. "Don't get dramatic. I said it'd just be drinks. You're the one who leaned in."
"I said no—" the girl started, but he clamped her wrist.
"Now's not the time for morals," he growled.
And Esme saw it.
The switch in him. The tilt of dominance. The certainty of someone who'd done this before.
Something inside her went very still.
She didn't move. Not yet.
Mateo shoved the girl against the alley wall, his voice low and venomous. "Don't scream. No one hears screams here."
He was right.
But he didn't know who was listening.
Esme rose slowly from her crouch, the scent of bruised mint and metal rising with her. Her gloves were already on. Her tools tucked in the lining of her coat.
She didn't need to think.
She had already made the decision when she read his case file.
This?
This was confirmation.
She stepped forward—silent as frost.
The girl caught sight of her first. Her breath stuttered. Mateo turned, irritated.
"What the—?"
"I suggest you let go of her," Esme said calmly.
He squinted, drunk but not dull. "Who the hell are you?"
"A warning."
She didn't raise her voice.
Didn't need to.
Mateo stepped toward her. "You got a badge in that coat? 'Cause unless you're undercover, sweetheart, you're outta your lane."
Esme tilted her head. "You think law is the only thing that carries weight?"
He sneered. "What, you his sister? His girlfriend?"
She took another step. "I'm no one's sister. And I'm certainly not his type."
He lunged then, grabbing her arm.
Mistake.
Esme moved like memory—fast, fluid, already five steps ahead. Her elbow slammed into his throat, followed by a twist of the wrist that had him on his knees before he could shout.
"Still feeling in control?" she whispered.
Mateo wheezed. "Bitch."
She leaned close. "Your word choice is outdated. So is your luck."
The girl behind him had run—good.
Esme pressed something against his neck.
A pinprick. Nothing more.
He froze.
"Don't worry," she said softly. "I'm not going to kill you tonight."
He looked at her—eyes wide, confusion eating into the alcohol haze.
"Why—why not?"
"Because I want you to feel it first," she said. "Every time your heart races. Every time your breath stutters. You'll wonder: Did she dose me already? Am I dying now?"
She let go. Stepped back.
Mateo scrambled to his feet, shaking. "You're insane."
"No." Her voice was ice. "I'm remembering what the world forgets."
She turned her back on him and walked away into the dark, her footsteps swallowed by the alley's silence.
——————————————————
Hours Later — Everflora
Esme sat on the floor of the greenhouse, back against the cool tile. Her gloves were off. Her fingers stained faintly with foxglove extract.
She hadn't gone through with the kill.
Not yet.
She wanted him to sweat first. To spiral.
Sometimes fear was more instructive than death.
But the ledger still waited on her workbench.
Mateo's name, circled in violet.
Her pen hovered.
Cross it out?
Or leave it.
Esme didn't know which part of her wanted closure… and which part wanted the anticipation.
She was reaching for the ink when her phone buzzed once.
A single message.
Unknown Number:
"You were so close. Tick tock, honey. Time is not on your side"
Her blood ran cold.
She stared at the screen.
Then the message disappeared. Vanished like breath from a mirror.
No trace. No thread to pull.
But the meaning was clear:
Whoever sent the list was watching her. Someone with eyes. Access. Intent.
They were getting impatient, and she couldn't risk it.
Esme stood slowly, her coat already in her hand.
Because if someone was threatening her secret, and crossing into her garden—
She wasn't going to be stupid enough to test them.