#9

Molly never had the luxury of time. She was born in a place where warmth was a commodity few could afford—a quiet town buried somewhere in the frozen north of Russia. Her real name was Anastasia Morozova, but that name had died the moment she stepped out of her childhood home. It was a relic of a past she had no use for.

Her parents were simple people—hardworking, scraping by. But she had learned early that survival demanded more than just labor. It demanded cunning, control, and a willingness to trade away pieces of yourself until you barely recognized what was left. Moscow had called to her like a whispered promise, though she knew better than to believe in salvation. She didn't arrive by choice, but she stayed out of necessity.

By sixteen, she had transformed. The girl named Anastasia was gone. Molly, sharp and cold, had taken her place. She learned quickly how the world worked—how to smile just enough, speak just little enough, and never, ever give a man the satisfaction of thinking he owned her. She moved through that underworld with precision, slipping between money, men, and power, careful never to be caught in the machinery that chewed up women like her and spat them out.

Until the night he came.

The private room had been filled with low murmurs and sharp laughter, the clinking of glasses cutting through the smoky air. Molly had seen these types before—men who thought their money made them untouchable. She'd been sitting on the lap of one, pretending to listen, waiting for the night to end. The girls around her did the same. None of them wanted to be here, but that didn't matter. The job wasn't about want.

Then the door exploded off its hinges.

She flinched—just a little—but the moment she turned to look, her breath stilled.

The man in the doorway was not like the others.

Tall. Composed. Cold in a way that went deeper than expression. His presence sucked the air from the room. In one fluid motion, he pulled a gun from his jacket. He didn't hesitate. Didn't announce himself. The first shot rang out, and before the men even had time to react, he was already moving.

The room descended into chaos—screams, shattered glasses, bodies hitting the floor. The other women ran. Some bolted for the door. Others crawled under tables. It was instinct. But Molly didn't move.

She couldn't.

She just watched.

The men never stood a chance. He didn't waste bullets. Every shot was precise—silent efficiency. When the last body hit the floor, the only sound left was the faint ringing in her ears.

And then, he did something that didn't make sense.

He crouched beside one of the bodies, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a marker.

Slow. Methodical. He clicked the cap off and pressed the tip to the man's forehead. The number 9 took shape, ink sinking into cooling skin.

Then, he laughed.

Not a real laugh. Not something meant to be heard. It was quiet, under his breath, like an inside joke no one else was in on.

Molly should have run. She should have crawled for the exit, should have screamed, should have felt something. But all she did was watch.

He stood. Finally noticed her. Their eyes met. Held.

For a second, she thought he might kill her. Just raise the gun and pull the trigger.

Instead, he reached out—not for the weapon, but for her.

Fingers brushed against a strand of her hair—the dyed streak that stood out under the dim light. He twirled it between his fingers like it amused him, lips curving slightly.

"You're still here," he murmured.

Not a question. A statement.

Molly didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

She just let him touch her hair.

A beat passed. Then another.

Finally, he let go. He turned and walked toward the door, stepping over bodies like they were nothing.

The moment the door clicked shut, she exhaled, realizing she hadn't even noticed she was holding her breath.

She was alone.

With the dead.

And yet, for the first time in her life—she didn't feel alone at all.

⁕

Now.

Blood dripped onto the floor.

Molly stumbled down the hallway, hands pressed to the wound, trying to breathe, trying to move. Trying to survive.

She didn't remember how she got here. The gunshot had been loud. Sudden. One moment, she was leaving. The next—pain.

Somewhere behind her, she heard footsteps. Steady. Unrushed.

A shadow stretched against the wall. Coming closer.

She tried to turn the corner, tried to push forward, but her vision blurred. The walls felt farther away.

The last thing she saw before everything went black—

Was the figure stepping out of the shadows.