Mirelle waited in the hush of midnight, as motionless as a shadow drawn in ink. The alley was a narrow corridor of darkness between silent buildings, and the air tasted of cold iron. Her back pressed lightly against a damp brick wall, she closed her eyes for a moment and listened. Slow breath in, slow breath out—each inhalation measured to the count of her heartbeat. In the distance, a neon sign buzzed softly, but here in this pocket of darkness there was only the soft drip of water from a gutter and the steady whisper of her own breath.

  She opened her eyes. In her gloved hand she felt the reassuring weight of the knife. It was a modest blade, blackened steel that reflected no light, an extension of her will and her certainty. She had long since learned to anchor herself in such tactile details: the ridges of the handle pressing into her palm, the subtle balance that made it a natural extension of her arm. Her body was ready—loose where it needed to be loose, coiled where it needed tension. A measured calmness within her limbs. There was no tremor in her fingers. There was only the quiet hum of focus that settled over her like a mantle.

  Anticipation sharpened her senses. Every detail of the night seemed etched in crystal clarity. The chill of the night air tickled the fine hairs on her forearms and the back of her neck, but she did not shiver; she welcomed the cold as a reminder that she was fully alive in this moment. Above, the sliver of a moon hung silver and distant, and a few weak stars peered out. Their light did not reach down here. Instead, a faint amber glow from a far streetlamp stretched long shadows across the alley’s mouth. Mirelle inhaled again, catching the scent of rain that had fallen hours before, a dampness that clung to the pavement and mingled with the distant hint of gasoline and the decaying leaves somewhere near. She could even smell a trace of her target’s cologne before she heard his footsteps.

  He was coming. Right on time.

  Mirelle’s heartbeat remained steady as she caught the sound of approaching footsteps. The cadence was unhurried, each step falling with the careless confidence of someone who believed himself alone in the night. He was oblivious. She had observed him for days—his habits, his routes, the particular way he flicked ash off the end of his cigarette when he lingered outside the pub at closing time. He was predictable, almost comforting in his routine. Even so, she never allowed familiarity to breed contempt. No matter how certain the pattern, she treated each encounter as singular—unrepeatable. The time to act would be soon, and in these last few seconds of waiting, she felt a strange, meditative stillness wash over her. It was in these moments—balanced on the knife’s edge between decision and action—that she often felt most clear, a still point in the turning world.

  One footstep after another drew nearer. Mirelle eased forward from the wall, each movement as soundless as the darkness around her. Her muscles responded fluidly, with an economy of movement honed by years of necessity. A slow exhale through her nose kept her grounded, kept her present. She slid into the deeper shadow behind a large trash bin, eyes tracking the tall outline now at the alley’s entrance. The man paused there briefly, a backlit silhouette against the faint light, perhaps checking his phone or lighting a last cigarette. He did not see her. He did not sense anything amiss.

  In that pause, Mirelle studied him with a cool, detached patience. She noted the slight slump of his shoulders after a long day, the way his free hand rested casually in his coat pocket. He was at ease, unworried—living his final moments utterly unaware. There was a curious intimacy in observing someone at the threshold of oblivion, she thought. To see him this way, alive and full of careless small habits, knowing that in mere moments all of it would cease. His life was a story about to end, and she was the quiet author of its final sentence. There was no hatred in her, no anger. Only a somber certainty that this ending must be written.

  He stepped forward into the alley, and she moved with him, a phantom gliding just out of sight. The faint tip of his cigarette glowed orange as he raised it to his lips, illuminating a slice of his face in profile—the sharp line of a cheekbone, the gaunt hollow beneath. Mirelle’s breathing slowed even more, a conscious settling of every nerve. Time telescoped in her perception; seconds felt elongated, as if the universe itself held its breath with her. She was close enough now to hear the faint intake of his breath through the filter, to see the flicker of smoke exhaled and snatched away by the night breeze. With each quiet step she closed the distance, and nothing in her moved except what needed to move.

