“Yeah?” Victor chuckled, stepping closer until his shadow fell across her. He bent at the waist, eyes glinting. “Strange…because my intel says otherwise.” He pulled a folder from the table, flipping the pages with exaggerated care. “Night Owl. Real name: Scarlett Draven. Taken in by Ryan at sixteen. Since then, his deadliest weapon—”
His gaze flicked to the next line and a grin spread. “And his lover. You keep him warm at night, too, huh?”
Scarlett’s fury boiled over. She twisted hard, lashing out with a kick aimed at his chest.
Victor caught her ankle mid-air, twisted and slammed her down.
“Not bad,” he murmured, pressing closer, tone dropping to a rasp. “You’ve got skill, little cat. Such a waste that you worked for Ryan. Why not work for me instead?”
“Dream on.”
Scarlett spat the words, then grabbed the gun at his hip, yanked it free and pressed the barrel to his temple. She pulled the trigger—but only a hollow click answered.
Her stomach dropped. She pivoted and ran.
Victor straightened slowly, dusting his sleeve. His voice was cold steel.
“Catch her.”
***
They bound her to a bed in a dim room, her veins sluggish with the drug they'd forced into her. Chains bit into her wrists as Victor stepped closer.
Scarlett fought to lift her head, her lips trembling. “Kill me… please, just kill me.”
He smiled, calm yet ice-cold. “Where’s the fun in that?”
His gaze dragged over her as he spoke. “No. I want you alive. I want you to feel every second that follows.”
He flicked his hand toward the guards. The ceiling camera fixed on her torn body; the earpiece still clung to her ear. She had waited for Ryan’s voice—until strangers ripped her suit apart and pain swallowed her whole. Through the blur of tears, the truth struck her like a blade: she had been abandoned.
She lost track of how many hands claimed her. Numbers had always been her ally, her weapon, but now even counting slipped away into chaos. Someone laughed, zipping his pants, his voice grating, “Thought Night Owl ought to be special. Turns out just another lousy, bed-warmer.”
They treated her like a trophy, claiming her piece by piece. Scarlett lay limp against the sheets, staring through hazy vision at the moon beyond the window. Not once did she beg. Not once did she cry.