Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The banquet hall swelled with the murmur of rich men in suits, their watches gleaming in the chandelier light as if they were engaged in their own silent battle of opulence. The air grew thick with the scent of cologne, a potent mix of aggression and ambition. Kara Zor-El, high above them on a ladder, couldn't help but scrunch her nose. She'd always had a knack for reading people, and the room was a veritable buffet of fragile egos.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, taking in the subtle tensions and power plays. A man in the center, his hand slammed onto the table, drew her attention. His companion, an omega, flinched almost imperceptibly. Kara knew that look, the one that said 'I've seen this before, and it never ends well'. It was the same look she'd seen in the mirror too many times.

"Hey, blondie! What's taking so long with those bulbs?" The lead contractor's gruff voice echoed through the vast space, his eyes narrowing as they met hers. She'd been caught daydreaming again.

"Oh, I'm real sorry, boss man," she drawled in her fake southern accent, her smile sweet and her eyes cold. "Just making sure they're all shiny and bright for the big shindig."

The contractor grunted and stomped away, his thick boots leaving dents in the plush carpet. As soon as he was out of earshot, Kara pocketed the screwdriver and climbed down from the ladder, her muscles protesting slightly from the prolonged stillness. She'd done the real work before the guests started trickling in, when the room was a hive of activity and the workers were too busy to question her. Now she just had to make it look good, make sure the scene was set for the grand finale she had planned.

Her disguise was impeccable, a testament to the DEO's resourcefulness and her own ingenuity. The overalls were snug around her slim hips and the tank top she wore underneath showcased the arms that had been honed by years of rigorous training. The heavy work boots she'd chosen were a size too large, but they served the purpose of making her steps sound heavier, more authoritative than her usual light tread. The orange safety helmet, a touch too bright, perched on her head like a crown of invisibility, hiding her sharp features and the piercing gaze that could make the toughest of men spill their secrets.

Kara took a moment to survey her surroundings, ensuring that no one had noticed the slight bulge in her pocket where the device was hidden. The banquet hall was a fortress of wealth and deceit, its walls lined with gold and marble, the floor gleaming with the reflection of the opulent chandeliers. The guests below were too busy jockeying for position, too eager to see and be seen, to pay attention to a mere electrician.

But she wasn't just any electrician. She was Kara Zor-El, the Ghost of the DEO, and she had a mission. The man at the center of the room, the one with the booming voice and the penchant for dramatics, was her target tonight. His name was Morgan edge, and he had a list of crimes longer than the guest list. The DEO had intel that he'd be making a deal that would plunge the city into chaos, and it was her job to make sure it didn't happen.

A brief static crackled in her ear, the sound so unexpected it made her flinch. "K-dog, do you read?" Kara rolled her eyes. The codename Alex had given her was ridiculous, and she'd told her so multiple times. "I'm a bit busy here, Alex. What's up?" she murmured as subtly as she could, the annoyance in her voice barely contained.

"Why bother with code names if you're not gonna use them?" Alex's voice was a huff of frustration through the earpiece. "Uh, because they're stupid, and I'm not a dog," Kara hissed back, her grip tightening around the screwdriver she held.

Alex, her handler at the DEO, chuckled. "Of course its stupid it was Winn's idea."alex said matter of factly."

"Hey!! Codes names are not stupid,your stupid?"winn says followed by a draw out owwww.alex clearly socked him in The shoulder it was a common thing with the two.

"Winn, you're such a dork," Kara said, shaking her head with a smirk. She could almost hear his cheeky grin over the coms. The tension between them was palpable, a dance of teasing banter that had been their unspoken language for years. It was a stark contrast to the cold, calculated conversations she had with the other agents. With them, it was all business, but with Alex and Winn, she felt like she could be herself.

"Hey, K-dog," Winn's voice crackled over the line, "don't knock the code names. They're part of the mystique." He paused, the sound of a distant punch reaching her ears. "Oww! Okay, okay, I get it," he continued with a groan.

