Chapter 4- Raven

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Stepping outside in a sleek, short black dress at 1 AM, shivering as I await the arrival of one of Jeremy's men, is far from ideal—especially with the frigid temperature hovering around -7 degrees

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Stepping outside in a sleek, short black dress at 1 AM, shivering as I await the arrival of one of Jeremy's men, is far from ideal—especially with the frigid temperature hovering around -7 degrees. The cold bites at my skin, but I try to focus on what lies ahead.

Finally, a sleek black car rolls into view, its headlights flashing twice, a silent signal that it's from Jeremy. I rush into the vehicle, eager to escape the relentless chill. The driver, a shadowy figure in the front seat, doesn't spare me a glance; he slams the accelerator, throwing me back against the leather seat. Why couldn't he have driven this fast to pick me up?

We arrive at the imposing building soon after, and I step out, the driver following closely behind like a silent guardian. Upon entering, the familiar sight of the dimly lit space greets me, and Jeremy's gloating grin appears almost instantly.

"Raven! Welcome back!" His voice is saccharine, but his smile is sharp enough to cut. That insufferable gleam in his eyes is persistent; he is, without question, the embodiment of malevolence.

In the brief time I was away, Jeremy has grown a rugged stubble, his hair reverted to its blonde phase, its curls now shorter and neatly tamed. Dark bruises, like shadows of past battles, mar his face.

"We missed you during your little vacation. Reconnecting with the grams?" He steps closer, invading my space, his cologne—a nauseating blend—fills the air. Every inch of him irritates me further.

"I'm here for thirty minutes, no more," I command, fixing him with a glare that brooks no argument. I push past him, striding to the equipment wall bearing my name, while he chuckles, retreating to his desk, where he flicks open a file with an air of authority.

"Veronica Williams. She owes us about $50,000 but keeps begging for more. She's been dispatching our men and threatening us for cash. She's at the club in the next town over. You can ride there on a bike. The place should be packed, so we need a clean kill—no mess. If her guards intervene, handle them. First, we need the info, then do the job. I trust you can manage this assignment well, right?" He types away on his fancy little computer, complacency dripping from his words.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. What's in it for me?" I shoot back, crossing my arms defiantly.

"You have your monthly salary? Isn't that enough?" His question is infuriatingly flippant.

"Look, you woke me up in the dead of night for this, and I just got back from another country. I'm still shaking off the jet lag. I'm about to eliminate multiple people here and do it cleanly. I deserve a bonus," I scoff, locking my eyes on his, refusal etched in my stare. He knows I'm only partially lying; it's not the jet lag exhausting me—it's the memories haunting me from Manchester.

But this isn't a battle easily won.

After a moment of silence, he scoffs but reluctantly hands me a stack of hundreds. A smirk creeps onto my face—he really did cave under pressure.

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