Paris welcomed me at six in the evening with soft amber skies and streets that pretended innocence too well.
The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of a small café tucked between narrow buildings. The sign above the entrance read Au Lait, written in elegant cursive, glowing faintly under warm lights. The engine shut off. The door opened. Then closed.
And just like that, I was alone.
I stood there for a second, letting the weight of the moment settle into my bones. This was it. The coordinates Anna had sent. The gateway. One wrong word, one wrong breath—and I wouldn't walk out alive.
I adjusted my coat, exhaled slowly, and pushed the door open.
A bell chimed.
The café was empty.
Too empty.
The air smelled of burnt coffee, smoke, and something metallic underneath. At the counter sat a girl, boots propped up casually, cigarette dangling between her fingers like she owned the place. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling. Two men occupied a corner table, UNO cards spread out between them, laughter low and sharp.
All three of them looked up at once.
Their eyes landed on me.
I didn't hesitate.
I walked to the counter, pulled out a stool, and sat like I belonged there.
"Latte, please?" I said calmly, meeting the girl's gaze.
She blinked once. Then grinned.
"What a… random choice," she said, voice rough, amused. "In a place like this."
"Oh," I replied lightly, smiling back, "thanks for telling me."
Her smile twitched.
"Tsk."
Annoyed. Good.
I glanced around the café again. Empty tables. No customers. No music. Just us.
"Why don't you have customers?" I asked casually.
She smirked, blowing smoke to the side.
"You're a hell of a lost kitten, aren't you?" she said, eyes sharp, deadpan.
Before I could respond, one of the men stood.
He looked about twenty-four or twenty-five. Tall. Lean. The kind of confidence that came from violence, not words. He pulled out a chair and sat beside me like we were old friends.
"Listen," he said quietly. "This café isn't for everyone."
"Our people come here."
"Our people?" I echoed, turning my head slightly.
He chuckled.
"Oh, and why should I tell you?"
I met his eyes.
Cold. Empty.
Something flickered.
He stood abruptly, laughing.
Then—
Pain exploded.
His foot slammed into my face in a flying kick before I could even stand. My head snapped back, smashing into the counter behind me. Something warm trickled down my temple.
Blood.
I staggered up slowly.
"Oh, now this," he said excitedly, cracking his knuckles, "this is what I'm talking about!"
He lunged first.
A punch.
I dodged, pivoted, slammed my fist into his stomach. Then his back.
Blood sprayed from his mouth.
He laughed.
He punched me square in the face.
I flew backward, crashing onto the counter again. He kicked my back—once, twice, again and again—until my breath left me in sharp gasps.
Then he stopped.
"Come at me, you bitch!"
I did.
Slowly.
Silently.
I stepped forward, eyes empty.
He slapped me hard. My head snapped to the side.
I punched him with everything I had.
He crashed into a nearby table, cards flying everywhere. As he tried to stand, I was already there—kicking him down again and again.
No screaming.
No rage.
Just motion.
Just damage.
"Enough," a voice said calmly behind me.
We stopped.
The boy behind me stepped forward. Younger. About twenty. Sharp eyes. Observant.
The man wiped blood from his mouth, grinning.
"Name's Drake," he said. "Twenty-four."
He nodded toward the younger one.
"That's Ron. Just turned twenty."
The girl flicked her cigarette away and approached me.
"I'm Helena," she said. "Call me Hell."
She tilted her head.
"And you are?"
"…Ruby," I said.
A lie. Again.
She laughed softly, then stepped closer and placed a necklace in my palm.
A diamond-shaped pendant. In the center—a black orb, glossy, reflecting the light unnaturally.
"Care to join our mafia?" she asked.
I looked at the necklace.
"Name?" I asked. "Position?"
She smiled wider.
"Smart."
"The Leons," she said. "And you'll be… member of Security Capo."
"What's that?"
She leaned back, clearly enjoying this.
She explained everything. The hierarchy. The divisions. The shadow networks. The power.
When she finished, silence filled the café.
"I see," I said quietly.
"I'll inform Liam," she said.
"Liam?" I asked.
"Our chairman."
I looked down at the necklace.
Then I wore it.
Outside, I activated my airpod.
"Nam, can you hear me?" Anna whispered.
"Yes. I'm officially a Leons member."
"Oh my God—"
"The Strategic Advisor and I fought," I added calmly.
Silence.
"…Did you get my surprise?" I asked.
"Oh—"
"Yes," Ethan's voice came through. "She did."
"I'm glad."
"Nam," Anna whispered urgently. "Liam is nearby."
"I'll call later."
I went back inside.
"Back," I said.
The door opened.
He walked in.
Liam Mathew.
Sharp jaw. Cold grey eyes. Perfect suit. A predator wrapped in silk.
Beside him—
Jack.
He didn't look at me.
But our eyes met for less than a second.
Enough.
Liam sat across from me.
"Heard you fight well," he said. "And wish to join my world."
"Yes."
"Do you understand where you're stepping?"
"Yes."
A pause.
Then he signaled Jack.
Papers slid across the table.
A contract.
I read it.
Then signed.
"Hell," Liam said, standing. "Take her to Security."
After he left—
"Ruby, right?" Helena asked.
"Yes."
"From now on," she said, gripping my chin, forcing me to look up, "your name is Selena. Nickname—Sell."
My heart dropped.
Selena.
My real name.
"Alright?" she snapped.
"Yes," I replied quietly.
"Good. Let's go."
I followed her into the car.
And for the first time in days—
I slept.
"Hey. Selé."
Helena shook me.
"Wake up."
I opened my eyes.
"Oh, are we already—"
I froze.
My breath hitched.
We were no longer in Paris.
Tall iron gates loomed ahead, carved with symbols I didn't recognize but instinctively understood—warnings, not decorations. Beyond them stretched a private compound hidden between dense trees, floodlights slicing through the night like watchful eyes. Armed men stood at intervals, silhouettes sharp against the glow, rifles resting casually in their hands as if violence were routine.
Helena smirked at my expression.
"Welcome to Security," she said.
The gates opened with a low mechanical groan, and the car rolled inside. Gravel crunched beneath the tires. The deeper we went, the quieter everything became—no city noise, no laughter, no music. Just engines, boots, and control.
The car stopped.
"Out," Helena ordered.
I stepped out, the cold air biting into my skin. A large concrete building stood before us, brutal and unadorned. No windows on the lower floors. Only steel doors and cameras—dozens of them.
"This is where you'll live," Helena said. "Train. Bleed. Prove yourself."
She leaned closer, voice dropping.
"And where weak people don't last."
Inside, the air smelled of metal, sweat, and antiseptic. Men and women trained in silence—hand-to-hand combat, weapons assembly, tactical drills. No one spared me a second glance, but I felt it: evaluation. Judgment.
Helena stopped in front of a door.
"Your predecessor," she said casually, "died three months ago."
I didn't react.
"Good," she added. "No fear. Liam likes that."
She opened the door.
Inside was a small room. Bed. Locker. Table. Nothing else.
"This is yours," she said. "Training starts at dawn. Fail, and you won't get a second chance."
She turned to leave, then paused.
"Oh—and Selena?"
I looked at her.
"In this place," she smiled coldly, "names don't save you."
The door shut behind her.