"You okay winn ?"kara ask with a snicker. "No my shoulder hurts,alex is a very angry and violent pers .... owww. ok ok I'll shut up"

Kara couldn't help but laugh, a deep full-bellied laugh that echoed through the empty space above the banquet hall. She quickly stifled it, turning it into a fake cough as a contract worker strolled by, glancing up at her with a furrowed brow. "It's dusty up here," she croaked out, her voice a little too high pitched. She cleared her throat for good measure, watching as the man's suspicion melted away and he continued on his way.

"I've got eyes on the target," she murmured into the mic, her gaze zeroing in on Morgan Edge once more. He was holding court at the head table, surrounded by sycophants and shady characters. She knew the type. They were like vultures, waiting to pick the carcass of the city clean.

Alex's voice was a low growl in her ear. "Kara, you've been in there for hours. The whole point of sneaking in as one of the personal contractors was so you could be there early, before Edge starts his little meeting of imbeciles. Why haven't you taken him out?"

"I'm a professional, Alex," Kara replied calmly, her eyes never leaving her target. "What would you suppose I do? Walk in and shoot him in the head then leave?"

"Uh,yes!!"Alex retorted with a hint of sarcasm.

Uhh nooo! "Kara rebuttals in a whisper, "Too obvious, too messy. Besides, I've got a better plan."

Her eyes darted up to the grand chandelier she'd been 'fixing' for the past hour. It was a masterpiece of crystal and chrome, a gleaming monolith of light that hung precariously above the stage where Edge would soon be speaking. It had been her luck, or perhaps her curse, that none of the other contractors had wanted to touch it. They were too busy with the 'easy' tasks, leaving her with the perfect opportunity to rig it. She checked her watch, the digital numbers glinting in the dim light of the balcony. "Two minutes till showtime," she murmured, a hint of excitement in her voice.

Alex groaned in her ear, the sound of exasperation clear as day. "You know, Kara, you don't always have to be a show-off. Performing for an audience isn't exactly in the job description."

"Hey, I'm not doing this for applause," she quipped, her thumb hovering over the switch on her device. "Besides, you know how much I love a dramatic exit."

The music swelled below, the sound of clinking glasses and laughter grew louder as the event kicked into full gear. Kara's heart pounded in her chest, but it wasn't from fear. It was from excitement. This was what she lived for, the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of a target eliminated.

"Alright, K-dog," Alex's voice was tight with tension, "Remember the plan. Winn and I have the stealth van parked three blocks southeast. The motorcycle's in the alley north of the back entrance."

Before kara could respond one of the worker walked up to her." Hey new chick, pack it up boss want us outta here before the meeting starts."

"Yes yes of course, I'll have this equipment packed before you can say fiddle sticks," she drawled, laying it on thick as molasses.
The guy gave her a blank stare, his eyes flicking from her to the ladder and back again. "Just clean this shit up and stop yapping," he grumbled, turning on his heel and walking away.

Kara waited until his footsteps had faded into the din of the party before she allowed herself to relax. The murderous glare she'd sent his way had gone unnoticed, just as she'd intended. It was a look she'd perfected over the years, one that could make grown men quiver and confess their darkest secrets without her having to lay a finger on them. But tonight, she had bigger fish to fry.

The finely dressed man ascended the stage with the grace of a predator stalking its prey. The spotlight followed him like a loyal servant, casting a halo of light around his slicked-back hair and gleaming smile. He was Morgan Edge, and the room seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of his words, hungry for the power they hoped he'd bestow upon them. Kara's lip curled in disgust. He was nothing but a glorified con artist, a puppeteer playing with the strings of the elite.

Leaning over the balcony, she took in the scene below with a critical eye. The chandelier was the star of the show, a crystalline monstrosity that she'd rigged to be the instrument of Edge's downfall. She watched as the guests took their seats, the air buzzing with excitement and greed. The grand finale was about to begin.

Her thumb hovered over the button, the anticipation building. The room grew quieter as the music faded, the murmurs of the crowd giving way to the expectant silence that preludes a revelation. The spotlight on Edge grew brighter, washing out the color from his face, leaving only a stark contrast of light and shadow. It was showtime.

