The True Heiress: A Powerful All-Rounder

Chapter 2: Blood Pact Prophecy

Hell’s Kitchen, Back Alley

Lynn flicked the blood off the butterfly knife, droplets scattering across the snow. The gold tooth from the MS-13 leader’s mouth glinted coldly amidst the crimson-stained ice. As the sound of sirens echoed from three blocks away, she was already using a stolen Gucci scarf to bandage her wrist—five puncture marks still oozed blood.

“Holy s**t!” Lucas (formerly Nie Chao) peeked out from behind a dumpster, his hands trembling around his DSLR camera. “What is she, John Wick reincarnated?”

Alexander (formerly Fu Yunshen) placed a firm hand on his companion’s shoulder. The moon cast shadowed bars through the fire escape above, painting a grid of darkness across the alley.

The black-haired girl stood at the entrance, ghostly and silent. Her blood-splattered biker jacket flapped in the cold wind, and the phoenix tattoo on her waist shimmered with an eerie golden glow.

“Good evening, voyeurs.” Lynn’s crisp Oxford accent cut through the night air, as cold as the snow swirling around them. “I’d recommend deleting the footage from seconds 47 to 51... unless you want the FBI sniffing around about that insider trading scandal on Wall Street last month.”

Lucas’s hand shook, and his $20,000 lens tumbled into a puddle of filthy water. The screen on his camera froze on an image of him inside JPMorgan’s underground vault—evidence of his little “side hustle.”

“Sweetheart,” Alexander’s voice was smooth, almost playful, as he spun his Beretta 92FS between his fingers. In one swift motion, he pressed the cold barrel against Lynn’s chin. “Before you blackmail someone, make sure you have leverage... or would you prefer to get acquainted with the inside of a federal prison cell?”

His words were cut short.

With a flick of her wrist, Lynn caught the g*n barrel between two bloodstained fingers. Dark red drops trickled down the silver engraving, twisting into ancient symbols. Alexander’s eyes widened—the Colt 1873 he had inherited from his grandfather was burning hot.

“Wednesday. 7 p.m. Pier 17, Brooklyn Docks.” Lynn’s voice was steady as she released the weapon. The moment she let go, a phoenix symbol shimmered across the g*n’s surface before fading. “Your smuggling ship will run into a Coast Guard raid.” Her eyes shifted to Lucas, who was still trembling against the wall. “And you... avoid 23 Wall Street next week, unless you want to have a very awkward conversation with the SEC.”

The snowstorm howled violently, whipping through the narrow alley.

By the time Alexander looked up, Lynn was gone. All that remained was half a burning tarot card on the ground—The Death Card, upright, defaced with a b****y smiley face.

Three Hours Later, Tribeca – The Emerald Room Private Club

Lucas checked the anti-surveillance devices for the eighth time. “This place was a CIA safehouse, wasn’t it? Seven hours ago, we were tracking a Colombian d**g lord, and now we’re ordering filet mignon for a freaking vampire queen?”

Alexander swirled the bourbon in his glass, eyes never leaving the figure outside their private booth. Lynn stood beneath a Picasso original, her pale fingers lightly tracing the edge of the frame. The second her fingertips brushed the gilded surface, every alarm system in the club went dead.

“She’s not a vampire.” Alexander’s thumb absently rubbed the faint phoenix imprint still warm on his g*n handle. “Do you remember Grandfather’s tales about the Knights Templar?”

The waiter wheeled in a silver cart as Lynn returned to the table, her movements languid and precise. She took her seat, inspecting the plate in front of her. Using a silver knife, she absentmindedly carved alchemical symbols into the tablecloth. “Filet mignon with foie gras?” Her smile was wicked. “How thoughtful, considering someone here lost about 400ccs of blood today.”

Alexander slid the black card through her hair, letting it settle behind her ear. “I thought a meal was the least I could do after finding out your DNA is tagged with twelve encrypted markers in the FBI database. Care to explain that?”

A phone buzzed sharply, shattering the tense silence. Lucas looked down at the encrypted message, his face draining of color. “DEA just pulled five bodies out of the Hudson. The wounds... they match the ones on those MS-13 guys...”

Glass shattered.

Lynn was already in mid-air, leaping through the floor-to-ceiling window. For a split second, Alexander caught sight of the small electronic device on her collarbone—a tracking chip. But not just any chip. It was the Pandora Prototype, stolen from the Pentagon last month.

“After her!” Alexander’s Armani suit tore at the collar as he moved. The moonlight illuminated the base of his neck, revealing a matching phoenix tattoo. “Contact Homeland Security. Tell them we’ve found the last subject of the ‘Prophet Project.’”