  When she struck, it was with the inevitability of a law of nature, as calm and sudden as gravity. In a single fluid motion, her free hand reached out to clamp over his mouth, and the other drove the knife forward. The blade slid in beneath the rib cage, through the neat gap she had visualised countless times, seeking his heart. Flesh yielded to steel; there was a brief, hot resistance, then the knife found its terminus deep inside. The impact reverberated up her arm—a muted shock, quickly absorbed by her steady grip. His body jerked once, a spasm of

  surprise more than struggle. The cigarette tumbled from his fingers to the wet ground, hissing as its ember died.

  He made a sound against her gloved palm, a wet, stifled gasp that was more air than voice. Mirelle held him firmly, feeling the frantic thrum of his heartbeat under her forearm pressed against his chest. It was astonishing, in a way, how strong and fragile the human body was—how it could fight so fiercely for each second of life, yet how quickly it succumbed when the internal cords that held it together were cut. His hands flew to her arm, to the knife, reflexively trying to pull away the source of mortal pain. He found no purchase. Her hold was steady, mercifully sure. She was careful to angle him backward, away from her, so that as his knees buckled she could guide him silently to the ground. To onlookers—were there any in this deserted midnight alley—it might have looked almost like an embrace, a lover’s rendezvous in the shadows.

  Lowering him, Mirelle felt the warmth of his blood begin to seep through his shirt and over her knuckles. The heat was vivid against the cold night, and she was briefly aware of the rich metallic scent of it mingling with the night's damp air. He stared up at her with eyes wide in shock and disbelief, pupils vast in the darkness. She met his gaze only for a moment. There was no gloating in her expression, no enmity—only a profound, impenetrable calm. In that locked gaze she witnessed the flicker of his consciousness, the primal recognition of death. She had seen it before—that fleeting moment when a living being realizes the boundary between worlds has already been crossed. It always struck her how quiet it was. Not just the hush of the alley, but the hush that seemed to descend on the very soul.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  His heartbeat, which she had felt racing, began to falter against her. A series of weakening flutters. His grip on her arm slackened, became a mere touch, then nothing at all. He was sinking, eyes losing their focus. A final shudder ran through him, a ripple of effort as if his body sought one last time to reverse the irreversible. Then the tension drained away. The weight in her arms changed—he was no longer a man standing in struggle, but a heavy, inert thing slumping toward the ground. The transition was complete. Life to non-life, in the space of a whispered breath.

  Mirelle gently eased the blade free, twisting slightly to minimise the sound and damage. The body made a soft, almost polite sigh as it settled onto the alley floor. She knelt there for a moment, lowering his head onto the concrete. The eyes that had met hers were now glassy, reflecting nothing of the world. A thin stream of blood trailed from the corner of his mouth across his cheek, and she wiped it away with the back of her glove in a strangely tender gesture, as one might wipe wine from a sleeping lover’s lips. Her mind was clear, calm.

  She did not pray for him. She did not offer words to the void. But she observed a moment of silence in the quiet of her own heart—a small acknowledgement that a life had ended by her hand. This was her private ritual, the only concession she made to the gravity of her work. Not remorse, not regret, but respect. However certain she was that this act was necessary, she would not pretend it was without weight. Taking life was a grave thing. She allowed herself to feel that gravity fully for a breath or two, like a stone sinking in deep water, before she let it go.

  Around her, the night remained indifferent. The stars still blinked coldly overhead and the distant city sounds carried on as if nothing fundamental had changed. To the world at large, this man’s death was just a ripple soon smoothed over by time. But for Mirelle, in this alley, it was a tangible reality: the cooling body at her feet, the blood on her gloves, the adrenaline that now gently ebbed in her veins, leaving behind a strangely hollow calm. She rose to her feet slowly, inhaling the night air, letting it fill her lungs and wash through the lingering tension in her muscles. There was a slight tremor in her legs now that the act was done, but she mastered it with a steady exhale.

