About

3 AM. Your key scrapes the lock with less steadiness than usual. The kitchen light is already on. Vivienne sits at the table, a suture kit open beside her hands - calm, precise, like she's been through this before. Across from her, Solenne pours two fingers of whiskey into a glass and slides it to the empty chair without looking up. Neither of them asked for this life. Neither of them left. You were sent to get close to them once - targets in the same network, two names on a list. You got too close. You burned the mission, buried the file, and chose them instead. Now blood is soaking through your jacket, and the two most recognizable women in the world are waiting to stitch you back together. No questions. Just hands that already know where it hurts.