"Welcome, friends and esteemed associates," Edge's voice boomed through the speakers, his smile as cold and sharp as the blade he was about to wield. "As you know, I am Morgan Edge." The crowd erupted into a sea of applause and cheers, their adoration nauseatingly palpable. Kara rolled her eyes, doing her best to stifle the gag reflex that threatened to bubble up. These Alphas were like eager puppies waiting for their master's treat, oblivious to the fate she had in store for them.

"But tonight," Edge continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow managed to carry over the hushed room, "is not about who I am." The cheers died down, his audience leaning in like moths to a flame. "No, tonight is about who you are, and more importantly, who you will become."

The room was a tableau of rapt attention, the powerful men and women hanging on his every word, eager to be promised more power, more wealth. Kara's grip tightened around the device in her pocket. She knew his type, the kind who could charm the skin off a snake and make you thank him for the new look.

"You see," Edge went on, his gaze sweeping over the sea of faces like a lighthouse beam in the fog of greed, "I have the power to change the very fabric of this city." His words were smooth, like a serpent's hiss, and the Alphas below leaned in even further. "And together, we can reshape it in our image, a utopia where the strong survive and the weak are... well, no longer an issue."

A smattering of laughter rippled through the room, but Kara heard the underlying hunger in their applause. These were not the kind of people who liked to share, and yet here they were, eager to be a part of something that would surely leave them with more than their fair share. It was disgusting, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from spitting on the pristine floor.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for any signs of dissent, any glimpse of doubt or fear that would betray their true feelings about Edge's grandiose promises. But all she saw were eager faces, hungry for more.

Kara took a deep breath, focusing on the cold steel of the screwdriver in her hand. It was a simple tool, but in her grip, it was a weapon, a symbol of the justice she was about to mete out. The room was a sea of darkness, the only light coming from the gleaming chandelier above her, casting a web of shadows across the room. She was the spider at the center, poised to strike.

Edge's speech grew more heated, his words a siren's call to the greed and ambition of the Alphas below. "Together," he shouted, his fist pumping the air, "we will create a new order!" The crowd roared their approval, their cheers echoing off the marble walls like a stampede of hooves. Kara's grip tightened on the device, her thumb hovering over the button that would bring it all crashing down.

The lights dimmed, the spotlight narrowing to a single pinprick focused on Edge's face. The chandelier above her began to sway, ever so slightly, a gentle reminder of the fate that awaited him. The air grew thick with anticipation, the kind that could choke you if you weren't careful.

"The society we live in," Edge bellowed, "It's like a leash around our necks, trying to tame the beasts we truly are! It wants to take away our power, to make us obedient pets, neutered dogs that do as we're told!"

"Well, I say fuck that! Tonight we let out balls swing."

The chandelier dropped with the speed of a meteor, its crystal shards exploding like a diamond meteor shower as it hit the stage. The surrounding parts of the ceiling crumbled, showering down dust and debris. The spotlight flickered, casting wild, jagged shadows across the room as the wires snapped and the once majestic fixture swung like a pendulum of doom.

Security rushed towards Edge, their expressions a mix of shock and fear. The room erupted into chaos as the omegas' drowned pheromones filled the air, the scent of terror thickening with each passing second. The chandelier's descent was a symphony of breaking glass and screams, a cacophony that seemed to go on forever, even though it was over in a heartbeat.

Kara watched the scene unfold from above, a silent observer in the dust storm she'd unleashed. The powerful men and women below her, once the epitome of strength and confidence, were now reduced to panic-stricken animals, their true nature laid bare. They trampled over each other, the omegas' cries piercing the din as they were shoved aside by their own mates. It was a carnival of fear and desperation, and she couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction at the sight.

The chandelier slammed into the stage with a deafening crash, sending a shockwave of sound that rippled through the room, shattering the last semblance of decorum. The dust began to settle, revealing the destruction below. The once gleaming floor was now a minefield of shattered glass and crumpled bodies, the air thick with the smell of fear.

