The streets of Liverpool whispered secrets to those who knew how to listen. Alexander Bluestone was one of them.
Leaving the Commissioner's Office, he moved through the damp, dimly lit alleys, his steps silent against the worn cobblestones. The scent of rain lingered in the cold air, blending with the faint traces of smoke from distant chimneys. The city was alive in its own way—murky, restless, and filled with unseen dangers lurking beneath its surface.
Alexander wasn't walking aimlessly. The Grim Reaper's shadow stretched far, and the alleyways were often where the first whispers of truth could be found. He kept his hands in his pockets, his fingers brushing against his golden pocket watch, a silent reminder that time was always ticking.
Then, he saw her.
At the far end of the alley, bathed in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp, stood a woman. Long, dark red hair cascaded down her back, swaying slightly in the cold wind. Her brownish-golden eyes gleamed like molten metal, sharp and unyielding. She looked no older than twenty-five—his age.
But she wasn't alone.
Surrounding her were at least twenty men, their postures dripping with hostility. Some carried knives, others had clubs, but all had the same hungry, dangerous gleam in their eyes. They weren't ordinary thugs.
Alexander stepped back into the shadows, watching.
One of the men stepped forward, his voice low and taunting. "Pretty thing like you shouldn't be walking around alone, love."
The woman didn't move. Didn't flinch.
Then, in a flash of silver, a blade appeared in her grasp.
The next few seconds were a blur of violence.
She moved with precision, her sword carving through the air like a ghostly waltz. A flash of steel, a spray of crimson. The first man went down, clutching his arm, screaming. Another lunged—she sidestepped, slicing deep into his thigh. One by one, they fell, their groans and curses filling the alley as their bodies hit the ground.
Within moments, all twenty lay injured, moaning in pain.
Alexander smirked. She's good.
Stepping from the shadows, he spoke, his voice smooth yet laced with an edge. "You handled that well."
The woman turned sharply, her golden-brown eyes burning with distrust. She still held her blade, its tip gleaming with blood. "Who the hell are you?"
Alexander took slow steps toward her, his gaze unwavering. "Someone who appreciates efficiency."
She scoffed, shifting her grip on the weapon. "I don't need an audience."
He stopped just a foot away. "You need something, though."
Her eyes narrowed. "And what exactly do you think I need?"
Faster than she could react, Alexander grabbed her wrist, twisting it just enough to make her wince, but not enough to break it. In the same fluid motion, he pressed her against the cold brick wall, his grip firm, unyielding.
Her breathing hitched, but she didn't struggle. Not yet.
Alexander's gaze was cold, calculating. "You're an assassin." His voice dropped lower, almost hypnotic. "You know how to kill. How to survive. But what you lack—" he leaned in slightly, his voice a near whisper, "—is purpose."
She tensed.
Alexander smirked. "Join me."
Her breath was shaky, but her voice tried to be steady. "Why the hell would I?"
He tilted his head slightly, studying her. "Because, Roselia Dukeforth…" He purposely said her full name, watching her flinch in surprise. "You've been running. Fighting. Surviving. But you're alone." His sapphire-blue eyes locked onto hers, unrelenting. "And alone is a death sentence in this world."
Her body stiffened. He had her.
A long silence passed before she finally exhaled.
"Fine." Her voice was quieter now, cautious. "I'll join you."
Alexander smiled faintly, releasing his grip. "Welcome to the hunt, Rose."