6. Wraith
Chapter 6
Wraith
“ D amn, what a missed opportunity," she says, voice light, lazy. “You could’ve at least coordinated with me.”
I just stare.
What the fuck?
It’s not a rival assassin.
Not some masked merc breaking my perimeter.
It’s not even a man.
It’s a woman.
Not that women aren’t capable. It’s just that this one looks like she just came from a Halloween party where the theme was: terrifying–but make it sexy.
Black bodysuit clinging to her like it was painted on.
Long braid hanging over one shoulder, swinging as she shifts her weight.
Hazel eyes sharp as blades, staring out from behind the most ridiculous fucking makeup I’ve ever seen.
A mime .
She came dressed like a goddamn mime.
The face is split straight down the middle—one half smiling, the other frowning. A walking duality. A joke carved into flesh.
And still, somehow, she pulls it off like it’s war paint.
The fucking audacity.
I’ve seen some weird-ass shit over the years.
But this?
This is chaos.
A fucking war cry ready to perform at some poor kid’s birthday party.
She exhales—long and slow—while shaking her head like she’s disappointed in me.
And then, with a tilt of her head and that maddening half-smile, she adds, “All black, a mask, on a rooftop? It’s like we’re at a really intense Eyes Wide Shut cosplay event.”
What the fuck is she talking about?
What the actual fuck is happening?
The wind cuts across the rooftop, cold and biting. She’s wearing half the clothes that I am, but she doesn’t even flinch. Her only reaction is mild annoyance when a strand of hair blows across her face and sticks to the paint.
She rocks back on her heels.
Hops a little.
Like this is a playground, not a soon-to-be crime scene.
And then she starts humming.
Soft. Off-key.
Ring around the rosie…
I tense—every nerve in my body wired to the sound.
It's fucking creepy .
She skips a loose, lazy half-circle around me, braid swinging, boots barely whispering with each motion.
Pauses behind me.
Then—
“Nice ass,” she chirps, voice sweet as poison.
I blink. Once.
It’s either that or punch her straight off the fucking rooftop.
Because apparently, this isn’t a hit anymore—it’s a fucking circus.
Not my mission.
My kill.
My fucking vengeance.
“Soooo,” she draws as she comes back around, “come here often?”
She twirls her braid around her fingers, eyes glinting behind that demented two-faced paint, like she’s waiting for me to catch up to some private joke I was never invited to.
One I have zero desire to be invited to.
“Nothing?” she says, lips twitching. “Not even a hi?”
I don’t speak.
Not because I’m stunned—at least not as much as I was.
But because if I do, I have a feeling she’ll never get the fuck away from my hit.
She sighs—long, exaggerated—like I’m the one being difficult.
“God,” she mutters. “You’re worse than Batman.”
I regret letting her breathe this long.
“Leave.”
One word. Measured. Final.
But she just grins.
Wide. Sharp. Unhinged.
Looks fucking weird with the painted frown around it.
“Aw,” she says, voice sing-song. “That almost sounded like a request.”
I fucking hate her.
I’d kill her, but killing women’s a hardline for me.
“Vaughn is mine.”
Her voice cuts through the space like it’s already a done deal.
My jaw tightens. “No.”
She hums—hums—like I just said something mildly inconvenient.
“Ooooh,” she drawls, grinning. “See, that’s awkward. Because I already called dibs.”
Dibs?
What the actual fuck?
Silence stretches between us like a pulled wire.
Taut. Ready to snap.
She sighs again. Loud. Overdramatic.
Like this is a scheduling conflict instead of a fucking assassination.
Maybe I could be convinced to ignore my hardline.
Just this once.
“I’m not in the habit of sharing,” she says, eyes gleaming. “But I suppose I could be perswaaayded,” she drawls, dragging the word out like a fucking brat.
I don’t have the patience for this.
I was looking forward to beating the shit out of Vaughn.
Working out some of this aggression.
Exorcising my demons.
You know—therapy .
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose.
This crazy bitch is exhausting.
“Whatever. You can have the kill.”
My voice is clipped. Cold. Done.
And very fucking annoyed.
“I need his phone.”
That stops her.
Her head tilts—eyes narrow—before a slow, wicked grin spreads across her painted face.
“Oh?” she says. “You gonna slide into his DMs?”
I say nothing.
Just stare.
Let the silence stretch again. Make her fill it.
She throws her hands up like I’m the exhausting one.
“Fine. Fine. I kill him, you rob his corpse.”
She spins on her heel, already walking toward the skylight.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bucky Barnes.”
I have no idea what the fuck that means.
I don’t fucking care.
Maybe Vaughn will kill her.
He definitely doesn’t have any hardlines.
I can only hope.
The penthouse is silent.
Luxury dressed in gold trim masking the stench of men playing at being gods.
Vaughn strolls in, blind to the noose tightening around his neck.
Doesn’t even give a cursory glance.
