REBEL : THE DEADLY HIERESS

REBEL

The loud, chaotic streets of Cali were loud and chaotic, but I had mastered tuning out the noise. Sharp as a razor, I could cut through a crowded marketplace with precision. My small, dirt-streaked hands moved in and out of pockets and bags with the specificity of someone far older, plucking wallets and coins without the faintest ripple of suspicion. I was a ghost, unseen and unnoticed, at six years old, and the movements developed my instincts for survival.

As I walked, I could feel eyes on me, but when I turned back, there was no one watching, so I plough on.

MICHAEL

Il leaned against a lamppost on the edge of the market, my piercing gaze following the little girl's every move. I'd been watching her for three days now, curiosity growing with each passing hour. Most kids her age had families, or at least a group to cling to in the streets. Not her. She was utterly alone, moving with a silent efficiency that spoke of both talent and desperation.

Today, though, it wasn't quite her day to be lucky.

"Hey! Thief!" bellowed a burly vendor, clutching at his apron where his wallet used to be.

She froze for a fraction of a second before bolting, her slight frame darting between legs and under carts. The vendor gave chase, joined by two more, their heavy boots pounding the ground as they ran.

I stepped into the fray, moving with a calculated calm. It took me seconds to intercept the vendor, his imposing presence stopping the man mid-step.

"Calm down," I said, my voice low and commanding. "You're chasing a child."

"She stole from me!" the vendor snapped, but his anger faltered under my steely gaze.

"And you're a grown man. Walk away," I said, leaving no room for opposition. The seller flinched before muttering under his breath and slinking away.

Meanwhile, the little had ducked into an alley, her breathing in ragged gasps as she clutched the stolen wallet tightly and her heart pounded against her chest. She was used to running, used to hiding, but something in that man out in the marketplace gave her a screw in her already troubled head. He hadn't run after her. He hadn't hollered. But somehow, I had the sensation he'd seen me. Truly.

"You're fast," I said, calm and unhurried.

She whipped around, her eyes narrowing as she spotted me at the mouth of the alley. She sizes me up from head to toe.

"Get lost," she hissed, backing up. She glanced over her shoulder, ready to bolt again.

"You've got skills," I continued as if she hadn't spoken. "But you're wasting them."

"I don't need your advice.

No, but you need help," he said even. "How long do you think you can keep this up? Stealing scraps, running from people twice your size? One day, you'll slip."

"I've been fine on my own," she snapped, though the crack in her voice betrayed her fear.

I stepped closer, slow enough not to spook her. "Fine isn't living. I can offer you something better.

She snorted. "Like what? A warm bed and three meals a day? Is this where you pretend to care?"

I didn't bat an eye at her sarcasm. Instead, I squatted down to her level, his piercing eyes meeting hers. "No. I'm offering you a purpose. A way out of this life if you want it.

She stared at me, her mind racing. She didn't trust him for a second. There was something in his voice, the way he spoke, that caught her back.

"What's the catch?" she asked, her voice cautious.

I chuckle. Good girl, there is always a catch, but for me, "You follow my rules. No more stealing. No more running. You train, you learn, and you survive," I said simply. "Or you can stay here, waiting for the day someone catches you and decides you're not worth sparing."

My words settled over her like a shroud, and for the first time in a very long time possibly, the cold grip of fear wrapped itself around her heart as she breathes harshly. She looked down at the wallet still clutched in her hand and back up at me again.

"Why would you care?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

My expression softened, but just enough. "Because I see potential in you. And because no one helped me when I was your age. Maybe I'm trying to balance the scales."

She hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to run. But something she couldn't quite make her take a step forward, then another.

"Fine," she said, voice trembling but firm. "But if this is a trick-

“It’s not,” Michael cut in, standing and extending a hand. “You’ll see.”

With a deep breath, she placed her small hand in mine. Feeling the texture of my hand which was rough and calloused, but steady and strong. For the first time in her young life, she felt a glimmer of something she didn’t recognize yet. Safety.

REBEL

And so, my life with Michael began.