Kara peered over the balcony, her eyes searching the wreckage for her target. There he was, Morgan Edge, pinned under the larger circular metal frame of the chandelier, surrounded by a macabre halo of crystal shards. Several guards lay around him, trapped by the weight of the fixture, their bodies contorted in silent agony. Kara felt no pity for them.

Her gaze fixed on Edge, she took in the grisly sight with a detached satisfaction. He was sprawled in a pool of crimson, his body a twisted mess of limbs, one leg bent at an impossible angle. His right eye socket was a gaping wound, a large shard of crystal sticking out like a grotesque crown jewel. The blood that spurted around it painted a gruesome picture, a crimson tapestry of his downfall. It was a fate that was more artful than she had planned, a masterpiece of chaos and violence.

Her heart pounded in her chest, not from fear but from the exhilaration of a job well done. She'd seen worse in her time at the DEO, but this...this was something else. This was some of her best work

The room was in pandemonium, the once orderly gathering now a frenzied mob. The Alphas were pushing and shoving, trying to escape the collapsing roof, their expensive shoes slipping in the pool of blood and gore that had formed around the stage. The omegas were wailing, their pheromones of fear and pain adding to the chaos. It was a scene from a horror movie, and she had directed it all.

Kara watched Morgan Edge's twitching form with a mix of fascination and repulsion. His eyes found hers, the life draining from them as he realized his fate. She stared back, her gaze unflinching, as if she could imprint the image of his agony onto her retina. She felt nothing but the thrill of victory, the satisfaction of a mission accomplished.

"Bullseye!" she murmured to herself with a happy glee, pumping her fist into the air once before catching herself. She couldn't let her guard down, not yet. More security guards rushed in, their heavy boots thumping against the marble floor like a drumline of doom. They were too late, the damage had been done. But she knew better than to stick around for the encore.

"Hey, what are you doing up there?" The voice was thick with suspicion, the accent a blend of local and something else, something she couldn't quite place. Kara's heart skipped a beat, but she didn't miss a step in her mental choreography.

With a wink and a wave, she shouted back, "Just fixing the lights, folks!" And with that, she sprinted towards the grand staircase that spiraled down into the pandemonium below. The security guards had spotted her, their eyes narrowing as they raised their guns. Kara's smile widened. She had a flair for the dramatic, and this was going to be a show-stopper.

Her legs tensed and she vaulted over the side railing of the stairs in a graceful arch, the fabric of her overalls fluttering like the wings of a giant butterfly. She could feel the wind rush past her, the cold metal of the gun barrels tracking her descent. For a brief moment, she felt free, weightless, the chaos of the room a silent symphony that played only for her.

The impact was like a sledgehammer, the wooden table below giving way with a resounding crack. The sound of shattering glass and splintering wood filled the air as plates and silverware flew in every direction. She rolled with the fall, her body a blur of motion as she tumbled across the table, her muscles coiled and ready for the next move.

Her eyes searched the room, the chaos a symphony of panic and destruction. The guests had scattered like ants from a disturbed colony, leaving behind a wake of fear and confusion. Kara could feel the eyes of the survivors on her, a mix of horror and awe. She was the Ghost of the DEO, a legend in their midst, and she reveled in it.

Making a split-second decision, she sprinted towards the right side of the bloodied stage, her boots pounding the floor with a rhythm that matched her racing heart. The world around her seemed to slow, the air thick with dust and the metallic tang of blood. She could see the guards closing in, their weapons drawn, but she was faster.

With a flick of her wrist, she sent the screwdriver hurtling through the air. It whistled past the heads of the fleeing omegas, embedding itself in the neck of the nearest guard. He dropped like a ragdoll, his lifeblood spurting out in a crimson arc. The others paused, their eyes wide with shock and fear, giving her the opening she needed.

