Collateral Obsession

Prologue

The window shudders as thunder rolls over the crowded street, the relentless downpour turning its glass into a chaotic, amateur masterpiece. Despite the storm, the city hums with life—people dart across slick pavement, their dark umbrellas useless against the water splashing up from the puddles.

“So,” he starts, flipping through my file as if he doesn’t already know everything about me. “Dante,” he draws out my name with a mocking lilt, his fingers curling around his glass before he lifts it to his lips, taking a slow sip of whiskey.

The air in the restaurant is thick with tension—acidic, heavy, like a venomous cloud that sinks into the pit of my stomach. My gaze snaps to one of the staff members standing stiffly in the corner, looking like a high-schooler caught in the act, too afraid to make a sound.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cane says, his attempt at nonchalance falling flat.

He doesn’t even try to hide it. Not when every word, every action, screams that he doesn’t trust me or my abilities.

“I just love privacy, that’s all. To him, it probably seems like…

something darker,” he adds with a gruff laugh.

I shift my focus back to his face, but all I find is the same lazy ease. He wants me to remember that he booked the entire restaurant—to feel the weight of his money, power, and status—especially with his seven-foot-tall guards stationed near the entrance, their eyes never leaving my face.

Cane flicks his tongue over his stained lips, wiping away the last traces of strong alcohol before setting his glass down. He tilts his head, examining me like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit.

To him, I am nothing but a clueless puppy, a desperate drifter with no understanding of how the real world works, playing with fire without realizing I’ll get burned.

It’s the image I’ve spent years refining, crafting a backstory convincing enough to hold up under scrutiny.

Every nervous glance, every restless shift in my seat, is deliberate.

I wear fear like a second skin—wide eyes, shaky breaths, the perfect mask of confusion and disorientation, a performance so convincing it swallows the truth whole. Beneath it, my real emotions simmer in silence.

Rage. A hunger to crash and burn.

I let my fingers fidget, my gaze dart around, feeding him every sign of anxiety. I need him to believe I’m unsure—that guilt and fear are twisting inside me, knotting into something so suffocating it makes me want to vomit.

“You’re a troubled orphan who left your home at an early age after killing your parents.

You fought the guys and girls who bullied you at school, killed one of your peers, got into countless fights in a center for troubled kids…

” Cane says, his fingers gliding over the surface of my file.

It all feels almost meaningless, like none of it really matters—as if even a life that fractured still isn’t enough to make someone an assassin.

“That’s correct,” I say, clearing my throat to shake off the rasp. I blink repeatedly before adding, “And I can do so much more. I can—”

“You really think you can kill someone?” he interrupts, skepticism lacing his tone.

His lips twitch, a smirk threatening to form as he gestures for the waiter without once breaking eye contact.

“End a life in cold blood, even if they’ve done nothing to you?

Kill a person who has a family, a life, someone who’s truly done nothing wrong?

It’s different from your early-years rage. ”

The waiter rushes over, his hand trembling as he tilts the bottle and pours Cane another glass of whiskey.

When he finishes, he exhales—barely audible, but telling.

His ocean-colored eyes dart to mine, panic swimming in them, while beads of sweat form along his forehead.

I press my lips together and give the smallest shake of my head, silently telling him I don’t need a drink.

He turns away, his shoes squeaking against the polished floor as he hurries off.

I expected Cane to choose something extravagant and ostentatious, so I can’t say I’m surprised.

The restaurant radiates opulence, every detail meticulously crafted to exude sophistication and exclusivity.

Velvet-upholstered chairs surround tables draped in pristine white linen, while crystal chandeliers dangle overhead.

There’s no need for artificial lighting—the floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with the perfect amount of natural daylight.

Soft jazz hums from hidden speakers, the singer’s gentle words ironically at odds with our conversation.

“I know I can kill a person,” I finally say, building confidence into every word.

He laughs, louder and stronger than before. I bite my tongue, resisting the urge to lunge across the table and land a few punches to his smug face. Instead, I rest my arms on the surface, leaning in slightly, just enough to show him the sliver of courage I’m willing to reveal.

“I’m serious. I don’t care how innocent they are,” I continue, letting a small smile twist my face—one that matches the insanity of what I’m about to say. “I don’t care how much money they have or if they have a family, a life. These aren’t things a person like me ever thought about.”

He nods, but his expression tells me everything—I haven’t earned his trust, and I won’t for a long time. My test begins today. I’ll take whatever shit jobs he throws my way, prove myself, and force him to see I’m capable.

“These are strong words,” he muses, fingers curling around a freshly filled glass as he carelessly tosses my file to the side with his other hand. The pages dangle off the edge of the table, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and fix them.

“So many people have told me the same thing,” he continues, eyes rolling toward the ceiling, lost in thought. “And do you know how they acted when the time came?”

Not everyone has the guts to back up the words they spit out. Most people who talk—or even fantasize—about killing freeze the moment they actually get the chance. Taking a life isn’t as easy as they think, and I can only imagine how many people Cane has put down because of that hesitation.

