Celina stood in the room her father used for dispatches. It was sterile, cold, a place where orders were given and plans were born. Not a trace of comfort in the steel walls or polished black floors. The only sign that this mission was hers was the outfit laid carefully on the leather armchair near the window.
Black. Everything was black. Tight-fitting leather pants, a jacket that hugged her frame, and gloves made of the same supple material. The gloves were placed atop the pile like a final touch—one she hadn't dared put on yet.
"You'll need to wear them," Halworth had said earlier, not looking her in the eye. "Your mother had them tailored. She said you shouldn't leave fingerprints."
That detail made her stomach twist. This wasn't some errand. This was a message. A warning. And she was the delivery.
She reached for the gloves now, sliding her hands in slowly. The fit was perfect—of course it was. Her mother thought of everything. She flexed her fingers, the leather creaking softly. She felt like a puppet dressed for a role she didn't ask for.
But she didn't take them off.
The door opened with a quiet click behind her.
She didn't turn around. She didn't need to. The air shifted. Thickened.
"Celina," her father's voice rumbled, calm as always.
She turned. And froze.
He wasn't alone.
Behind him stood a man—taller than she remembered, broader, older. His face had hardened, matured, but the grin tugging at his lips was achingly familiar.
"Ismael," she breathed.
He bowed slightly. "Miss Celina."
Her father watched them both with unreadable eyes. "He will accompany you. For your safety."
Celina blinked. "I don't need—"
"You do," her father cut in. "You will begin training after this mission. It's long overdue."
Ismael stepped forward. The faint scar on his right temple stood out against his tan skin, a grim reminder of the night he took a bullet for her father. A night Celina barely remembered, though the story was told often.
His eyes flicked down to her gloves, then back to her face. "You look ready," he said.
She gave him a look. "You look… different."
"Good different?"
"Like someone who's spent too long playing soldier."
He chuckled. "It's the job."
"Right. So what are you now—guard dog or spy?"
"Hmm... I don't know," he chuckles. But his eyes said otherwise.
She glanced sideways at him. "When did you come back from Russia?"
Ismael just shrugged, looking out the window like the question barely mattered. But she knew it did. She knew he was dodging and that told her everything she needed to know.
They left shortly after. The ride was quiet, tense. She barely glanced at him.
Finally, he said, "You haven't asked where we're going."
"I already know."
"Erik."
She clenched her jaw. "Did you know?"
Ismael didn't answer. Just looked at her knowingly.
That was enough.
"Of course," she muttered. "You were the eyes and ears."
"Celina—"
She didn't answer.
And Ismael stopped talking as well.
The car stopped outside a quiet property on the edge of the city. His place. She hadn't been here since she was a teenager. A different life.
Ismael led her in without a word, a black box clutched in his gloved hand. Through the narrow hall, into a small concrete room with a single chair in the center.
Erik sat there, hands tied behind his back. Face bruised. Lip split.
He looked up.
And smiled. "Celina."
Her heart dropped. Not because of fear. But because some part of her remembered.
She stepped forward.
"Don't," Ismael warned, but she didn't listen.
Erik's eyes flicked past her, recognition flaring.
"Ismael?" he said with a weak laugh. "You?"
Celina saw red. Her father had been right all along—Erik knew too much. And the way he said Ismael's name, the familiarity in his voice, it made her stomach turn. He hadn't just found his way into her life by accident. He had known. About her family. About who she was. The realization twisted into something hotter than betrayal. Her father had been watching, waiting. And now she understood why.
Without a word, she spun—and delivered a perfect high kick. It slammed into Erik's jaw, sending him sprawling sideways onto the floor, still in the folded chair. A dull thud echoed as he skidded.
Ismael let out a low whistle behind her, clearly impressed. His quiet laugh wasn't mocking—it was surprised, almost admiring. "Remind me never to get on your bad side," he murmured.
She stepped over Erik, heart pounding, the echo of his plea already fading.
"My father has a message," she said coldly. "This is your last warning."
Ismael placed the small box beside Erik, his expression unreadable. He didn't open it. "Let the Chings collect their broken toy," he muttered under his breath, not bothering to hide the contempt.
Celina didn't want to know what was inside.
Erik looked up, coughing blood. "Celina, help me.... please." he croaked, desperation coating every word. He struggled against his restraints, his voice rising, cracking. "Celina, please. You love me. You said—"
She froze, eyes narrowing.
"I was real with you," he begged. "Whatever you think you know, whatever they told you, I didn't mean to hurt you. You loved me. You still do. Don't let them turn you into this."
She crouched, her lip curling. "No. I used to believe you."
The words came out like venom. Everything about him, his pleading eyes, his cracked voice, the way he dared to invoke her love, it disgusted her. There was no remorse in him, only fear. And manipulation. The same brand he'd used before. But not this time. Not anymore.
He tried to speak, but she cut him off. "Don't ever show your face again. If you do… I'll kill you myself."
She stood, turned, and walked out.
Ismael followed a beat later, silent but smiling faintly.
In the car, she didn't speak. Not until they were far enough away.
She wanted to cry. Not for Erik—but for everything that had shattered overnight. But not here. Not in front of Ismael.
"You were impressive," he said. "Jiu-jitsu?"
"Father made me train."
"Smart man."
She leaned her head against the window, gritting her teeth as she fought hard against the tears threatening to spill. The ache behind her eyes pulsed, but she refused to let it show. Not now. Not in front of Ismael.
The gloves were still on.
She didn't feel like taking them off yet.