THE REGENT'S CURSED BRIDE

The wind on the 17th floor of Skyrocket Tower could cut my skin. It was 2:13 AM. New York below was a sea of neon and car horns, but up here, there was only blood, rain, and the sound of thirty men breathing in unison. They formed a perfect circle. Black combat suits. Black rifles. Red laser dots dancing over one woman's body. In the center stood Scarlett Quinn. Twenty-four years old. Five-foot-nine. Blonde hair tied in a high, brutal ponytail now half-undone. Her CIA black ops suit was torn at the shoulder, revealing a bleeding gash. Her lip was split. Her knuckles were raw and red. But her grey eyes — storm grey, cold and alive — were not afraid. "Agent Quinn, drop your weapon. This is your final warning." Scarlett laughed. It was a hoarse, bloody laugh. She spun the empty pistol in her hand and tossed it off the roof. It took seven seconds to hit the ground. "I don't need a gun to kill all of you." They lunged. The first wave — six men — came with batons. Scarlett moved. Not like a human. Like a shadow that had studied death for twelve years. She ducked under the first swing, elbow shattering his nose, knee driving into his groin, grabbing his rifle mid-fall and using it as a bat to crack the second man's skull. She rolled, dodging bullets that sparked off concrete, and came up with two knives she had stolen from their boots. _Shink. Shink._ Two throats opened. "She's still got a fight!" someone shouted. "Sedate her!" She was panting now. Her agency training screamed at her — 30 vs 1 is suicide, even for her. She had completed 87 black missions. She had infiltrated cartels, stopped bioweapons, killed a warlord with a paperclip. But tonight felt different. Tonight felt like a setup. Because it was. From the rooftop door, a figure stepped out. Tall. Silver hair. The tailored grey uniform that every agent feared and respected. Director Kane. The man who found her in an orphanage at age 12. The man who taught her how to shoot, how to lie, how to survive. The man she called Father for twelve years. "Kane?" Her voice cracked. Not from pain. From betrayal. He didn't look sad. He looked annoyed, like she was a file that wouldn't delete. "Scarlett, do you admit to the accusations?" Scarlett spat blood onto his polished shoes. "What accusations?" "You sold the formula. The new drug. Project Phoenix. You gave it to the Russians for $30 billion." The thirty guards went still. This was the charge? Treason? Scarlett's pulse roared in her ears. Project Phoenix — the drug she had spent two years protecting. The formula that could cure cancer but also be weaponized. She had been sent to retrieve it from a lab in Berlin three days ago. "You sent me to Berlin to get it! I brought it back! I handed it to YOU in this building six hours ago!" Kane raised his gun. A custom Glock. The one she had gifted him on his 60th birthday. "You still refuse to admit it? You leave me no choice." He pulled the trigger. Scarlett's twisted — muscle memory saved her life by an inch. The bullet tore through her left arm, not her heart. She screamed, more in rage than pain. "You tried to silence me so your little secret stays buried!" she snarled, backing toward the edge. The city lights blurred below. Her arm was going numb. "You sold it, didn't you? You sold Phoenix to the Russians and you need a dead scapegoat!" Kane's face finally twitched. Guilt. "You won't leave here alive," he growled. "My secret dies with you." He fired again. Then again. One hit her hand — her shooting hand. Her body slammed against the low concrete barrier of the roof. The wind tried to pull her over. Thirty rifles were raised. Thirty red dots on her forehead. Scarlett looked at Kane. Twelve years of birthdays, missions, the time he carried her out of a burning building in Syria. "After everything," she whispered. Kane lowered his eyes. "Goodbye, Scarlett." He fired the final shot. But Scarlett Quinn had never died easy. At the last second, she lunged forward, not backward. She grabbed his tie — that stupid blue tie she had picked for him — and yanked with all her bleeding strength. Both of them went over the edge. The thirty bodyguards rushed forward shouting. The last thing Scarlett saw was Kane's terrified face, and the lights of New York rushing up to swallow them. She smiled. "If I go to hell, you're coming with me." Then Darkness. Absolute darkness. No pain. No wind. And then what she heard was, a faint, desperate voice crying far away: "My lord! She's dead! We should bury her before the body begins to smell!"