❝ 𝘞𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴,
𝘐 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 ❞
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What if, in some other tragic
reality, Flare was the
Commission...
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SHE LAYS AMONG A SEA of corpses. Her colleagues, her friends, her brethren—every last Commission agent is dead in a pile of broken bones and agony. Hundreds of them. Their bodies leave an ever-growing pool of blood that stains the snow with a sickening crimson. The air reeks of slaughter.
She lets out a single broken sob. As her lips part, the taste of blood and tears mixed together fill her mouth with the unmistakable tang of death—acrid and unbearable. It coats her tongue with the horrid flavor of carnage that makes her want to swallow a box of needles and destroy every last nerve in her mouth.
Everyone is dead except for her. She is the sole survivor. A curse disguised as a blessing.
For Flare is too skilled to be captured by the greedy hands of death. Too adept. Too sly. Too clever.
Soon enough, the earth will reclaim the bodies of her fallen comrades. Every corpse will wither away and sink into the soil, deep underground, where all life is destined to return. She is alone.
Flare swallows the bile rising to her throat. She cannot weep now, not when there are things that must be done. If she doesn't get moving, they will find her.
Flare musters the last of her strength. She pulls herself up with frostbitten hands and numb legs. Her wounds sting beneath the heavy snowfall, and the icy winds nip at her skin. Blood—some from her, some from the others—cascades down her body like a hellish rain. Her face is drenched in it.
Flare climbs over body after body until, finally, she locates the mechanism of her salvation. A pristine, undamaged briefcase—glistening black from its leathery surface and dripping red from the gore that coats it. She wraps a trembling fist around the handle. The blizzard is picking up now.
Off in the distance and across the field, seven dark figures emerge from the barn. Flare grits her teeth so hard they might break. It takes every last bit of dwindling self-restraint not to leap over there and massacre every single one of those wretched devils.
Oh, how she would love to hear them scream.
But as much as she would bask in their torment, she knows there isn't enough time for that. Not in this life. She only has room for one on her death list.
When Flare traces back the chain of events that ended with the destruction of everything she once knew, it all leads back to one person.
Her coral lips, bloodstained and battered from the aftermath of defeat, curve into a cruel smile.
Perhaps there's room for one last job.
It will be her favorite kind—a kill order—and it won't be quick. She wants to savor it—to tear her victim limb from limb in a final act of rage and revenge.
Yes, revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge—as delicious as death's kiss. Anything for revenge.
Because what else is left for her, if not revenge?
Nothing.
So she must make the most of this final mission.
The figures' voices grow louder. She needs to hurry.
Flare glances down at the briefcase in her hands. She knows her next destination. It's the same as her target's: 2019.
Blue light hums to life around her. In the midst of the energy whirring, a manic grin cracks the mask of anguish plastered across her face.
Flare has one last score to settle.
His name is Five Hargreeves, and she is going to enjoy every second of killing him.
