#agent47

The house reeked of old money and gunpowder masked in cologne.

Laughter floated through the halls like smoke — artificial, rehearsed, hollow.

They were celebrating something. It didn’t matter what. In your grandfather’s mansion, there was always a reason to toast: an acquisition, a silenced threat, a bribed politician.

Crystal chandeliers glittered above velvet floors. Bodyguards stood like statues in corners, earpieces flickering under the low hum of jazz. Waiters moved like ghosts, their silver trays glinting in the light. Power hung in the air like humidity—thick, invisible, and inescapable.

You were standing near the edge of the ballroom, a glass of untouched champagne in hand, playing your role.

The adopted granddaughter.

The precious display piece.

The favorite.

“Daughter of the best man I ever knew,” your grandfather would proclaim, lifting his glass. “Taken too soon. Left me this treasure.”

Treasure.

As if you were something to own.

But you smiled, nodded, and played your part. Sweet. Grateful. Obedient.

All the while, you listened. Watched. Learned.

You weren’t just a face. You became an asset.

You studied languages, trained in defense, read files you weren’t supposed to see, and got a front-row seat to the underworld behind the luxury. You knew the names no one dared speak aloud. The places the cameras didn’t reach. The passwords. The lies.

That’s why, when you saw him, your breath caught for a second.

You saw him before he saw you. Across the room.

Impossibly tall, shoulders squared under a black tailored suit. Bald head. Ice-cold eyes.

A face like marble—sculpted, unreadable, flawless in a way that felt inhuman.

Not just handsome. Unsettlingly handsome.

And the way he moved—smooth, calculated, like someone who never wasted energy unless he intended to end a life.

You watched him.

Longer than you should have.

Then—his eyes met yours.

And in that split-second, something shifted.

Recognition.

Not curiosity.

Not politeness.

Recognition.

And that’s when you knew.

Agent 47.

You’d seen him before — in one of your grandfather’s restricted files.

No name. No confirmed origin. Just a codename. And a warning:

“If you ever see him, it’s already too late."

He knew you could recognize him. That you had access. That you were dangerous.

From his perspective, that left two options:

Evade you.

Or eliminate you.

And yet, neither of you moved.

You didn’t run. Didn’t scream.

You tilted your head just slightly, as if in silent greeting.

And you turned away. Gracefully. Calm.

Then, without a word to anyone, you slipped out through the terrace doors.

Into the night.

Into the maze.

The hedges were tall, perfectly trimmed—like everything in the estate: pristine, hollow, lifeless. The scent of night jasmine lingered faintly in the breeze as you stepped barefoot into the center of the maze, heels dangling from your fingers like dead weight.

Moonlight touched the silk of your gown, making it gleam like liquid ivy. It hugged your waist, flared around your thighs with every step. You walked slowly—intentionally. You didn’t check behind you.

You didn’t have to.

He was already there.

When you reached the marble fountain at the heart of the labyrinth—dry, cracked with age—you turned. Your breath caught, just slightly.

There he was.

Agent 47. The ghost in the suit. The whisper of death your grandfather’s files described as myth and warning.

He stood still, like a shadow carved out of night. Black suit, black shirt, no tie. Broad shoulders. Clean lines. Hands bare now, the moonlight catching on the ridges of his veins and the flex of muscle beneath scarred knuckles. A professional killer... with the body of a goddamn statue.

Your gaze lingered, not for pleasure—though there was something undeniably striking about him—but for assessment. You’d read his file, the forbidden one buried in your grandfather’s encrypted archives. There had been no photos, just stats, data, warnings.

But nothing in the file prepared you for him in the flesh.

And as you took a step forward, you saw it: the faint shift of his weight. Readiness. Awareness.

He was watching you just as carefully.

You continued walking, slow, deliberate.

With each step closer, the difference in height became clearer. You had to tilt your chin higher to meet his gaze. He didn't move. Just stood there, towering and unreadable, like marble sculpted to intimidate.

“You recognized me,” he said, voice low and flat.

You nodded once. “Took me a second.”

You took a step. Close now. So close that you had to look fully upward to keep your eyes on his. Your lashes caught the light. He noticed that.

You tilted your head, voice softer now, but cool. Controlled.

“You saw my name in the report. What did it say?”

His answer was immediate. “High-risk. Access to classified data. Too perceptive. Possibly disloyal. Disposal advised.”

You raised an eyebrow. "Then do it,” you said.

His eyes sharpened.

You shrugged lightly. “Put a bullet in me, Agent. But don’t pretend that’s the smart move.”

He didn’t lift a hand.

Didn’t move.

But the tension crackled in the space between you like a coiled storm.

“You want him dead" he said

“ and didn’t you come for that?" You said looking at him deeply

A flicker of something moved behind his eyes—recognition, maybe. Or approval.

“What do you want from me?” he asked at last.

You exhaled " Want? Mmm “I’m offering you something smarter,” you said. “Access. Position. Cover.”

You tilted your head slightly, voice quieting. “Because the last seven who came here to kill him, they’re buried already in the rose garden. Every time someone fails, the old bastard locks things down tighter, And yet, he does not prevent or forbid me from anything, Using his words, I'm his Treasure"

You made air quotes with your fingers, bitterly amused. “ but I'm just the good public image. He keeps me close for show. And because he thinks I owe him my life.”

“Do you?"

You gave him a sharp look. “I owe him nothing. And I want him dead.”

You let the silence settle.

Then, with elegance, you turned and walked back to the fountain. You sat on the wide edge, crossing one leg over the other. The movement was relaxed, intentional, feminine—but never weak.

47 remained standing.

You looked at him again.

“I’ve never brought anyone here before. No boyfriends, no lovers. If I suddenly show up with someone? People will talk. He’ll get curious. But because I’m the one bringing you in, you’ll be safe. Untouchable.”

She leaned her arms back behind her on the fountain’s rim, moonlight hitting her collarbones and the tension in her shoulders.

“If you come in as my lover, through my trust—you’re protected. You’ll have access to rooms, conversations, routines. And I’ll make it easy.”

“What do you want in return?”

You hesitated, just a moment.

“Well, besides I want him to suffer and to rot in his own fear before he dies" You said obviously. "There’s something of my mother’s he took. A pendant. Hides information—I think about the people he’s blackmailed, what he did to her. And to my father. He killed him, how he abused her into silence and isolation.”

A long moment passed, he said nothing—but you watched his gaze trace you, just once.

From the calm strength of your stance, to the way your dress didn’t hide muscle, control, the truth of a woman no one in this house ever truly saw.

His eyes drifted to your thigh—just for a second. Enough to confirm what he already knew: the weapon beneath the silk, well-placed, professional.

You weren’t what you appeared to be.

Neither was he.

She watched him for a long second, then smiled just a little.

“Well?” you asked. “Do we have a deal, Agent?”

Another beat of silence.

Then 47 stepped forward, reached up slowly, and removed one glove. The gesture felt ritualistic.

He extended his hand.