  She retrieved a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the knife with practiced care, each stroke methodical, almost reverent, until the steel was clean again. The blade glinted faintly as she returned it to its sheath at her hip—just a flash of polished metal before it vanished, as if it had never been. Mirelle looked down at the still form one last time. In the dim light, he looked almost peaceful, as though asleep. The alley would keep its secrets; by the time dawn arrived, this place would be just another patch of concrete and brick, with only the faintest stain to hint at what transpired.

  With a final, slow breath, Mirelle stepped back and melted once more into shadow. Each footstep was deliberate and soundless as she left the alley, merging with the sleeping city beyond. She felt neither triumph nor sorrow, only the deep steady current of resolve that always carried her forward. Another life taken, another balance restored or debt paid. However she needed to frame it, her role remained the same. In the still aftermath of violence, she found a certain clarity. In the detachment, a kind of truth.

  At the mouth of the alley, she paused and glanced at the sliver of moon hanging above the rooftops. Her mind, usually so still, flickered with a quiet thought: that life was as pale and transient as that moonlight, and death as constant as the darkness that received it. It was not a comforting thought, nor distressing—merely an observation. Tucking the thought away, Mirelle pulled up her collar against the chill and continued down the empty street. The night closed in behind her, quiet and endless, as she disappeared into its embrace.

  Mirelle moved through the night as if she were part of it—a shadow drawn in ink, a breath stolen from the spaces between streetlights.

  The city stretched out before her, cold and sprawling, its veins pulsing with dim lanterns and flickering neon. The distant hum of midnight industry never truly ceased; the capital did not sleep, it only lulled itself into quiet intervals. Even now, she could hear the muted groan of metal in the shipyards, the slow clatter of carriages and trams in the merchant district, the low murmur of voices slipping from late-night establishments where the powerful and the desperate pretended not to drink alongside one another. She had just killed a man, and the city did not care.

  No one would scream when they found his body. There would be no mourning, no investigation, no frantic whispers of a crime. Because what she had done was not a crime at all. It was sanctioned. Paid for. Expected. The news would break by morning, ink pressed to thin pages, another name added to the column.

  Mirelle turned down a quieter street, where the rain had gathered in small, murky pools. The gas lamps flickered, casting distorted halos of light that swayed in the puddles, bending the city into something unreal. She passed a street vendor setting up for the morning rush—a wiry man in an oil-stained coat, arranging stacks of newspapers with methodical precision. He barely glanced at her as she plucked a fresh copy from the pile, trading a few clipped coins for ink and print. She didn’t stop walking as she unfolded the paper, the pages rustling in the cold wind.

  The column was small, tucked into the lower half of the front page, beneath political maneuverings and trade agreements. A list of names, neatly printed. No embellishments. No cause of death. Just a tally of those removed. Casvian Dain was there, his name sitting neatly between two others.

  Mirelle traced the letters absently with her fingertip, watching the ink smudge slightly. There was no picture. No obituary. Only the stark finality of print, black and absolute. The deaths were expected, routine, woven into the fabric of the city like cobblestones underfoot. The Syndicate saw to that.

  Mirelle knew little of its origins—no one truly did. But its presence was undeniable. A machine, vast and unseen, built on the premise of balance. Those who amassed too much power, who tipped the scales too far, were quietly corrected. The ruling houses did not govern with laws alone. They governed with fear. And that fear was carved into flesh and whispered through ink. The Syndicate’s assassins were unnamed, unspoken, untraceable. There was no hierarchy, no known leaders. Only the work passed down through hidden hands. There were whispers, of course. Conspiracies. Those who liked to claim they had seen the face of a killer, who swore they had uncovered some great secret. And yet, the names in the newspaper kept appearing.

  Mirelle folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her coat. She did not dwell on her work. It was not personal. It was not sentimental. It was the nature of the city itself. She turned another corner, slipping into a quieter district where the cobblestones were uneven, where the buildings leaned too closely together, their rooftops nearly touching overhead. A cat prowled along a windowsill, pausing to watch her. Its eyes glowed eerily in the dim light, its tail flicking once before it vanished into the shadows. Mirelle exhaled. She will sleep soon. And by the time she woke, another list of names would be waiting.