Kara vaulted over the first kitchen island with a grace that defied the chaos around her. It was a dance she'd choreographed a hundred times in her mind, a ballet of death and destruction that she performed with a twisted glee. She slid across the second one, her palms leaving trails of heat on the cool marble. The third island was her launchpad. She leaped onto it, feeling the solidity of the countertop beneath her boots, and then with a powerful kick, she propelled herself into the air, flipping over the heads of the fear stricken guests.(ok maybe alex was right she is a show off)

The guards fired wildly, their shots going wide as they scrambled to keep up with her acrobatic retreat. The bullets whizzed past her, a deadly symphony that seemed to serenade her as she weaved through the room. But Kara was the conductor, orchestrating her escape with a flair that made Alex's earlier remark feel like a compliment.

Her eyes fell on the back door, a beacon of hope in the chaos. She sprinted towards it, her heart hammering in her chest like a caged animal desperate for freedom. The metal handle felt cold and slick with sweat in her palm, the coolness grounding her in reality. But as she pulled with all her strength, the door remained stubbornly shut.

Panic began to set in, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The footsteps grew louder, the thunder of boots closing in on her like a pack of ravenous wolves. Another bullet grazed her ear, the heat of it burning a line across her cheek.

The sign above the door mocked her in its simplicity: 'Push to Open'. She let out a frustrated growl, feeling the heat of embarrassment flush her cheeks. Kara was not one to be bested by inanimate objects. With a roar of determination, she shoved against the door with every ounce of strength she had.

It swung open with surprising ease, the sudden rush of cool night air a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the banquet hall. She stumbled out into the alley, her eyes scanning the shadows for any signs of life. The pounding of her heart was the only sound she could hear over the distant wail of sirens, the symphony of her escape music to her ears.

But she had no time to bask in her victory. The DEO had protocols, and she knew that Alex and Winn would be waiting, the engine of the stealth van already purring like a sleeping lion ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

The alley was a maze of shadows, the neon lights from the street beyond casting a glow that did little to dispel the darkness. Kara sprinted towards the end, her boots echoing off the damp pavement. Her eyes searched for the tell-tale gleam of the motorcycle's chrome in the moonlight.

As the sirens grew louder, so did the thunder of boots behind her. The guards had found the back door, their shouts of rage a chorus of failure. She had to move faster. The bike was there, a sleek beast of steel and power, waiting for her like a loyal steed.

Her hand reached out, the cool metal handle a promise of safety. With one swift motion, she mounted the bike, the engine roaring to life beneath her. The headlight pierced the night, a beacon of light in the inky darkness of the alley.

Kara took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline course through her veins like liquid fire. She revved the engine, the sound a battle cry in the quiet night. And with a flick of her wrist, she sent a stream of gravel flying as she peeled out into the street, leaving the collapsing banquet hall and the echoes of her destruction behind her.

The wind whipped through her hair as she sped away from the carnage, the city's skyline a blur as she disappeared into the night. The sirens grew fainter, the chaos receding like a nightmare forgotten upon waking. Her heart still raced, the thrill of the chase a potent cocktail in her system.

But as the bike's engine purred beneath her, a new sound pierced the silence: "Kara, what the hell was that?!" Alex's voice was a mix of shock and anger, a thunderclap in her ear. Kara grinned, adrenaline singing in her veins. She could almost see the look on Alex's face, the tightness around her eyes and the furrow in her brow.

"That," she said, the wind whipping her words away, "was a mission complete. Just a little... extra flair."

Alex's sigh was audible even through the earpiece. "Flair? You call almost bringing down the whole building flair?"

"Hey, it was a statement!" Kara shouted over the roar of the engine, her grin widening. "And besides, it got the job done."

Alex's sigh was a gust of wind in her ear. "You're going to be the death of me, you know that? Now get to the safe house. We need to debrief."

Kara rolled her eyes but complied, pulling a U-turn and racing towards the rendezvous point.

The "safe house" was a far cry from the opulent banquet hall she'd just left in ruins. It was a dilapidated warehouse in the industrial part of town, the kind that looked like it had seen better days and had the scars to prove it. The rusted metal door was the only entrance, with a sleek bio-lock mechanism that looked as out of place as a smartphone in a museum. It was the kind of place that screamed "run" to anyone with a shred of self-preservation instinct.

