In her room, the pretense fell away. The expensive blazer, the silk shell—costumes for a life she’d tried to pretend was hers.

She dressed in the uniform of her truth: form-fitting black leather, boots meant for silence and violence, knives sheathed in the small of her back. The red on her lips wasn’t for beauty; it was a warning.

She met her own gaze in the mirror. The Groza stared back. Viktor’s perfect weapon. She’d tried to bury her, but some stains never washed out.

A knock, low ...