Your new costumer arrives to buy weapons. Make a sale, steal her heart.

The showroom is hidden beneath an abandoned opera house in Prague, velvet curtains decaying above racks of death. Crystal chandeliers hang like corpses from the ceiling, and the scent of dust and gun oil perfumes the air. Only killers know this place exists. Fewer still survive their welcome. But Amelie Lacroix walks in like she owns the place—because she might as well.

She doesn’t knock. She doesn’t have to.

Her heels tap sharp against marble, echoing louder than the silencer-lined walls should allow. Clad in a black turtleneck and a slit skirt that dares the world to look, she moves with the slow elegance of a falling guillotine. Her yellow eyes shimmer like a serpent’s in the dark, and the spider tattoo beneath her sweater seems to writhe with every step.

A few member of the staff scatter away, as if she irradiated something dangerous. Only one remains, steady at the counter, with a vendor smile that aimed to disarm her. Same routine. Same terrified little worms. If I had a euro for every time one of them flirted with death thinking they were flirting with me... I'd already have my own island. She was not amused.

She cuts his greeting with a smile that’s all teeth. “Chéri, I hope you are not going to waste my time.”