This is for those who like to note if they are First Time Readers (FTR) or Re-readers(RR)

"V169, report to the mission briefing room immediately," crackled Adrian's voice through Vivian's earpiece. She punched the bag one last time, splitting it at its seams with a solid blow. She had been waiting for this call all morning, but her operator had taken his time making it.

Alone in the customized training room, every object was reinforced, every weight heavier, every challenge harder. The smell of sweat and leather permeated the room as Vivian took a deep breath, her knuckles red from bruising and her palms stinging from rope burn.

As she walked through the lobby, ignoring the stares of people blatantly stopping to look at her, Vivian concentrated on the pain to distract herself. She was used to the attention, accustomed to training in her tank top, leggings, and sneakers, a stark difference to the dress code in The Harbor which was either suits or combat fatigues.

As the elevator doors were about to close, a hand reached between them, and someone else stepped in, clutching a silver briefcase. He was tall and muscular, with broad shoulders that strained against the fabric of his suit jacket. His hair was neatly styled, and his sharp features were accentuated by a hint of stubble on his jawline. The feeling that he could crush her if he tried brushed across Vivian's mind, pure instinct, which she quickly suppressed by clenching her fists and letting the pain take the central focus of her mind.

"That's quite high, ninety-third floor." He smiled nervously at Vivian, his accent betraying him as a foreigner, perhaps from London, but mixed with somewhere else. Much further east perhaps. "I'm not the greatest fan of heights."

"Neither am I," Vivian replied. "But my boss prefers to keep mission briefs away from the gym floor."

She caught a glimpse of his gaze fixed upon her through the reflective surface of the silver doors.

"You're definitely not the paper-pushing type," he pointed out.

Vivian shrugged. " I prefer to be on the ground, where I can actually make a difference."

The man averted his eyes, sounding slightly disappointed. "I see. I'm William Cliffton, by the way. Assistant to the London Ambassador to Vanguard."

Vivian raised an eyebrow, turning to face him. "And what brings you to Pearl Harbor?"

William's smile faltered slightly. "I'm here for a conference on inter-territorial trade agreements. It's not exactly my area of expertise, but the Ambassador insisted."

"What is your area of expertise then?"

"International security and diplomatic relations," William replied, his tone professional. "But the Ambassador wanted me to attend this conference to gain a better understanding of the economic issues affecting the region."

Vivian chuckled. "Sounds like you have a lot on your plate."

"You could say that. But it's all part of the job."

Standing in such a confined space with a person of his imposing physical stature set off alarm bells in Vivian's head. She knew that in an open fight, she could take down most personnel here, even those who were bigger and taller than she was. But with limited space for manoeuvrability, he would have the upper hand.

As the elevator ascended, Vivian squeezed her palms harder to suppress the instinctual urge to engage.

She glanced down at the man's hands, which were tightly gripping the handle of his suitcase.

The man's suit was a size too small for him, causing the sleeves to ride up and reveal the bottom edges of a tattoo. Vivian recognized the tattoo as soon as the man's hand started moving.

She ducked under the suitcase, snapping up to drive the heel of her hand into his elbow. Coupled with the weight of the suitcase pulling the other way, there was a satisfying crunch as his elbow joint cracked.

She had anticipated the man's next move: a backhand swing with the suitcase. However, had he charged at her head-on instead, it could have easily resulted in a different outcome. Vivian seized the opportunity and finished the fight with a swift kick to the face, delivered with enough force to incapacitate him but not cause permanent brain damage. Adrian would want him to still able to think coherently when it came to the interrogation.

She had learned the hard way throughout her time in the military that in her world, it was not about starting fights, but about finishing them, and you sure as hell didn't lose them either.

*

Finally, the elevator pinged, and the doors opened onto the top floor. Adrian was waiting, flanked by two burly guards who came in and dragged the man out.

"It always amazes me how trouble always manages to find you," he told her as he took her hands, clicking his tongue in disapproval when he saw the bruises there.

Vivian gently pulled her hands away from his.

"You called," she prompted.

Adrian looked up at her, and she could tell he was contemplating whether to press on. Her grey eyes warned him not to. "You need to take these things more seriously Vivian," he told her as they walked.

She led the way to the briefing room, accompanied by soft mechanical humming as hidden motion sensors analyzed their stride length and step frequency, matching them each to a known profile in the Vanguard database. The doors opened automatically as a result, closing behind them to ensure total privacy.

She only replied once they were inside. "I appreciate the concern. It was one guy in close-quarters combat if you could call it that."

"And who knows if he was working alone? You two were talking, I was told. Who did he say he was?"

"Assistant to the London Ambassador," Vivian replied as she took a seat. "Let's get on with why I'm here."

The glass walls on the ninety-third floor were designed to meet specific requirements, including the need for privacy and light control. They were made with high-quality, thick glass that reduced the amount of sound that could pass through them. Additionally, the surrounding structure was designed to minimize sound reflections, further reducing any noise that might penetrate the glass. While the walls were not completely soundproof, they provided a significant level of sound insulation and ensured that any conversations or activities within the space would not be easily overheard from outside.

The room was centred around a massive glass table, which was the focal point of the space. There was only one seat positioned around it that Vivian currently occupied, with Commander Adrian standing at the head with a tablet in hand.

"This is General Sergei Vasiliev," Adrian explained. An image of the man floated onto the table, and Vivian leaned in for a closer look. "We'll refer to him as 37. He has significant influence in the criminal underworld and we know he is leveraging their resources and manpower for his own gain. Drug trafficking, arms smuggling, extortion, money laundering, the whole package. The gangs gain access to military-grade weapons and protection from law enforcement, while Vasiliev profits from their illicit activities and expands his influence within the criminal underworld."

Vivian had seen the face before on the news, and even on posters in the Thirty-Third Sector that was ruled by Prussian gangs. Sergei had intense eyes beneath heavy brows, his face pockmarked and weathered. A thick grey moustache hid thin lips above his prominent nose. Scars lined his round cheeks beneath a receding hairline and closely shorn haircut, giving him a stern appearance that conveyed authority. It was the perfect face that displayed everything Prussia appeared to be on the outside. The Kovlov family was in charge, but everyone knew Sergei was the one running everything.

"He will be staying at the Star Hotel for the duration of the ongoing diplomatic conference," Adria added. "It's the closest we've had him to our grasp for the past year and a half. If this chance slips, we might never be able to."

"So what is this, revenge?" Vivian asked.

"You know it's not as simple as that," he told her. "If I could-"

"I know," Vivian waved down his excuse. "It's classified information."

"No," Adrian replied. "We've been collecting intel on his activities, digging into his social life, finances, everyone he talks to, who they talk to. We have enough to put a death warrant out for him, but no mercenary is skilled enough to attack a general."

Vivian raised an eyebrow. "You mean dumb enough?"

She crossed her legs and continued. "Not to mention this would be an assassination on our soil. If word got out that Vanguard was involved, it's war."

Adrian nodded. "It's exactly why we could not hire just anyone. You can still say no, and we'll pass this on to someone else."

"Just so you can hire me to clean up their mess? No."

"After the conference, he will be dining with the Prussian royal family. He will be escorted by a royal convoy for about five miles, after which he will be taken up by his own much larger protection, and make a few stops, before being whisked out of the country. We will only provide details on where and when exactly. The rest of the plan is all yours to figure out."

Vivian stood up, her mind already working over the details. "Understood."

Adrian's tone grew more serious. "We want him dead, Vivian. Because of the nature of the mission, you will have no contact or support. If things go south, Vanguard will not help you. Failure is not an option."

She met his gaze, her own steely. "I won't fail."