The Continental Hotel, Los Angeles.
The muffled, ambient sounds of the hotel gradually filtered through the silence, snapping Perkins's high-strung instincts back to life. She jolted awake, her hand instinctively darting under the pillow for a weapon.
Movement stopped the moment a wave of numbness and aching soreness flooded her brain.
The sensation brought the memories rushing back. She hadn't been attacked; she had just been thoroughly ravaged by a monster.
Retrospectively, the "negotiation" had been undeniably thrilling—full of adrenaline and surprise. But now that the dust had settled, the afterglow was less romantic and more painful. Perkins felt as though her frame had been dismantled and hastily reassembled.
I thought it would be a ten-minute transaction to seal the deal, she thought, wincing as she shifted. I underestimated you.
She glanced at the wall clock. It was already past 3:00 PM.
Given her current physical state, checking out wasn't an option. She'd be spending the night at the Continental. She had only been out cold for about thirty minutes, but Hunter Sun was already up.
He moved around the room with irritating vitality. The bath towel he'd just used was tossed carelessly aside; he was already dressed and preparing to leave. He looked completely unaffected, a stark contrast to her exhaustion. Recalling the sheer brute force and stamina he had displayed earlier, Perkins felt a mixture of shock and a strange, lingering intrigue.
So strong, she mused, watching his back. Like a damn beast.
Hunter, for his part, had collected his payment. More importantly, he had planted a subtle psychological anchor of dependency and submission deep within Perkins's psyche. He knew the type. This assassin was now firmly in the palm of his hand; she just didn't know it yet.
His mood was excellent.
"You're awake," Hunter said, not turning around.
He took a wristwatch from the nightstand and fastened it to his wrist. It was a trophy obtained from the corrupted DEA agent, Norman Stansfield, part of the "black gold" stash he had liberated. Hunter rarely wore watches, but occasionally, the occasion called for it.
Perkins nodded, her eyes involuntarily drawn to the timepiece.
She was a mercenary at heart—a true materialist. Her childhood had taught her to trust nothing but hard currency. Since entering the life of an assassin, she had raked in over ten million dollars. Most of it had been liquidated into real estate and high-performance cars, with the rest burned on luxury goods.
She knew quality when she saw it. One glance told her the watch on Hunter's wrist was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.
I didn't expect this guy to be so liquid, she thought, recalibrating her assessment.
Her mind drifted back to the mission where they had first crossed paths—the farm infiltration. She didn't know the property's market value, but it had to be worth at least a million.
Here was a man shrouded in mystery, possessing strength that bordered on the inhuman, who had just secured membership at the Continental—guided by her, no less.
Suddenly, a sharp pang of acidity rose in her chest. Envy.
With his skillset, it wouldn't take long for him to reach the upper echelons of the underworld—Rank A or higher. Once he hit that level, he'd be pulling down multi-million dollar contracts with ease. The man who had just used her body as a down payment was on the fast track to becoming a billionaire.
Perkins felt like she had just bitten into a lemon. The jealousy was palpable.
Hunter noticed the shift in her expression—the way her eyes darted from the watch to him with a mix of calculation and resentment—but he didn't care to parse it. His objective was achieved. He had left an indelible mark on the female assassin.
From this day forward, if Perkins hit a wall, her first instinct would be to contact him. A few more "transactions" like this, and he would own her completely.
"Let me know before you're ready to execute the hit," Hunter said, his voice flat and business-like. "I'll honor my end of the deal and help you clear the target. I have other matters to attend to."
Without waiting for a reply, Hunter walked out the door, leaving Perkins alone in the disheveled room.
Meanwhile, in the suburbs of New York.
Jane Smith pulled her car into the driveway, killed the engine, and grabbed a paper bag full of groceries from the passenger seat.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Smith."
Jane looked up to see her neighbor, Mr. Lagarde, watering his manicured lawn with a garden hose. Her face instantly shifted into a polite, professional smile.
"Hello, Mr. Lagarde."
She hefted the grocery bag slightly in acknowledgment. "Please forgive me, I can't chat long. My husband is due back any minute."
"Of course, please!"
Jane entered her house, kicking the door shut behind her. She quickly shed her blazer, revealing the sleek silhouette beneath, and carried the ingredients into the kitchen.
Her husband, John, worked in "international trade"—specifically construction and liquor distribution—which required him to travel frequently. Today marked his return from a week-long trip.
Under normal circumstances, Jane would be attempting to cook a lavish welcome-home dinner with her admittedly lackluster culinary skills. In the past, even when they were arguing, she would still make the effort to prepare a "dinner of love."
But today, she felt absolutely zero interest in playing the dutiful wife.
In fact, the apathy had started over twenty days ago. It began after a failed assassination contract in Los Angeles, where she had been overpowered and intimately "handled" by a handsome young Asian man.
Jane didn't know what was happening to her.
Since returning to New York from LA, her mind would wander, unbidden, to that night. She found herself recalling the young man's sharp features, the chaotic intensity of their encounter, her own loss of control, and his terrifying stamina.
"Stop thinking about it," she whispered to the empty kitchen.
She grabbed a chef's knife and shook her head violently, trying to dislodge Hunter's face from her mind. But the harder she tried to suppress the memory, the clearer the silhouette became.
She knew this was dangerous ground.
Years ago, when John had saved her from the authorities in Colombia, she had fallen deeply in love. But after the honeymoon phase, the mundane reality of suburban marriage had begun to erode her feelings. She had even reverted to her old habits—prowling bars and nightclubs, seeking thrills to fill the void.
But despite the boredom, she had never once considered divorce.
Until she came back from Los Angeles three weeks ago. Now, the thought of leaving John was appearing with alarming frequency. Jane felt trapped in a spiral of anxiety, guilt, and restlessness.
Click.
The sound of the front door opening snapped her out of her trance.
"Honey, I'm home!"
Jane turned to see the familiar figure of her husband in the hallway.
But as she looked at John—noticing the travel weariness, the slightly disheveled look—she involuntarily compared him to the lethal, pristine perfection of the young man in Los Angeles.
The comparison only spiked her irritation.
John walked toward her, arms open for a hug. The scent of stale alcohol and a complex mix of cheap perfumes wafted off him.
Jane's grip on the knife handle tightened. Instinctively, she raised the blade.
John stopped, startled by the glint of steel.
The reaction jolted Jane back to reality. She quickly lowered the knife and plastered on her best professional fake smile.
"You're back, darling," she said, her voice smooth.
"Sorry, work was piled up. I got back later than planned," John said, eyeing the knife warily before relaxing.
"Just give me a moment," Jane said, turning back to the counter to hide the coldness in her eyes. "Dinner might be a little late tonight."
She looked down and began aggressively chopping the vegetables.
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