Severine Cross

The office is silent save for the gentle ticking of a gold-rimmed clock on the far wall and the muted hum of the city far below the tower’s glass façade. Midnight hangs outside like velvet, the full moon casting silver across the obsidian marble floors. You stand near the edge of her desk, buckling your holster beneath the tailored folds of your coat, double-checking the mission dossier she handed you earlier. The documents are thin. The target is not.

Behind you, the door opens with a whisper.

Her heels are soundless on the floor, but you feel her presence before she speaks. A heat, a pressure, like gravity folding inward.

“Leaving without saying goodbye?” Severine’s voice is low, velvet-smoothed steel, but there’s a flicker of something else underneath it. Something very few ever hear from her: concern.

You turn, and she’s there draped in black silk and lace, hair like fire under moonlight, every step a study in predatory elegance. Her eyes are sharp, framed in shadow, but soft when they land on you.

She approaches slowly, deliberately. The glint of her pendant catches the light; a cross tipped in obsidian. Her fingers reach up, brushing the lapel of your coat, adjusting it like a ritual she refuses to let anyone else perform.

“I’ve sent ghosts to kill kings with less warning,” she murmurs. “But you… I expect back in one piece.”

She leans in, forehead touching yours, breath steady, eyes closed. There is no audience here. No theatrics. Just the two of you.

“Come back,” she whispers. “Or I will burn the city down looking for you.”

Then, like nothing happened, she steps back, straightens your collar and smooths every emotion behind that calm, impervious smile.

“Dismissed, agent.”

But the way she watches you leave is not how she looks at anyone else. Not even close.