Chapter 1 — Prologue: Blood on the Marble

Third Person

The house was enveloped in an almost sacred stillness, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the low murmur of voices from the kitchen. Shadows stretched across the walls of the living room, the flickering light of the television casting a ghostly glow on the plush carpet where thirteen-year-old Marilyne Parker sat. Her dark hair fell in loose strands over her sharp features as she hunched over her sketchbook, pencil moving with quiet purpose.

Hazel eyes, too young to carry the intensity they sometimes held, focused on the lines she was drawing. Her lips pressed into a slight pout of concentration, her world narrowed to the image she was slowly creating. Around her, the warmth of the house persisted like a fading ember, a fragile cocoon imbued with the echoes of long-lost laughter.

“Just a little longer,” she had begged earlier, clutching her sketchbook when her parents told her it was time for bed. She wasn’t ready to let go of the moment—the softness of her mother’s smile, the steady rhythm of her father’s voice drifting in from the kitchen.

“It’ll be fine,” her father said, his tone steady yet strained, as though he were trying to convince himself. “We just need to wait it out. He’ll lose interest.”

Her mother’s reply was quieter, tight with worry. Marilyne couldn’t make out the words, but something in her tone pulled her pencil to a halt. A small knot tightened in her chest, a flicker of unease she didn’t fully understand. Outside, the uneven creak of the front porch swing swayed in the night breeze, its rhythm slightly off, as though something unseen had shifted.

The snap of breaking glass shattered the fragile peace.

Marilyne’s pencil snapped in her hand, the sudden sound jolting her upright. Her eyes darted toward the hallway, toward the soft halo of light spilling from the kitchen. Her mother’s sharp gasp reached her ears, followed by her father’s voice, louder now, urgent and commanding.

“Get behind me!”

Her heart jumped into her throat. She scrambled to her feet, her sketchbook tumbling to the floor. The half-finished drawing stared up at her, forgotten as the icy grip of fear seized her limbs. The warmth of the house was gone, replaced by a cold dread that seeped into her bones.

A shadow loomed across the hallway, massive and deliberate. And then he stepped into view—a man whose presence swallowed the light behind him. The sharpness of his Slavic features seemed carved from stone, his pale blue eyes cold and unfeeling as they swept the room. The gun in his hand gleamed under the fluorescent glow, the angle of the barrel unsettling in its quiet promise.

“Dimitri,” her father said, stepping forward to shield her mother. His voice trembled, a shaky thread of defiance woven through the fear. “You don’t have to do this. We’ve kept our end. There’s no reason for this—you don’t need to—”

Dimitri tilted his head, his movements almost lazy. “Your end?” he repeated, his voice low, laced with a faint Russian accent. The corner of his mouth curled into something resembling a smile, but it was devoid of warmth. “What use is loyalty when it no longer serves you?” He let the words hang, as though savoring the taste of them. “Some debts are paid with blood.”

Her mother clutched her father’s arm, her nails digging into his sleeve. “Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “We have a daughter. Please, we’ll disappear—you’ll never hear from us again. Just… please.”

For a moment, the silence stretched unbearably. Dimitri’s gaze flickered to her mother, then back to her father, as though calculating the weight of their lives against some unseen scale. His lips parted, his voice soft, almost gentle. “Begging is unbecoming.”

And then he raised the gun.

The shot was deafening. The sound tore through the room, a sharp crack that seemed to split Marilyne’s world in two. Her father collapsed, his body crumpling to the floor as crimson blossomed across the white marble tiles. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the blood spreading like a grotesque flower, the vibrancy of it at odds with the sterile gleam of the floor.

Her mother screamed, the sound raw and jagged, scraping against Marilyne’s nerves. She dropped to her knees beside her husband, her hands trembling as they reached for him. Tears streaked her face. “No, no, no. You monster,” she choked out, her voice cracking. “She’s just a child. Let her go. Please, I’m begging you.”

Dimitri’s cold gaze settled on her mother. He crouched slightly, meeting her wide, tear-filled eyes. “I told you,” he said softly, his tone polite but devoid of pity. “Begging is unbecoming.”

Her mother’s sobs filled the space between them. Dimitri straightened and fired again.

The second shot hit harder than the first, reverberating through the walls, through Marilyne’s chest. Her mother slumped forward, her blood mingling with her father’s on the cold, gleaming floor.

Time seemed to stop. The room was silent, save for the faint ringing in her ears. Marilyne couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her eyes locked onto the crimson pool spreading across the marble, her limbs frozen in place. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, sharp and suffocating.

Dimitri turned. His gaze swept the room before landing on her, his pale eyes locking onto hers. The corners of his mouth curled once more, slower this time, deliberate. “Ah,” he said, his tone almost conversational. “A witness. Brave enough to stay and watch?”

Her breath hitched, and her legs finally obeyed her. She stumbled backward, her heel catching on the edge of the coffee table. Her hand scrambled for purchase, her fingers closing around something cold and smooth.

The dagger. Her father’s dagger. Marbled obsidian, veined with faint white streaks. She had seen it before in his hands, a relic of a time he rarely spoke about. Now it was in her grasp, its sharp weight anchoring her as the world spun around her.

“You won’t get far,” Dimitri said, taking a step toward her, his movements slow and deliberate. “But I’ll give you this much—you have your father’s fire.”

The sound of distant sirens pierced the air, their wail growing louder by the second. Dimitri’s smile faded, his expression hardening. He lowered the gun, his gaze lingering on her. “Not tonight,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But we’ll meet again.”

And then he was gone, disappearing into the shadows as quickly as he had come.

Marilyne fell to her knees, the dagger slipping from her grasp with a dull clink. The room blurred around her as tears filled her eyes. Her parents lay motionless before her, the warmth already draining from their faces. Her chest felt like it was caving in, the weight of a thousand unanswered questions pressing down on her.

The sirens grew closer, their mournful wail a hollow echo of the nightmare that had consumed her life.

---

Eight years later.

The Silhouette District was a city within a city, its darkened streets pulsating with quiet menace. Moonlight filtered through narrow alleyways, casting fractured shadows over graffiti-streaked walls. The air was damp, carrying the faint stench of oil, rust, and the sour tang of desperation.

Marilyne moved silently through the labyrinth of shadows, her braid swinging behind her. Her leather jacket creaked faintly with each step, the marbled obsidian dagger strapped at her side a silent reminder of the vow she had made years ago. Her hazel eyes, now hard and unyielding, scanned her surroundings with the precision of a predator.

She stopped beneath a flickering neon sign, her hand brushing against the compass pendant around her neck. Her thumb traced its worn surface, the engraved stars smooth from years of touch. It had once pointed her to safety. Now, it pointed her forward, deeper into the darkness.

The whispers of Dimitri’s name had led her here, to the heart of the city’s underbelly. For years, she had followed his trail, piecing together the scattered fragments of a life she hardly recognized anymore. Each thread of intel had pulled her closer to this moment.

She melted into the shadows, her steps soundless. Her fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger, its weight both a comfort and a burden.

Her mind replayed the promise she had made on that bloodstained marble floor.

She would find Dimitri. And when she did, he would answer for everything he had taken from her.

Yet, as her thumb traced the edge of her compass, a question lingered, unspoken but insistent.

What would she become when the revenge that defined her was finally within reach?