His Stolen Kiss, Her Lethal Cure

"Let go."

Elia stared down at the large, pale hand clamped around her right ankle.

The alleyway in Lower Manhattan was a black artery of the city, choked with the smell of rotting cardboard and stale urine. Tonight, the heavy rain added a new scent.

Copper. Fresh, hot blood.

The icy downpour soaked through her cheap canvas hoodie, pasting the fabric to her skin. She pulled the brim of her cap lower, her eyes flat and devoid of any human warmth.

She just got off the bus from the Midwest. Her feral instincts, honed by years of surviving the unseen margins of the world, urged her to avoid the glaring streetlights of Broadway. She had slipped into the shadows, trusting her gut over the illuminated paths. She did not need this.

The fingers around her ankle tightened. The grip was weak, trembling, but fueled by a desperate, animalistic survival instinct.

Elia slowly lowered her gaze. Through the curtain of rain and the heavy shadows of the dumpster, she saw him.

He was wearing a bespoke suit, now ruined by mud and dark liquid. He was slumped against the wet brick wall. His face was the color of chalk. Black blood oozed from the corner of his lips, washing away in the rain.

His chest heaved, pulling in jagged, broken breaths that rattled in his throat.

It wasn't a gunshot wound. Elia's eyes narrowed. The erratic pulsing of the veins in his neck, the specific shade of the blood, the violent tremors wracking his large frame.

A genetic collapse. A rare, terminal blood mutation. He was dying right here in the garbage.

Elia's right hand twitched. Her fingers curled inward, a muscle memory from holding a surgical scalpel.

She wanted to step over him. She wanted to keep walking toward the Upper East Side.

Then, the sound of boots splashing in the puddles echoed from the mouth of the alley.

Click.

The distinct, metallic sound of a suppressor scraping against a tactical vest.

Three beams of harsh white light sliced through the darkness, sweeping over the overflowing trash cans. Low, guttural Russian voices drifted through the rain.

Assassins.

The man on the ground tried to push himself up. His muscles failed him. A low, agonizing groan vibrated in his chest, threatening to spill from his lips.

If he made a sound, the flashlights would find them. If the flashlights found them, Elia would have to kill three armed men in the middle of New York City.

Her jaw locked.

Elia dropped into a crouch. Her movements were completely silent, like a shadow detaching from the wall.

She reached into the inner pocket of her wet hoodie. Her fingers found the thin, leather case. She pulled out a single, hair-thin silver needle.

The man's eyes widened as she leaned over him. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing his irises.

Elia didn't hesitate. She didn't warn him.

She drove the silver needle directly into the side of his neck, hitting a microscopic nerve