The air in the private training hall was thick with the scent of ozone and floor wax. Serial was a blur of motion, her dual daggers slicing through the air with a rhythmic shing-shing-shing as she dismantled a practice dummy. Her movements were perfect—clinical, lethal, and fueled by a simmering rage she couldn't quite name.
The heavy double doors groaned open. Amy sauntered in, her heels clicking rhythmically against the polished floor. Flanking her were Lila and Lola, the twins who functioned more as echoes than individuals.
Serial didn't stop. She drove a blade into the dummy's throat. "I’m busy, Amy."
"Busy being forgotten?" Amy asked, her voice dripping with artificial sympathy. She leaned against a weapon rack, examining her manicure. "I mean, look at you. You’re the Top Wild Cat.
