Chapter Two: Rebirth in Fire
They say revenge is a fire that burns the one who carries it.
Let it.
I didn't come to survive—I came to watch them fall.
After Killian spoke to me, something shifted. His people started watching me more closely. Not openly—but I felt it. The way their eyes lingered half a second too long. The way conversations stopped when I walked past. They knew I didn't belong. But suspicion wasn't enough. Not in their world. They needed proof.
And I wasn't about to give it to them.
I kept my head down. Served drinks. Smiled when necessary. But I listened harder. I mapped every face, every name. Watched which guards flinched when guns were mentioned. Who leaned in when deals were discussed.
Then came the opportunity I'd been waiting for.
A whispered conversation between Vin and one of the captains—a last-minute shipment. Off the books. High value. High risk. And Killian wanted it moved quietly, without attracting the feds.
It was the perfect job to plant myself deeper.
I approached Vin that same night, feigning casual interest. "Need extra hands for tomorrow's move?"
He arched a brow. "You wanna play with the big boys now, Rena?"
I gave him a sharp smile. "I pour drinks. I move product. Either way, I follow orders."
He laughed. "Feisty."
But the next night, I got the call.
Dress dark. No questions. Meet at the docks at midnight.
I wore black jeans, leather gloves, and a windbreaker. Hair tied back. Knife in my boot. Gun in my waistband—unregistered.
They were already loading crates when I arrived. Low lighting. Four trucks. A handful of soldiers I'd seen before, none I trusted. And at the center of it all—Killian.
He didn't speak when I joined. Just nodded once, then returned to checking the manifest.
I kept my eyes forward, blending in. Moving boxes, loading crates. Watching.
But something felt wrong.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that comes before blood.
A van screeched around the corner—no headlights.
Gunfire.
"Down!" someone shouted.
I dropped behind a stack of crates, heart pounding as bullets tore through metal and wood. I saw one of our men go down. Then another. It wasn't a raid. It was a hit.
And someone had tipped them off.
Killian moved like a predator, gun drawn, firing with precision. He ducked behind a truck, motioning for others to cover him. I stayed low, trying to get a visual. Someone was flanking us from the left. No one saw him.
Except me.
I sprinted out before I could think. Took cover. Raised my gun. Fired.
One clean shot.
The man dropped.
Killian turned sharply, saw me standing over the body.
Our eyes locked.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he gave a single nod.
Approval.
By the time the shooting stopped, we'd lost two men. Three attackers were dead. The others fled.
Sirens echoed in the distance. We scattered. Cleaned up. And just before I slipped back into the shadows, Killian caught my wrist.
"You didn't have to take that shot," he said.
"I saw him. No one else did."
"You hesitated."
"No," I lied. "I was calculating."
He stared at me for a long moment. "You ever shoot a man before tonight?"
I didn't blink. "You think I'd tell you if I had?"
Something passed in his expression. Not distrust. Something darker. He was intrigued.
"You're not who you say you are, Rena," he said softly. "But tonight… you kept us alive. That counts for something."
He let go of my wrist.
"Come see me tomorrow. Eleven. No excuses."
He walked away.
I stood in the blood-soaked dockyard, heart hammering, hands steady.
I was in.
Deeper than ever.
Closer to him.
And closer to the truth.