Ignoto

2 - An exchange

Water. I need water. My throat feels like sandpaper, and my head spins as I struggle to blink my vision back into focus. Memories slowly creep in, and a surge of panic jolts me. 

I'm tied up—arms strapped to the armrests, legs bound to the chair. I pull against the restraints, but they don't budge. I glance around frantically, trying to get my bearings. I'm not in some filthy basement or rotting cell like I expected. Instead, I'm in a clean room with white walls, a large, sleek table, and sand-colored office chairs that don't match the tension in the air. My heart thuds in my chest, disoriented by the unexpected setting.

A shadow moves, catching my attention. A man pulls one of the chairs from the table, spins it around, and sits right in front of me. His presence demands attention, radiating authority in a way that feels both calm and dangerous. He spreads his legs, his body relaxed, and takes slow sips from a glass of what I can only guess is alcohol. His black hair is slightly messy, his stubble unkempt, and a scar runs diagonally from his forehead, over his right eye, to his cheek. His eyes, dark and sharp, bore into mine, waiting for me to speak. There's no rush in him, no hint of impatience—just cold observation.

"Are you the Great One?" My voice is barely a whisper, but I hope it's loud enough.He doesn't move an inch, just watches me with the same unreadable expression. 

"The greatest," he finally says, his voice low, the words deliberate.

His answer, calm and simple, tightens the knot in my stomach. This is the man I've hunted for years. The one I've pinned my hope for revenge on. I can't mess this up.

"I've been looking for you," I begin, forcing my voice to steady. "My name is Ella. I need your help. My family was murdered 18 years ago, and I want you to find out who did it—and kill them. In return, I'll join you. Whatever you need—spy, killer, slave—I'll be loyal until the day I die."

His gaze doesn't waver, but something shifts in the air. His grip on the glass tightens slightly, and he leans back, crossing his arms. "Who killed your family?"

"I don't know," I admit, struggling to keep my voice steady. "But you can find out. You have the connections."

He takes another sip, not answering right away, his eyes never leaving mine. It's like he's weighing my words, searching for the angle, the lie. For the first time, doubt flickers behind those dark eyes. He sets his glass down slowly.

"Do you have experience?" he asks, his tone neutral but probing.

"With what?" I ask, knowing this is a test.

"Killing," he says flatly.

"Yes," I answer quickly. Too quickly.

His eyes narrow, and I feel the weight of the lie hang in the air between us. But he doesn't challenge me. Not yet.

"Spying?"

"No," I admit. "But I can learn."

"Slaving?"

The word makes my stomach twist. I force myself to look down, ashamed. "Yes. I think so."