The same fate awaits me if I back out of whatever task he’s about to give me. It would cost him nothing. He’d move on, find another candidate, and eventually, someone would get the job done.

But what Cane doesn’t know is that I’ve killed far more people than my file suggests. Assassins, ironically enough.

And now, to find and dismantle the organization that operates in the shadows—playing God with human lives and pulling the strings of a vast network of killers—I must become the very thing I despise.

“You can count on me,” I say, holding his stare with deliberate calm.

Something dark flickers in his eyes as he rakes his fingers through his hair, leaving it wild and jagged, like blackened thorns.

“I want this,” I insist, pushing forward like any eager rookie—blinded by possibilities and too naive to grasp the weight of the job. “And I can do much more than you think. I just need a chance.”

He studies me for a moment longer, his silence dragging on, heavy with thoughts he doesn’t voice. My impatience coils inside me like a gathering storm, one far fiercer than the rain and wind that batter the world outside.

Then, without a word, Cane slips his hand into the inner pocket of his black coat and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

He lifts it just enough to catch the light, giving it a subtle shake as if emphasizing its importance, before sliding it across the table toward me.

My fingers inch forward, tentative, hovering over it before finally brushing against the paper.

But the moment I unfold it, a sharp knot of confusion tightens around my chest, constricting my breath.

It’s a mugshot of a young woman. Honey-colored hair sticks in disarray to the sides of her round face, as if caught mid-motion and never tamed.

Her large brown eyes stare straight into the camera, dark and unsettling, hinting at something hidden deep within, yet her expression remains unnervingly blank, a mask that refuses to give anything away.

I can sense there’s more lurking behind those eyes, a story or a storm, but the absence of emotion makes it impossible to read, leaving me grasping at shadows that refuse to materialize.

“Your first task,” Cane says, his voice smooth and detached, as if nothing could ruffle him. “I need you to get her out of a prison in Mexico.”

I glance up, but he’s already drumming a finger against the table, a subtle command to pull my eyes away from the mugshot.

“She’s one of us,” he says. “She was on a mission to take out a snitch—an idiot who thought he was smarter than everyone else. Thought landing a job in a prison on the other side of the world would make him untouchable.” He scoffs, the sound sharp and dismissive.

“Job gets done, and that’s it. Nothing else to discuss. ”

A small tremor runs through me as my eyes jerk back to the photo.

One of us. The words feel wrong, as though my mind is resisting the truth staring me in the face. There’s something in her gaze, something that unsettles me, a creeping discomfort that winds through my chest and stomach, coiling tight and insistent.

And still, I can’t look away.

My eyes roam over the contours of her face, noting the lingering softness that time and experience rarely preserve. Her full lips curl into the slightest hint of a smirk, subtle yet unmistakable, impossible to overlook even in its quiet.

I didn’t expect Cane to give me something so… unorthodox. Usually, when a recruit is being tested, the first task is simple: find a target and kill them.

Breaking someone out of prison? That had never crossed my mind as a real possibility. And yet, I can’t say no. Truthfully, I don’t even want to.

“Don’t be fooled by that pretty face,” his voice pierces the fog of my mind, laced with an emotion I can’t place. “She’s… unpredictable.”

I frown, the unspoken warning thick in the space between us, pressing down like a weight. A question smolders in my eyes as I set the mugshot on the table, turning my gaze toward him, searching for an answer—but he only shrugs, leaving the silence to speak for him.

“I’m sure you can handle it. Just remember—failure is not an option. If you fuck this up, that prison becomes your grave. Understood?”

I nod. “Yeah. I understand. But I have one question—”

He chuckles, cutting me off before I can finish. “Surprised it’s a woman?”

Yes and no. Over the years, as I’ve targeted assassins and dismantled various small organizations, I’ve come across many of them. Many women, too, but they all looked different. At least, they followed the same rules these groups clung to.

Cane talks about her with a certain lightness in his voice, maybe even pride. It catches me off guard and makes me more curious about who she really is. My gut tells me she’s not as simple as she seems, and for the sake of my mission, I need to know everything.

“You could say I’m a little surprised, yeah,” I admit after a short pause.

Cane stretches out, letting one arm drape over the back of the couch, sinking deeper as he settles into a casual ease.

His eyes flick toward the window, and a faint, almost imperceptible smirk curls at the corner of his lips as he drifts once more into his thoughts, lost in whatever private world occupies him.

“She’s our most trusted and loyal worker.

Years of service, not a single complaint, no regret or guilt,” he says, his voice calm and measured, carrying the faintest edge of pride.

When he turns back to me, a quick flash of warning sparks in his eyes.

“And my personal favorite. That’s all you need to know.

If something happens to her, I’ll have my people chop you into pieces and send them through a meat grinder. ”

That’s convincing.

“I’ll get her out,” I promise, the words soaked in confidence I can’t afford to second-guess. There’s no turning back now. I can feel the shift inside me, the quiet click of inevitability.

Years of planning, of waiting and watching, are finally ready to collide with reality.