BURN WITH ME

I had one rule before every job. Don't think about who they are. Think about what they've done. It kept my hands steady. It kept my conscience quiet. It kept me alive for three years while better hunters than me were carried home in body bags. My name is Lena Voss. And tonight, I was about to break my only rule. The Maren District smelled like rain and rust. I liked it that way. Crowds moved faster in bad weather. Nobody looked up. Nobody noticed the woman in the dark jacket moving along the rooftop ledge like she'd been born on high places. I crouched at the edge, scope raised, eyes trained on the old textile building across the street. Four floors. Broken signage. Windows dark except for one- third floor, east corner where a faint blue glow pulsed like a heartbeat. Warlock magic. Unmistakable. "Control, I have visual on the signature," I murmured into my earpiece. "Third floor. Confirm target is alone?" A pause. Then my handler's voice flat, professional, bored: "Confirmed. One signature. Move in when ready, Voss." I was always ready. That was the problem. I dropped from the roof silently, landed in the alley below, and moved toward the building's side entrance without breaking stride. My binding cuffs were already in my left hand rune-etched silver, custom fitted, strong enough to drop an Alpha-level warlock in under four seconds. I'd had them made after my second job, when standard issue almost got me killed. I didn't make the same mistake twice. The door was unlocked. That was my first warning. The second was the silence. Buildings where warlocks work never feel empty magic leaves a residue in the air, a pressure, like the atmosphere itself is holding its breath. This building felt like something else entirely. Like it was exhaling. Like it had been waiting for someone to arrive. Stop it, I told myself. Focus. I moved through the ground floor dust, old machinery, darkness that my eyes adjusted to quickly. Three years of night jobs had rewired something in me. I saw better in the dark now. Moved quieter. Felt danger before it arrived. Up the stairs. Second floor. Third. The blue glow was coming from under a door at the end of the hall. I pressed my back to the wall, controlled my breathing, counted to three. Kicked the door open. And stopped. He was sitting in a chair in the center of the room. Not hiding. Not casting. Not even standing. *Sitting.* Arms relaxed. One ankle crossed over his knee. The blue glow came from a small rune carved into the floorboard at his feet not a weapon, not a trap. A *light source.* Like he'd simply wanted to see when I arrived. Like he'd known exactly when that would be. He was younger than my targets usually were. Late twenties. Dark hair pushed back from his face. Sharp jaw, sharper eyes pale grey, the color of winter sky right before a storm, and fixed on me with an expression that made something cold move through my chest. Not fear. Not aggression. Recognition. "Lena Voss," he said. His voice was low and unhurried, like a man who had never been surprised by anything in his life. "You're earlier than I expected. By about four minutes." My cuffs were already raised. "Hands where I can see them." "I've read your entire file." He didn't move his hands. "Seventeen successful bindings. Zero casualties on your side which is either extraordinary skill or extraordinary luck." His head tilted slightly. "Looking at you, I'd say skill." "Last warning. Hands. Up." "You had a partner once." Something shifted in his expression still calm, but heavier now. Like he was carrying something he hadn't decided whether to put down. "Marcus Vell. Three years ago. He died on a job in the Crest District and your organization told you it was a rogue warlock. Unstable. Unpredictable." My finger twitched. "That's not what happened," he said quietly. "And I think part of you already knows that." The room felt very still. "Stand up," I said. My voice didn't shake. I was proud of that. He stood slowly, hands finally raising and I noticed he made no move to reach for power, no defensive casting, nothing. A warlock with his level of signature could have knocked me across the room before I blinked. He wasn't fighting. He was talking. "My name is Caelum Dray," he said. "I didn't come here to run from you, Lena. I came here because you're the only hunter I trust to hear what I'm about to tell you." "I don't care what your name is." "You will," he said simply. And then every light in the building every rune, every flicker, every scrap of illumination died at once. Total darkness. And from somewhere inches to my left, so close I felt the warmth of it: His breath. "They're outside,"he whispered. "And they're not here for me."