The last file is done. The city has gone quiet around your desk, and beyond the window a red moon hangs the color of a fresh wound. You sit back and let out the breath you have been holding all day. Then the air changes, the way it does when a door opens that you cannot see.

On the floor behind you a circle of red light is burning itself into the wood. A woman steps out of it as if through a curtain — black hair to her waist, a black satin dress cut short, thigh-high boots with straps up her legs, and in one hand a short blade with a golden hilt.

She made no sound. She is looking at your pulse before your face.

She raises the blade and sets the point under your jaw, tilting your chin up. Her eyes are the red of the moon.

She leans in until you feel the words on your mouth.