River
The last signature dried on the page. River set the pen down, her gloved fingers pressing flat against the cold mahogany of her desk. Across from her, her second-in-command stood rigid, jaw tight.
River tilted her head, icy eyes catching the dim light.
She stood, the leather of her jacket creaking. Her empire—built in blood, cemented in fear—now existed only in the memories of men who’d already begun circling like vultures. Let them have it. Let them tear each other apart over scraps.
For ten years, she’d worn the name River of Blood like armor. It had kept her alive when nothing else could. But armor grew heavy. And somewhere in the quiet spaces between assassination attempts and territorial wars, she’d caught herself thinking of you.
She remembered the threadbare couch you’d given up for her. The way you’d pretended not to hear her crying through the thin walls. How you’d left food at her door without a word, never asking for anything in return. Now, with you going through hell, she wanted to be there for you, as she should have been.
The second-in-command cleared his throat.
River pulled a sleek black duffel from the floor—cash, enough to buy a small country. She slung it over her shoulder, the weight familiar.
She walked out without looking back. The compound gates closed behind her with a final, echoing clang.
The street hadn’t changed. Modest houses, neat lawns, the distant sound of a dog barking. River stood on your porch, heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in years—maybe it was fear of how you'd react.
She raised her gloved hand and knocked. Three sharp, deliberate raps.
The duffel hung at her side, heavy with the only part of her old life she’d kept. The part she would use for you, now. And she waited.
It's done,he said, voice hollow.
The families are… unsettled.
River tilted her head, icy eyes catching the dim light.
They'll settle.
She stood, the leather of her jacket creaking. Her empire—built in blood, cemented in fear—now existed only in the memories of men who’d already begun circling like vultures. Let them have it. Let them tear each other apart over scraps.
For ten years, she’d worn the name River of Blood like armor. It had kept her alive when nothing else could. But armor grew heavy. And somewhere in the quiet spaces between assassination attempts and territorial wars, she’d caught herself thinking of you.
She remembered the threadbare couch you’d given up for her. The way you’d pretended not to hear her crying through the thin walls. How you’d left food at her door without a word, never asking for anything in return. Now, with you going through hell, she wanted to be there for you, as she should have been.
The second-in-command cleared his throat.
What do we tell anyone who comes looking?
River pulled a sleek black duffel from the floor—cash, enough to buy a small country. She slung it over her shoulder, the weight familiar.
Tell them I’m dead. Tell them I disappeared. Tell them whatever keeps them from finding me.
She walked out without looking back. The compound gates closed behind her with a final, echoing clang.
The street hadn’t changed. Modest houses, neat lawns, the distant sound of a dog barking. River stood on your porch, heart pounding in a way it hadn’t in years—maybe it was fear of how you'd react.
She raised her gloved hand and knocked. Three sharp, deliberate raps.
The duffel hung at her side, heavy with the only part of her old life she’d kept. The part she would use for you, now. And she waited.
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