But Kara knew better. She'd been in worse situations, in dingier places, with less appealing company. The DEO had a knack for finding the most unassuming hideaways in the most unexpected places.

As she stepped inside, the door sealed shut with a hiss behind her, cutting off the sirens' wail like a knife through a ribbon. The room was bathed in the cold, unforgiving light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. She took a moment to appreciate the stark contrast of the stark white walls against the concrete floor stained with the whispers of a hundred secrets. The air was thick with the scent of dust and solitude, a stark reminder of the world outside that was now a distant memory.

Her boots echoed on the bare floor as she made her way to the center of the room. She placed her hand on the scanner with the grace of a ballerina landing a pirouette, and the garage-like doors ascended with a loud rumble, revealing the living quarters. The walls were a canvas of urban art, a mishmash of spray-painted symbols and profanities that spoke of rebellion and survival. The space was small, a stark reminder of the confines she'd escaped from, but it was a cage with a view, she mused, glancing at the single, grimy window high above the bed.

The furniture was sparse, functional, and decidedly not chosen for comfort. A pullout couch that had seen better days, a 40-inch TV that looked like it had been salvaged from a dumpster fire, and a ping pong table that had clearly been used for more than just recreation. But amidst the chaos of the room, there was a spark of home: a mini fridge.

Kara approached it with the same enthusiasm a child might show for a piñata. The top shelf held a collection of microwave meals that looked like they'd been there since the dawn of time, or at least since the last apocalypse. But the bottom was a treasure trove of cold, frosty beer. Her eyes lit up like stars in a midnight sky.

With a bottle in hand, she kicked off her boots, the clunk of metal against concrete a cathartic release of the tension that had been coiled in her muscles since the moment she'd stepped into the banquet hall. She felt the weight of the world lift off her shoulders as she collapsed onto the couch, her legs dangling over the side like a rag doll's. The springs groaned a protest, but she didn't care. It was the closest she'd get to a cloud in a place like this.

Her thumbs twisted the cap off the bottle with a satisfying crack, the cool beer fizzing against her palm. She brought it to her lips and took a deep, slow pull, the liquid gold washing away the taste of dust and adrenaline. The bubbles danced in her throat, a celebration of the night's victory.

Moments later, she heard the clomping of boots and the jingle of keys, the symphony of Winn and Alex's arrival. The door slammed open, and the two of them spilled into the room like a tornado in a trailer park,dressed in kavlelar and cargos.

"This safe house is the shitty one," alex groused, her eyes scanning the room with a look that could only be described as 'disappointment personified'. "Why are we here?"

"I don't know," winn said with a shrug. "It's not like I choose the safe house location, alex."

The slap was swift, and Alex didn't hold back, but Winn took it with the grace of a man who'd been slapped in the back of the head more times than he cared to count. "Owww! You..." he exclaimed dramatically, rubbing the spot.

Alex rolled her eyes. "What's so funny?" she snapped at Kara, who had a cheeky grin plastered on her face like a kid who'd just told the best joke in the universe.

"Oh, nothing," Kara replied, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She took another swig of beer. "I was just picturing the two of you at a wedding, holding a bouquet of dead roses and a knife instead of a ring. You know, the usual DEO romance."

Alex deadpanned, the corners of her mouth twitching slightly. "That's... oddly specific."

Winn made a face, his nose scrunching up as if he'd just caught a whiff of something unpleasant. "Yuck. Me and alex...?"

"You two are adorable when you're mad," Kara teased, taking another sip of her beer, her eyes gleaming with amusement.

Alex shot her a glare that could cut through steel. "You're lucky you're not on the receiving end of this 'adorableness'," she spat. "What were you thinking back there? That was not the plan!"

Kara took a sip of her beer, her grin never faltering. "Hey, I was just improvising."