Too used to getting what he wants.
It’s made him sloppy.
That’s going to cost him.
Men like him never see it coming. They don’t even think it’s a possibility.
A voice lilts from the shadows. Feminine. Amused. Too light for this setting.
“Oh, there you are! I’ve been waiting aaaages, Vaughny-boy.”
I stiffen from my vantage point, one eyebrow twitching behind the mask.
The fuck is she doing?
Vaughn stops. Finally looks.
He sees her.
She plants herself center stage—arms outstretched, back arched, grinning like a circus ringleader about to unleash hell.
For fuck’s sake.
Just like that, my hit became a goddamn sideshow.
His lip curls. “What the fuck is this? Some kind of joke?”
I don’t move. Arms crossed. Weight settled deep in the shadows.
Letting her have the stage.
He steps forward, swagger stitched into every arrogant line of him.
Cocky bastard.
“You’re fucking creepy, but I guess you’ll do. You’ve still got a tight, warm cunt for me to destroy.” He licks his lips then laughs.
Ah.
There it is.
There’s no way the escorts have been getting paid enough to deal with Romeo here.
She cackles .
A dead ringer for the Wicked Witch of the West.
Sharp. Manic. Unhinged.
She starts walking—no, sauntering—like she’s hitting her cue, like there’s a spotlight on her and she’s basking in it.
“Uh-oh, I think you’re teensie bit confused,” she sings, each step a taunt. “Poor little guy, seems to be a male affliction.”
She tosses a glance my way. Grins. “No offense.”
I say nothing.
Just raise an eyebrow.
I’m more than done with her bullshit.
His gaze finally finds me.
He stiffens, a flash of fear tightening his posture.
Then the arrogance kicks back in—loud, sloppy, stupid.
“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?”
His voice tries for bravado.
All I hear is panic.
“Really?” she gasps in mock horror.
“He’s scarier than me?”
She clutches her chest as if he’s wounded her.
Then she moves.
It’s sudden and he has no time to react.
She grabs the nearest object—a heavy marble ashtray—and cracks it across Vaughn’s skull as she says, “Bless your heart.”
The sound is sick. Wet.
Blood follows immediately, trickling down his temple.
She twirls her braid around her finger and pops out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout.
“Oh noooo,” she sing-songs, tilting her head. “ Did that hurt?”
Vaughn blinks, dazed.
Tries to get his bearings.
He reaches for his gun.
And that’s when the performance ends and the real show begins.
Her grin drops.
Comedy becomes tragedy.
She’s on him in an instant—fast and fucking brutal.
Her elbow slams into his ribs.
Crack.
He wheezes, drops low.
She grabs his hair, yanks his head back hard enough that something in his spine gives a sick pop.
“You fuckers never learn, do you?” She snarls.
Looks like her monster’s come out to play.
She rams his face into the marble mantel.
The crunch echoes.
Ouch. That’ll hurt.
Nose. Cheek. Maybe more.
Blood sprays across the pristine white stone. Vaughn crumples, groaning. Pathetic.
She crouches next to him.
Calm again.
Tilted head. Curious.
Like she’s examining a broken toy.
And then?—
“Oopsie,” she chirps, flipping her braid over her shoulder like none of it happened. “That got a little out of hand.”
I should tell her to get on with it.
Hurry the fuck up.
Finish the job .
So I can take the phone and go.
But instead…
I lean against the bar, pour myself a finger of bourbon?—
And watch.
But then?—
He moves.
Stupid. Desperate. And far too slow.
And somehow, he still lands it.
His hand shoots up, slick with blood, and closes around her throat.
A last-ditch attempt to reclaim power.
To reassert dominance.
To remind himself he’s not prey.
Men like him always let fear do the heavy lifting.
For one second, I consider stepping in.
Then I see her face.
She doesn’t panic.
Doesn’t flinch.
Her breath hitches?—
And then she laughs.
Soft at first.
Bubbling up in her chest. Slowly building.
Then louder.
Breathless.
A manic crescendo.
Her body trembles with it.
Vaughn’s grip tightens.
Her laughter deepens.
What the fuck is she playing at?
She locks eyes with him—hers bright. Feral. Ecstatic.
Then—
She shifts her weight, presses in?—
And grabs his dick.
Vaughn jerks, startled.
She twists viciously.
The snap is sharp. Horrific.
Fuck.
That was unnecessary.
Entirely unnecessary.
His scream rips through the penthouse, high and broken.
Breath hisses through my teeth, jaw clenching against the secondhand pain.
She leans in, smiling sweetly as Vaughn writhes, and purrs,
“Oops.”
She tilts her head, voice going syrupy sweet like she’s offering him a fucking cookie.
“Oh, honey,” she coos, “you really shouldn’t have done that.”
And then she stands.
Hums under her breath.
Saunters around the room like she’s browsing a boutique.
Picks up a gold picture frame.
