Chapter 2

                                                                    Sera Kaine

The office greeted me with a silence that felt unnatural, almost predatory. Not the kind of silence that accompanies focused work or the calm before the storm of deadlines; this was the type that pressed on your chest, made your skin crawl, and insisted you pay attention. The usual symphony of clicking keyboards, low murmurs of colleagues discussing projects, and the distant whir of the printer had vanished, leaving the space suffocatingly still. Even the scent of the office seemed altered-clean, sterile, faintly bitter, like the lingering scent of espresso mixed with ozone after a thunderstorm.

I paused at the entrance, heels clicking against the polished marble floor, letting my gaze sweep across every inch. My instincts prickled, a familiar tingle at the base of my neck that screamed: something is off.

I moved with purpose, though every step was calculated. The air seemed heavier with each click of my heels, echoing through the empty halls like a warning drum. My desk was as I had left it: pristine, organized, a fortress of glass and metal, glowing screens reflecting the morning sun in sharp angles. But I barely noticed. My mind was elsewhere, tuned to the smallest anomalies--a shadow that lingered a fraction too long, a sound too soft yet distinct, the hum of electricity slightly warped.

"Giulia," I murmured under my breath, "don't make me regret trusting you with the office while I'm away."

She flitted near the door, nerves visible in the taut set of her shoulders. She nodded, clutching her tablet like a shield. "Everything's fine, Sera. Just... keep an eye out, okay?"

I allowed a small smirk. "I always do."

And then I heard it: the subtle click of a door handle, deliberate and quiet.

My breath hitched--not from fear, but anticipation. My body tensed like a bowstring. The door cracked open, just enough for a figure to slip inside.

Tall, lean, black suit, cap pulled low, sunglasses reflecting the harsh fluorescent light. Professional. Menacing. Wrong.

"Ms. Kaine," he said smoothly, voice controlled, rehearsed, almost polite in its menace. "I have a message for you."

I tilted my head, smirk curling slowly. "Do I look like the kind of woman who takes messages in person?" The words were casual, almost teasing, but my body hummed with coiled energy. Every muscle was ready.

He stepped closer. And then I saw it--the glint of metal in his hand. A knife. Thin, lethal, glinting like a shard of moonlight on steel.

Instinct took over.

The world slowed.

He lunged. Quick, deliberate, calculated. My side-step was fluid, my hand snatching his wrist and twisting sharply. The knife clattered to the floor.

"Oh, honey," I murmured, circling him, eyes cold and amused. "You really shouldn't have done that."

He growled, swinging again, faster now, more desperate. I ducked, air rushing past my cheek, and kicked him in the knee. A grunt. He staggered, but didn't fall. I grabbed a nearby paperweight, swinging it into his shoulder with precision. Another grunt, and his balance wavered.

"You picked the wrong person," I hissed, spinning, elbow into ribs, a sharp jab to the jaw, then a sweep of legs. Down he went, sprawled across the polished floor, groaning.

Security burst in, frozen, awe written plainly on their faces. I brushed imaginary dust from my blazer, adjusted a strand of hair, and let a faint, sly smile settle.

The intruder lay unconscious. Shadows stretched across the office like dark fingers, twisting and curling. Whoever sent him was no amateur. Not random. Calculated. Professional.

I didn't wait for questions. My mind was already moving ahead—CCTV, emails, phone calls. Someone wanted me dead. I intended to find out who.

___________________

By the next morning, the office was alive with whispers. Colleagues peeked from doorways, sharing incredulous glances.

"She beat him herself!" one whispered.

"I wouldn't last five seconds if someone came at me," another said.

I walked past, heels clicking, voice light, teasing. "Exactly. That's why it's me, not you."

Giulia hovered near security, adjusting cameras and locks. "Everyone's talking," she murmured nervously. "You... you're incredible."

I allowed a slow, knowing smile. "Practical," I corrected. "I prefer practical."

By mid-morning, a uniformed officer appeared, clipboard in hand, professional yet faintly exasperated.

"Ms. Kaine," he said, extending a hand. "Officer Luca Romano. I'm here regarding the assault yesterday."

I shook firmly. "Yes. The suspects are secured. Security alerted. How can I help?"

He glanced at the intruders still groaning in the corner, then back at me. "I need a statement, CCTV footage, and... well, I also wanted to say that was incredibly brave. Most people would've panicked."

I leaned against my desk, crossing one leg. "Thank you. Surviving is my specialty. Panic isn't."

He chuckled. "Handled it like a pro. Few people can say that."

I let my gaze drift to the hallway where colleagues peeked. "Handle it like a pro—or get out of the way."

The officer nodded, making notes, eyes sharp, weighing me like a weapon and a strategist at once.

The day passed, but the threat lingered. My phone buzzed with an anonymous email: "Next time, you won't be so lucky."

A package arrived soon after—a small, intricately carved dagger, and a note: "You can't escape."

I rolled my eyes. Really? Cute. Someone was trying hard.

By lunchtime, I was alone in the office, reviewing reports, when the lights flickered. The hum of electronics warped subtly. Shadows shifted in a deliberate pattern. Too precise to be random.

And then he was there. Masked, knife in hand. The second intruder.

Instinct kicked in. Duck, block, elbow, kick. I grabbed a chair, swinging it with calculated force, sending him into the wall.

"Really?" I panted, smirking. "Two assassins in one day? Ambitious."

He scrambled, knife flashing again. I twisted his arm, slammed him down. Survival first. Mercy... optional.

Security arrived moments later. Groans and confusion filled the room. I stood, chest heaving, smirk curling across lips. "Is that all? Because I haven't even started."

The following days became a delicate ballet of vigilance. Emails, packages, subtle shadows, unusual phone calls. Every step I took, every glance I threw over my shoulder, was cataloged, analyzed. Nights were spent replaying CCTV, memorizing every nuance, every detail.

Training surged back to me: martial arts, hand-to-hand combat, emergency exits, improvisation. Rain-soaked streets. Alleyway escapes. Adrenaline and fear, intertwined and familiar. Every strike, every block, every decision now instinct.

Colleagues continued to whisper, eyes wide with admiration.

"She handled it herself."

"I'd be gone in five seconds."

I let a slow, knowing grin curl. Confidence is as lethal as a perfectly timed strike, and I wielded both effortlessly.

Evening fell. City lights glittered like shards of glass against the night sky. Shadows lingered, threats concealed, a game of survival and strategy playing out silently. Emails and packages whispered the same thing: don't underestimate her.

I didn't.

The storm had arrived. And I was the eye.

The game had begun. And I intended to win.

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