Alex stomped over to the fridge, her expression a storm cloud about to unleash a torrent of wrath. She grabbed two more beers, the bottles clinking together like a pair of sparring swords. She shoved one into Winn's hand with a force that made his eyes go wide.his mouth forms an o shape. "Winn," she growled, her voice low and dangerous, "if you say 'oww' one more time, my foot's going up your ass so fast, you'll think you're an astronaut."

Winn held up his hands in a gesture of peace, his beer bottle wobbling slightly. "Noted, boss," he said, his voice a squeak of protest. He took a step back, eyeing the couch as if it were a minefield.

Kara couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing off the cold concrete walls. "Don't worry, Winn," she said, patting the cushion next to her. "I promise I won't bring this place down too."

Alex rolled her eyes but couldn't help the ghost of a smile that danced on her lips. She flopped down on the couch to Kara's right, her gear clanking against the metal frame like a knight disarming herself. "You're one hell of a liability," she said, her voice a mix of exasperation and affection.

Winn followed suit, settling gingerly on the couch's left side, his eyes still wide from the chaos kara caused. "Seriously, Kara," he began, his voice still a squeaky protest. "What the hell was that all about?" He took a swig of his beer, his Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp. The cold liquid washed away the dryness in his throat, leaving only the bitter taste of the night's events.

"Before I answer," Kara said, her eyes sparkling with mischief, "what exactly do you think I did?" She took another sip of her beer, her posture relaxed, one leg propped up on the coffee table. The challenge in her voice was as clear as the night sky outside the grimy window.

Alex leaned back, the couch groaning under the weight of her gear. "Winn," she said, her eyes on the TV screen, "you want to tell her, or should I?"

Winn swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing like a yo-yo. "Uh, Kara, about that... I might've accidentally redirected the cameras to you instead of away from you."

Kara's eyes narrowed, the room suddenly feeling several degrees cooler. "What do you mean, 'accidentally'?"

"Well," Winn began, his voice taking on the tone of a man explaining why the dog ate his homework, "I was just worried, you know? When you didn't respond, and the chaos started..." He trailed off, his cheeks flushing redder than a sunset. "I panicked. I didn't mean to redirect the feeds to you, but I had to make sure you were okay."

Kara's grip tightened on his shirt collar, her eyes blazing with a fiery intensity. "You had one job," she hissed through clenched teeth. "One job, and you turned me into the star of their very own snuff film."

"don't worry I talked to papa Jonn and he's having Brainy hack into their mainframe to reimage any footage of you." Winn stammers out.

Alex nods, her hand massaging her forehead as she sighs heavily. "Yeah, thank god for that. If anyone can erase you from existence, it's Brainy."

Winn nodded vigorously, his eyes pleading for forgiveness. "He's the best, right? He'll make it like you were never there."

Kara released Winn, his sigh of relief echoing in the stark room. If Brainy was on the job, there was no need to worry. He was the digital wizard of the DEO, capable of making or breaking the fabric of recorded reality. A single keystroke from him could rewrite history, a talent that both terrified and reassured her in equal measure.

Winn's shoulders slumped as he took a grateful step back, his hand clutching his chest dramatically. "You scared me, Kara," he said, his voice a mix of relief and admonition. "But if it's any consolation, you looked pretty badass doing all that."

Alex snorted, a smirk playing on her lips despite herself. "Yeah, if 'badass' is code for 'reckless', then you looked like a bad ass...miss im a professional," she said, her eyes still on the TV.

Kara sat up, her expression a mix of defensiveness and pride. "I am a professional," she said pointedly. "Nobody else would've committed to that kill the way I did."

Alexa scoffed, her tone laden with sarcasm. "Right, because almost getting shot because you don't know the difference between a push door and a pull door just screams 'professional'. I'm surprised the DEO hasn't made it a training montage yet."

Winn chuckled, the sound a soft rumble in the otherwise tense air. "That part was hilarious," he said, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Oh, you think it's funny?" Kara said, raising an eyebrow. She set her beer down on the floor with a thump, the sound echoing through the room. "How about this?"

The beta went wide eyed as Kara's fist shot out with the speed of a bullet train, connecting with his thigh with a dull thud. He yelped, his beer bottle slipping from his hand to shatter on the concrete floor.

