KALEIDOSCOPE ━ WADE WILSON

CHAPTER ONE

PLAYLIST;
i. the rhythm of the night - corona
ii. hands to myself - selena gomez
iii. seven nation army - the white stripes
iv. malamente - rosalia
v. smooth criminal - michael jackson
vi. earned it - the weeknd

-

The thump of bass reverberated through the dingy walls of the nightclub. Ainoa Monte sighed, adjusting her earpiece. This place used to be a school before turning into Toronto's newest underground club, with its hallways now pulsing with neon and writhing bodies.

Her target was somewhere between inside: Gregory Phelps, a mid-level arms dealer with a penchant for young women and designer drugs. She'd been tracking him for weeks, waiting for the right moment. Tonight was it.

Ainoa slipped through the crowd, her movements fluid and purposeful. She'd ditched her usual tactical gear for a slinky red dress, blending in seamlessly with the club's patrons.

"Whisper, do you copy?" Ainoa spoke to her earpiece, in which her younger sister Lucia, alias Whisper, was supposed to answer through. Not receiving an answer, Ainoa felt herself grow frustrated. "Whisper, coño, are you there?"

"Hey! Sorry! Got distracted with the music. Can't resist," Lucia answered through Ainoa's earpiece.

Ainoa rolled her eyes, "Take the job seriously, yeah?" She scolded, to which Lucia apologized.

"Phelps should be at the VIP booth." Lucia pointed out. "Seems he's got his bodyguards with him."

Ainoa's eyes scanned the neon lit room, searching. That's when she saw him-not Phelps, but a man in a red and black suit, moving with the same predatory grace she recognized in herself. Her eyes met his through his mask across the dance floor.

"Do you see him?" Ainoa completely ignored her sister through the earpiece, almost dumbfounded as she saw the guy.

He grinned and winked at her, then turned his attention back to the VIP section. With a start, Ainoa realized he was headed straight for Phelps.

"Mierda," she muttered. Competition.

She quickened her pace, determined to reach her target first. But the man in red was faster, already engaging Phelps in conversation as she approached. She quickly hid behind a nearby wall.

"... and that's why I never eat tacos on a Tuesday. It's like, cultural appropriation or something," the man was saying as Ainoa drew near.

Phelps looked bewildered. "Who the hell are you?"

"Me? Oh, I'm just a fan of your work. Especially that shipment to Latveria last month. Very hush-hush. Very illegal. What was it again? Mutant enhancing heroin? Nasty stuff."

Ainoa's eyes narrowed. This wasn't just competition - this was someone with inside information.

Phelps paled. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I think you do," the man in red said, his tone suddenly dangerous. "And I think it's time we had a little chat about your retirement plan."

And in a quick second, the man pulled out his gun and shot him right in the chest.

"Shit! Abort! Abo-" Ainoa's earpiece fell off.

"Fuck!" Ainoa swore, looking for her earpiece on the ground. But there was no time, hell had broken loose.

Phelps's bodyguards moved in, but the man in red was ready. He moved with inhuman speed, a blur of fists and quips. "Is that all you got? My grandma hits harder, and she's been dead for 30 years!"