Three years later

"Pink Unicorn."

His monotone voice coupled with the stone cold face caused me to snort, yet the amusement I felt vanished a second later as nobody else burst out laughing.

"You're telling me that this remarkably well known, iniquitous feline of France calls himself Pink Unicorn?" questioning disbelief dripped from every word that left my mouth.

Silence enveloped the room, confirming the odd statement. I prevented my jaw from dropping to the floor as I assessed the straight faces around me.

"We have no information on him except that he has an older son named Sandro. The pair are supposedly attending a luxurious gala in France in three weeks time," he continued speaking with the same stale voice that begged me to fall asleep.

"You're sending me to France, I presume?" adrenaline coursed through my veins, just at the thought of leaving the country and meeting this figure of such magnitude.

The past three years had been filled with frivolous missions, all aimed at strengthening my pursuits. I'd gotten rid of a few inept folks, humans and felines alike, but nothing that gave me the buzz I aimed to fulfill. My fists were itching to meet the unfortunate groin of any male that dared cross me. All this pent up energy was begging to be released, and finally, I would grant it permission to do as it desired.

"That is correct, Ms. Rock."

I held myself back from doing a quick happy dance. All business aside, it was very essential and absolutely necessary for me to ask this mystery rebel how he earned this street name from and whether I could, someday, also be gifted one like it.

"You have approximately three weeks after landing in Paris..." he droned on and on, fleshing out the details of the plan.

I felt slightly guilty at zoning out, especially when he stopped talking at one point, noticing my lack of attention span.

"Ms. Rock."

I jolted at the sound of my last name.

"It seems I've been caught Mister," I stretched out the r sound as I leaned in, exaggeratingly searching for a name tag.

"Rin. Stop playing games."

The sound of his voice was like ice water being thrown into the face of every person in the room...except me.

"Yes, Dad," a smile slipped onto my face.

"I hope I am not making a mistake, sending you there," he said.

"I've fought for this day, blood, sweat, tears, snot, all of it. I've put in my everything since the very first day of training."

"Did you hear the part where you're only being sent in for information? We are not planning on making a move the day of the ball."

My head snapped up at the bold statement.

"Again?" disappointment fueled my words.

"With a few glimpses, we have not been able to connect P-" he stopped at the absurdity of the nickname, "this threat to any of the other murders. We have no idea whatsoever as to why this mystery feline is on this killing spree. And because I know you have a knack for picking up information that should otherwise be confidential, I thought you'd be perfect for the job."

I gave him an incredulous look, my excitement suddenly deflated.

"I had to have gotten it from someone," I snapped, my tone a little too harsh.

Not wanting my temper to rise any further, I slipped out of the room full of unnecessarily serious men and women.

Why didn't Father hire agents with a sense of humor? That was one mystery that could never be solved, along with the question of why he would not let me take action in any of the bigger assignments. It was always close to home, with another Phantom, not to watch my back, but for some other reason. As if I could not be trusted, even after these past years.

The short trip down the elevator was more than enough to cool my rising temper. Silver stars glistened above me, illuminating the otherwise dark sky as I slipped into my car. My keys jingled as I struggled to pushed them into their designated spot, a fleck of anger still clouding my thoughts. I sighed and pulled out of the driveway, but not before throwing a quick a glance to the clock.

2:00 A.M

The bright numbers mocked my conscious as guilt overtook me, just as it had countless other nights. Guilt at the happiness I had felt when given the news of this new mission. Guilt at never being there to lull my son to sleep. Once again, I'd come home to Miss Mabel dozing off on my couch, Zikomo in her arms, his small body curled into her comforting embrace.

Once again, I'd gently take him to bed while Miss Mabel would go back next door, an extra wad of cash in her hands. I'd never wanted this life for my child. Never wanted him to yearn for my time. But I had no choice but to drift further away from him as I became the soldier Malodza required.

My eyes slid to the rear view mirror, knowing the van behind mine had been following me since I'd left Malodza's headquarters. There were other metroplexes in the area, but no one ever questioned the secrecy of our business.

Only those trained to know, to spot what was out of place, those who were sent, would attempt to infiltrate Malodza's members. I continued to drive in the quiet, hoping my conclusions were incorrect, but of course, the large vehicle sped up, coming straight at me.

And whoever was driving did not plan on slowing anytime soon.

"Assholes," I whispered under my breath, "Don't even have the manners to turn off the high beams before attempting to kill me."

I squinted my eyes before pressing on the gas, creating a revving sound as I practically flew down the empty road.

Five minutes in, I knew I had to exit the car to get rid of these pathetic hitmen, most likely hired by a rich being who assumed I was Malodza's weakness.

Without a second thought, I swerved to the right, running over the grass with no remorse. I tightly gripped two of my hand-made knives, gifted to me by Father, before throwing the door open and crouching down, knowing the onslaught of bullets that would attempt to meet my body in three...two...one...

But they never came.

The van came to a stop in front of me, and instantly, the front doors swung open, revealing two men, clad in black uniforms. I didn't forget to note the rose insignias stitched into their breast pockets or how every part of their bodies seemed to be covered, not an inch of skin exposed. They came closer, walking leisurely, even as I flipped the knives upright in my hands, the weapons glinting in the dark of the night.

They raised their arms in the air, thinking I was to be fooled by their harmless looks. Even a nitwit would know that the trunk was full of men armed to the tooth, ready to shoot on command.

"We don't want--"

"To hurt you. We just want to talk," I cut them off, continuing what I knew would come out of his mouth next.

"I've already heard it before. Now if you can please let me slit your throats, I can go home to my comfy bed," I cocked my head to the side, further irritating the humans standing between me and getting back to my son.

"If that's what you want."

His voice was cold, detached. So different from the first time he'd spoken.

"Aw, am I no longer worth the sweet coercion?" I asked, sugar coating my voice before allowing my eyes to stray over to the men jumping out of the van, guns pointed at my small body.

Here we go again.

A wicked smile took residence on my face as I surveyed the scene in front of me.

The guns, which stood to intimidate me, did the exact opposite. I was no longer afraid of death. Not after all that I had endured. And so I gave the poor creatures a few seconds to ready their arsenals before I rained down upon them, my skills honed to perfection.

I was a killing machine.

And I had accepted it with open arms.