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:: As you pass by the East Gate of Kugnae, something slows :: :: your step. A young woman sits at the base of the Tree of :: :: Reflections, knees drawn up, with a small leather-bound :: :: diary balanced on one leg. She doesn't notice you - or :: :: pretends not to. Her pen moves with quiet purpose, line :: :: after line. :: :: :: :: Curiosity winning out, you drift closer - just enough to :: :: glimpse the page as her hand lifts for a moment. The ink :: :: is fresh. You know the words weren't meant for anyone :: :: but her. :: :: :: :: But you read them anyway.... H151, M12 Sun 11: The mist had been restless all night, curling against the walls like it was trying to speak. I hadn't meant to sleep. I rarely do when the fog is thick, but I must have drifted because somewhere between waking and not, it found me. I saw her standing high above the city, where the wind doesn't reach and nothing grows. No name, no face at first - just a shape carved from silence, watching the streets like she already knew how it would end. The vision didn't come in flashes. It came slow, deliberate. Every detail too sharp, too heavy. The dagger. The voice. The cold certainty in her stance. * , * SShe stands on the balcony, watching the city below. The streets are dark, shadows clinging to every corner. Lanterns flicker and fade like the last spark in a dying man's eyes. The market hums in the distance, low and dull, but it doesn't touch her. People are just shapes. Faces without weight. She isn't here for them. She's here for the job. Simple. Get the information. Leave. She wears a rogue's armor, dyed a subtle shade of grey that blends easily into shadows. A striped cap hides most of her hair, pulled back and tucked tight. What I can see of it is black, but appears to have been dyed. Who knows what color it really is? In her left hand, she holds a small black fan - ornate at first glance, but the shape betrays its function. The blades are meant to come loose. Meant to fly. The weoman's hand brushes the dagger at her side - a cold weight that settles against her like it belongs. It almost whispers. The job. Do it well. Do it fast. Then move on. There's a rustle behind her. She speaks without turning. "You're late," she says. Her voice cutting through the air, flat and sharp. A man steps into view, vague in the half-light. He holds out an envelope, as if expecting her to care. As if that matters. "The information you requested," he mutters. "Are you sure about this?" She doesn't answer right away. Just takes the envelope. Opens it. Inside: a map, a note, coordinates, a schedule. All of it already known. Still - confirmation is good. And there it is. Laid out. She glances at him. Her face doesn't change. "That doesn't concern you." He hesitates, watching her too long. There's something in his eyes - fear, maybe. Hope? It's there and then it's gone. But it's irrelevant. "I just-" he begins. "I don't need your concern," she says. Her voice stays level, but there's a blade in it now. Enough to kill whatever he was about to say. The silence after is thick. Clinging. She turns away. Doesn't look back. The mission is in motion. No more distractions. Cold. Efficient. Detached. This is who she is. The end goal is all that matters. K | |