The air stank of blood, ash, and rage.
The assassin's blade slashed through the smoke like a phantom, missing Alfreda's throat by an inch. She ducked, rolled across the burnt floorboards, and kicked hard—sending the masked killer crashing against a charred beam.
He recovered too fast.
Steel kissed her arm. A shallow cut—but enough to wake the fire in her veins.
She spun, landing a brutal elbow to his ribs, then drove her knife into his side. He gasped, faltered—but didn't fall.
Behind her, gunfire echoed. Nathaniel was dragging Dano's limp body into cover, the boy trying to help, eyes wild with panic.
"Finish it, Alfreda!" Nathaniel roared.
She did.
A vicious sweep of her leg, a twist of his arm—and she pinned the assassin to the ground.
Her blade hovered above his throat.
"Who sent you?" she hissed.
His lips curled behind the cracked skull mask.
"You're not the only one who survived that fire."
Then his pulse stopped.
Silence.
Except for Dano's strained breathing. Nathaniel was applying pressure to the bullet wound.
The boy stood over the body, shaken but unblinking. "Was he… part of the Widowmaker's inner circle?"
"No," Alfreda muttered, ripping the mask off. "He was worse. He was one of the orphans who never got out. One of us."
The boy paled.
Then, something caught her eye.
A scorched patch beneath a collapsed beam—wood, not stone.
She kicked it.
A hollow echo.
"A trapdoor," she breathed.
They pried it open, coughing as smoke poured out. A rusted ladder led them into a hidden basement.
What they found was horror.
Files. Tubes. Names scrawled in blood-red ink. Child profiles. Failed experiments. Trial numbers.
And one file… labeled with her birth name.
"Freda Estelle Carrow."
Her hands shook as she opened it.
A photo of her as a toddler. Notes about memory suppression. Physical endurance trials. Fire immunity.
They hadn't raised her.
They had built her.
Nathaniel was silent beside her. Until—
A click.
A gun cocking.
They turned.
Lucien.
His face was calm. Too calm.
"Now that's a reunion," he said, stepping forward, pistol aimed at Alfreda's heart. "Didn't think you'd dig up the graves."
"You followed us," Nathaniel growled.
"No," Lucien said, smiling. "I led you here."
Alfreda stiffened. "You're working for him. The Widowmaker."
Lucien shrugged. "I survived. That's all that matters."
"Not for long."
Lucien pointed the gun directly at her. "You should've died in that fire. Like the others."
But the boy moved. Slowly. Quietly.
He picked up the pistol from the assassin's holster.
Hands trembling.
Then—he fired.
Bang.
Lucien gasped.
Blood spilled down his chest.
He dropped to his knees, looking at the boy in disbelief.
"You… you were never supposed to matter."
The boy's eyes were ice.
"I matter now."
Lucien fell.
Alfreda rushed to the boy.
His hand was still shaking.
"It's okay," she whispered, wrapping him in her arms.
He'd made his first kill.
And it wasn't the end.
It was only the beginning.