Page 4 of Once A Villain

By the time he’s passed out in a drunken heap, I’m already in the shower, scrubbing away the scent of sex and sweat. I never stay. That’s not part of the deal.

The driver drops me off at Starlight Pavilion, where my black G-Wagon waits, gleaming under the streetlights.

Back at my townhouse, my slice of freedom. The Sovereign life may own most of me, but this? This is mine. No Sovereign strings attached.

For Servants, keeping the right Sovereigns happy means the cash flows freely. They will provide, but only if I ask, and I’m done with that. Everything I own—cars, clothes, this house—I’ve earned it all. If the Sovereign ever found out, they’d flip. Punishment wouldn’t just be swift; it’d be brutal. And my father? He’d disown me faster than I could blink, leaving me to pick up the pieces of a catastrophic fallout.

But I’m no longer that naïve girl who swore blind loyalty. I’ve grown up, and my desires are crystal clear: I want control over my own life.

My breath is steady beneath the mask, each exhale muted by the fabric pressing against my face. Dressed in black, weapons strapped to my body, fingers itching for action, I blend into the night.

I navigate the back alleys like a shadow, slipping past cameras and guards with practiced ease. The target window is three stories up. Scaling the brick wall is child’s play.

This mission has been in the works for over a week. Every detail is meticulously planned; timing is everything—there’s no margin for error. The guards switch shifts at 3 a.m. sharp.

I wait in the darkness, muscles coiled, senses sharpened. My heart pounds in time with the ticking seconds, adrenaline fueling the fire in my veins.

It’s time.

The window opens without a sound, and I slip inside, my feet landing on the marble floors. The mansion’s layout is imprinted in my mind—every corridor, every corner mapped out with precision.

At the end of the hallway, the target’s bedroom door is slightly ajar. I push it open with barely a sound, slipping inside and closing it behind me. The room is pitch black, his form barely a shadow beneath the covers. I move closer, each step deliberate, each breath measured. The knife slips from its sheath, cold steel eager to taste blood.

I hover over him, the blade raised above his chest. One breath. One final heartbeat. And I strike.

The knife sinks into his flesh with a satisfying wet sound. His eyes snap open, a strangled gasp caught against my gloved hand. Terror flares in his gaze as he takes in the skull mask above him. His struggle weakens as blood pools beneath him, soaking the sheets as the light fades from his eyes. His last breath shudders beneath my palm.

I pull the knife free, blood dripping from the blade.

The job is done. The leader of the Dolore Brotherhood is dead, and with him, Conrad’s reckless move has birthed a powerful enemy. They will retaliate—hard.

Retracing my steps, I slip into the dark, unseen and unheard. The estate’s walls rise before me, topped with lethal spikes. I scale the barrier, muscles straining as I pull myself over. Landing softly on the other side, I vanish into the night.

Pulling out my phone, I send Conrad a single text

It’s done

Death Bonds don’t expire. Payment comes on my terms, not theirs. There are Bonds I’ve yet to cash in, letting these arrogant bastards forget they owe me. They think their titles and wealth protect them, that they’re untouchable. It’s laughable.

Conrad’s reply pings seconds later

Come to the Iron.

The Iron—the East Coast Sovereign section headquarters—is buried deep beneath the filth of New York’s streets. The Sovereign isn’t just an organization; it’s a beast, sprawling across continents, carved into sections—East Coast, West Coast, North, South, Europe. Each section has its own rulers, all answering to the Sovereign Council but clawing at each other’s throats, always hungry, always scheming.

My base is the East Coast. Conrad's a Commander here, but power in this world is always on borrowed time, and Conrad’s clock is ticking.

After sixteen hours of travel, my body’s wrecked—muscles stiff, every bone screaming—but pain’s nothing new. Travel. Fight. Kill. Repeat. Rest? That’s for the dead, and I’m far from finished.

The drive to the Iron is quiet. No distractions. I savor it. The calm before the storm. The moment when Conrad finally realizes how badly he’s fucked up.

The Iron is a fortress, Sovereign power wrapped in concrete and steel. It’s a city beneath a city—hospital, weapon vaults, training grounds, living quarters for recruits. Every inch designed to keep the Sovereign’s secrets buried.

At the metal door entrance, I punch in the code, the lock snapping open with a cold, mechanical click. The elevator’s descent is slow into the Sovereign underworld.

When the doors slide open, I step into the core of the Iron—a hive of motion and control. Operatives move like clockwork, their faces grim, their tasks clear. This place runs on discipline, hierarchy carved into its bones.

Field agents are the Sovereign’s lifeblood, the ones who kill and crush skulls without hesitation. They handle the dirty work. Above them sit the Commanders, the puppet masters pulling strings, managing resources to maintain control.

---