Turns it over in her hands.
Hums thoughtfully.
Sets it down.
Picks up a glass paperweight.
Weighs it in her palm.
Scrunches her nose.
“Too small,” she mutters.
Finds a poker from the fireplace.
Spins it once .
Huffs.
“Too dramatic.”
Keeps moving.
Then she sees it.
Sitting on a glass side table like it’s the crown jewel of this disaster penthouse:
A porcelain cat statue.
Big-eyed. Glossy. Smug.
She picks it up carefully, cradling it in both hands.
Stares into its stupid painted face.
“Purrfect,” she says sweetly, deadpan as a corpse.
Turns back to Vaughn, holding the cat statue like it’s a goddamn sacred weapon.
“Tell the bad man nighty night, Mr. Whiskers,” she coos, stroking the cat’s ceramic head.
I don’t even have time to grimace.
She brings it down hard.
Right into Vaughn’s already broken face.
The crack of ceramic on bone is obscene.
Blood spatters.
Mr. Whiskers loses an ear.
She frowns at the damage before she shrugs and slams it back down.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Blood splatters the marble.
She doesn’t stop.
His face is ground beef at this point.
Unrecognizable.
I sigh.
I should stop her.
But I don’t.
She earned this.
And I haven’t finished my drink.
Besides—somehow Vaughn’s still alive.
Or maybe not.
One last violent shudder runs through him before he goes still.
Finally, she stands.
Brushes herself off like she’s leaving a Pilates class.
“That was fun.”
She turns to me, smiling.
Bright. Cheerful. Fucking adorable.
“You getting the phone, or am I doing all the work tonight?”
I don’t respond.
Just finish my drink before moving towards her version of a Picasso.
I step over Vaughn’s mess of a body.
Crouch.
Pull the phone from his pocket, fingers already in motion as I step away.
Fast.
Efficient.
No wasted movements.
Biometric bypass—would've been easier if he still had a face.
Encrypted data pulled and wiped.
Transfer complete in seconds .
Done.
Behind me, she doesn’t move.
Just watches.
I don’t look at her.
Her voice sings with leftover adrenaline, light and bright like it didn’t just spill out of a skull-splitting frenzy.
“Whatcha doin’?”
I ignore her.
“Ooooh, is this important?”
Still ignore her.
“Ohhhhhh, so serious—wait, should I be quiet? Is it, like, top-secret hacker magic? Am I ruining your focus?”
My jaw tightens.
I exhale sharply.
Grit my teeth.
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
She stills.
No gasp. No scoff.
Just—still.
Her playfulness drains in one breath.
Her eyes darken. Voice cuts low and razor-clean.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt your fragile little hacker ears?”
She crosses her arms, tilts her chin. Stares me down like she’s waiting for me to swing, still holding a very bloody and less than mint condition Mr. Whiskers.
“Must be real fucking exhausting,” she sneers, “being so important all the time.”
Good.
She’s pissed.
Maybe now she’ll leave me the fuck alone.
“I swear to fucking god,” I mutter, deadpan, “I will gag you.”
Silence.
Then—
“Mmmm.”
She grins, all teeth.
“Say that again.”
She takes a step closer. Voice drops.
“Maybe growl a little. Really sell it.”
I stare at her.
I consider throwing her—and the fucking cat statue she keeps jabbing into my chest to punctuate every word—off the fucking balcony.
“What?” she shrugs. “Not my fault you have a hot rage voice.”
I need to get away from this fucking room.
Away from her.
I toss Vaughn’s phone onto his ruined chest.
I’m done.
Done with this job.
So fucking done with her.
I don’t look at her again.
Not giving her the satisfaction of a response.
I turn.
Step toward the fire escape.
Straight past her.
Expecting her to let me go.
She doesn’t.
Of course she doesn’t.
I should’ve fucking known.
She shoves me .
Not hard.
Just enough to make me stop.
My boot catches on the edge of the hall rug, balance thrown.
Before I can turn?—
“Tag,” she chirps, pure delight.
“You’re it.”
What the fuck?
She’s already gone, footsteps light skipping toward the edge.
Fucking twinkle-toes.
A giggle floats behind her—high-pitched, breathless, rabidly deranged.
I’ve met some seriously unstable people in my profession.
But her?
She might fucking top the list.
She hits the railing, pivots like she’s center stage again, and grins at me with blood still flecked across her cheek and that fucking statue still gripped in her hand.
“Catch me if you can…” she calls. “But I betcha can’t, ‘cause I’m the Gingerbread Man.”
Jesus Christ.
She disappears down the fire escape.
Then—
“Do you know the muffin man?”
A pause.
“The muffin man?”
Screamed now.
“THE MUFFIN MAN!”
…
Is that…
Is that fucking Shrek?
I don’t move.
I don’t follow.
I just stand there.
Teeth clenched.
Jaw locked.
I really fucking hate her.