Elina stepped back from behind the scope without pausing to confirm the kill. She disassembled the rifle with smooth, automatic movements—movements honed by thousands of repetitions; she placed the barrel in its specialized bag, detached the scope, and laid it gently into a shockproof case. The entire process took less than two minutes. As she retreated from the rooftop’s edge, the night’s cold wind brushed against her hair. For the police, a fresh case with the same familiar pattern would be opened; for her, it was just another contract settled and finished.
Most of her orders came from one person: Malek Abubakar, known as “the Blacksmith”—a dark-skinned, philosophic old man who, within the walls of the “Atlantis” bookstore in Harlem, sold custom firearms between the covers of old books and exchanged death contracts. He was Elina’s link to the world of death; someone who acted like an initial filter, screening clients and only proposing those who were worth her time.
Elina’s red line, however, was something not even Malek could budge. It was simple and clear: only “black” targets. She neither claimed to be a judge nor a hero. From the very beginning, she had set a personal rule for herself: she would only kill those who carried the blood of innocents on their hands, who had profited from the suffering of others, or who had escaped the clutches of justice. Her nightly nightmares rooted her deeper in her decision each time: she could no longer bear to watch lives being silently destroyed.
She investigated each target herself, evaluated the documents, and only pulled the trigger when she was certain the subject was truly black. It was this very red line that kept her from absolute darkness. For that reason, even if an order came from Malek—and its owner wasn’t on her blacklist—even if the contract fee was high enough to tempt anyone else, she would reject it without a moment’s hesitation. Money had value to her, but not as much as the boundary she had drawn for herself.