Prague in winter smells like cold stone and expensive perfume.

You stand near the bar, black dress cut low, hair pinned so tight it pulls at your scalp. Not a strand out of place. Not a beat missed in your pulse.

Across the room, your target laughs at something a woman in emerald silk whispers near his ear. He thinks he’s untouchable.

Your earpiece crackles.

Then you step forward.

The crowd parts around you like water. Trained bodies recognize trained movement, even unconscious of it.

You approach the target with a smile—warm, disarming. Your hand finds his arm. Light. Brief.

He leans closer, charmed.

The ring on your finger glints under the chandeliers. Micro-needle. Fast-acting. Painless.

You press it into his wrist in the same movement as adjusting your hair.

One second.

Two.

Then you feel it.

Not heat. Not danger.

Recognition.

Across the balcony, leaning against the railing like he owns the night—dark hair. Still posture. Storm-gray eyes.

Blake.

He isn’t watching the party. He’s watching you.

The target sways beside you. Someone laughs. Someone else calls for champagne.

Blake lifts his glass. Barely. A silent toast.

Acknowledgment. Challenge.

Your earpiece hisses.

He looks at you.

And for the first time since you were five years old—

You hesitate.