After ten years away, I’ve been summoned back home. Strange, isn’t it? I don't feel anything toward Cali anymore. You'd think there's some sort of nostalgia, but just indifference. That city is where my boss, Michael, found me when I was six, living under a bridge. I was so good at picking pockets that he couldn't resist watching me. For days, he kept an eye on me, observing how I survived alone. Then, one day, he stepped in and took me under his wing.

Michael is…complicated. Cold and strict, yes, but he’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a parent. He never let me slack, never let me have a normal life. Not that a normal life is possible in our world—it’s too dangerous. His wife was killed during one of his missions, and he’s been emotionally shut off ever since. We live in the shadows, working for governments, private clients, politicians—anyone who can pay. The jobs are high-stakes, and the money is obscene, but we keep a low profile. I've learned to blend in anywhere, anytime, without leaving a trace.

This morning, the letter arrived. It was an unassuming envelope with no return address, yet I knew immediately whose seal it was—a blood-red crescent moon, a dagger planted dead at the centre. Only one group uses that symbol: my "family." The family I left behind all those years ago. It was a summons. Return home, it said. Immediately.

The word 'home' is a foreign, bitter thing in my mouth. What home have I known? The cold stone walls of the Crescent's fortress? Harsh training grounds that promised punishment if I failed? The dark corridors that once I feared, hiding within, terrified of what my destiny might be.

Even now, I can almost hear the voices of my trainers, those who made me into what I am a weapon. They taught me how to kill, to disappear, to wield silence like a blade. But never to bury the pain of growing up in fear. That, I taught myself. I had to.

Standing here with the letter in my hand, the past I worked desperately to bury comes crashing over me. Once I had escaped, all the while I knew I couldn't ever be free. If they've called me back, there's something wrong. Shadow Axe doesn't summon anyone lightly.

Yet. they were my family. For worse or for better, they were the ones to make me what I was.

All I know is that when I eventually did, something should have kicked in nostalgia, anger, maybe sadness. There's nothing. No attachment to this place whatsoever, emotion absent. House, just being a house, gorgeously decorated, of course, but none in it had been chosen by me: neither furniture, nor the arts, and not the house. Moving often, I caught interest or attached myself to nothing. But amidst the luxury penthouses and the beach houses, the vacations never felt at home anywhere. Honestly, I'm exhausted. But my life isn't mine. It's the organization's. That's what I signed up for.

The maids:(Bows) welcome back mistress

Sipping wine, reviewing the next target after a long soak in the bathtub, I rise from the tub. Two maids enter the room and begin wrapping me with towels. None of us ever question a mission; all I've been provided is the name of someone, and tonight they die.

Lying on the bed is a ruby-red gown, slit high on one side. The fabric is smooth and luxurious, and it's perfect. Red has always been my colour-bold, striking, and dangerous. I let the stylists do their job with my hair, makeup, and jewellery. By the time they're finished with me, I look amazing. My shimmering red lips complete the dress, and the reflection staring back in the mirror is killer. Deadly.

My phone rings. Michael.

Michael: Hey baby

Rebel: Hi daddy

Michael: Does it feel good to be back?

Rebel: Not so much Michael

Michael: I'm sorry to hear that, sweetheart, but hopefully you're just jetlagged. Now remember, no traces, no clues. Get in, make sure you are seen, deal with your target and exit. If you have any issues at all, call me immediately. Got that?

Rebel: Copy, Daddy. Will keep in touch when the target is down.

Michael: Stay safe Rebel

Rebel: Bye Daddy (lìne goes dead)

I instruct a maid to summon my driver. Tonight's party is high-profile, so I can't carry a gun. No problem. I strap a small pistol to my thigh just in case and smile to myself. At twenty-five, my entire body is a weapon. I don't need much to take someone down. Even my nails are deadly.

As I take one last look at myself again in the mirror, a small hand puts a knife to my neck, and I calmly look into the eyes of the trembling figure, smile before the little female can breathe down, I turn around and snap her neck, then use the same knife in her hands to kill three men and fix my makeup, all of a sudden, I hear footsteps, and I fix my posture, preparing for another fight.