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She walked to the window and looked out at the neon city. The rain had stopped. The sky was clearing.
In the city of Veranti, where rain fell like judgment and the neon lights bled into the wet streets, Lady Vengeance was not a myth. She was a schedule.
Elara Vance stood under the awning of a derelict laundromat, the neon sign buzzing above her head like a dying insect. She checked her watch. 11:58 PM. Two minutes until the tenth anniversary of the night her life was stolen.
"You don't recognize me, Silas?" she asked. Her voice was low, void of the rage one might expect. It was the voice of an executioner reading a verdict.
Thorne squinted, the color draining from his face as he looked at the scar running down her cheek—a souvenir from her first week in Blackgate. "Vance?" he whispered. "You're dead. You burned."
"Who sent you?" Thorne spat, his voice trembling. " The Russians? The Triads? I can double whatever they’re paying."
She was not a myth.
