THE RED SNOW

MARCH 2ND, 2135 Trix held the cigarette between her lips and took a long drag. Then she adjusted the sniper rifle against the ground. The scope was locked on him— direct, inescapable. The man’s forehead sat dead center in the crosshairs as he chatted with that guy— the right-hand man. Obvious. Because he smiled. And he only smiled with that fucker. Only with him. No one else. She dragged too hard. Coughed. Pulled her hands from the rifle to grab the cigarette. Fuck. She sent the command to the nanites in her implanted eyes. In an instant, the scope projected in the holoscreen ahead. She paced back and forth, her eyes glued to every move he made. The rifle responded instantly, mirroring each tilt of his head, every gesture, as if it could see on its own. They made sure she’d never miss a target. Her eyes would see everything— and everyone. And her bullets would pierce them all. Trix and the weapon were one; the only one that never failed her. Never missed a shot. I See You, her name. Would that s**t ever end? The thought crept in—relentless. She always pushed it away. Not that she hated this life. There was pleasure in hunting down her millionaire targets in Zenith, whose public lives were built on her back. But now and then, she wondered: What would it be like to be in their place? Sometimes, living in the shadows got old. Did their papa f**k them over too? Her vision zoomed in on the man seated at the table— her father. Papers scattered around. He held a financial statement from the Bratva. Trix zoomed in on the documents. She didn’t give a s**t about any of it. Never had. What pissed her off was hearing him repeat, over and over, that she’d be the next leader of the Russian mafia— that she had to obey. She obeyed. He lied. They hurt her. Trix took another drag, closed her eyes, let the memories flood in. She felt every scar etched inside her. She wanted to make sure that the last drop of his damned blood would spill. And with it, every pain he ever carved into her. And it would.