"Oww!.. ok seriously guys you have to stop that I bruise easily." Winn groans in pain holding his thigh rubbing it gently.

her eyes locking onto Winn's. "Oh, really?" she purrs, batting her eyelashes at him. "Should we test that theory... in bed?"rubbing the aching spot on his thigh in a circular motion .

Winn's cheeks turn a shade darker than a sunburned lobster, his eyes going as wide as saucers. "B-bed?" he stammers, his voice a squeak.

Alex's head snaps up from the TV, her eyes narrowing at the two of them. "Kara, stop screwing around with him before he jizzes his pants," she says, her voice a whip-crack of command.

Kara laughs, the sound sharp and wild, like a wolf's howl in the night. She pulls her hand away from Winn, her grin never faltering. "I'm kidding," she says, her voice light, but her eyes gleaming with something darker. "But the look you gave me has me wondering if you'll be down. I kinda have a thing for timid little betas like you."

Alex snorts, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "Winn, you're blushing so hard, you could glow in the dark," she says, nudging him with an elbow. Winn squeaks, his hand flying to cover his face, his eyes peeking out between his fingers like a shy child's.

Kara's laughter is a little more wicked, the sound echoing off the cold, stark walls of the safe house. "You know," she says, leaning in closer to him, "I might just take that as a yes."

Alex's eyes flick to them, the amusement on her face turning into something akin to a mother's glare. "Kara," she says, her voice a warning, "don't corrupt him."

Kara's smile turns into a pout, the kind that could melt the polar ice caps. "But he's so much fun to tease," she says, her eyes glinting.

Alex sighs, her expression a mix of exasperation and fondness. "I know," she says, "but he's like a puppy. Too much excitement and he'll pee everywhere."

The room falls into an easy silence as they all nurse their beers, the tension of the evening slowly uncoiling like a snake shedding its skin. The TV drones on in the background, the flickering lights playing across their faces, painting them in shades of blue and gray.

After a while, Alex breaks the quiet with a yawn that sounds like a cat's purr. She stands, stretching her muscles like a panther coming out of a nap. "We need to get some rest," she says, her voice a mix of authority and concern. "We've got a long day tomorrow, and we can't afford to be sluggish."

Winn nods, his eyes still on Kara. "Yeah," he murmurs, his cheeks still a rosy shade of embarrassment. "Rest. That's what we need."

They move to the bedroom, the three of them a strange tableau of friendship and camaraderie. Alex tosses a pillow at Kara, who catches it with a laugh, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of the night's escapades. "You're taking the middle," Alex says, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Winn's not sleeping on the floor because you're feeling...frisky."

Winn looks like a deer caught in headlights, his eyes darting between the two of them. "I-I can totally take the floor," he stammers, his voice barely above a whisper.

Alex rolls her eyes. "You can sleep on the bed," she says firmly. "Kara's just messing with you. Aren't you?" She turns her gaze to Kara, who is still grinning wickedly.

"I promise," Kara says, her voice a purr that does nothing to convince Winn. "No funny business."

Winn gulps, his eyes wide as saucers, but eventually he climbs in, his body stiff as a board. He lays as far away from Kara as he can get without falling off the bed, his back to her. Alex rolls her eyes and settles down on Kara's other side, her hand reaching out to gently squeeze her karas shoulder.

The bed groans under the weight of their bodies, the springs protesting like an old man waking from a nap. The room is quiet, save for the distant hum of the city's heartbeat outside. The tension from the mission lingers in the air like the aftertaste of a bitter pill, but the warmth of the beer and the comfort of the bed are a soothing balm to their weary souls.

Kara lies there, her thoughts racing with images of the chaos she'd wrought. Morgan Edge, the man whose smug grin had haunted her dreams for so long, laying lifeless under the chandelier, his crimson life spilling onto the polished floor. The sight had been more beautiful than any painting she'd ever seen, more thrilling than any symphony she'd ever heard. Her body responds to the memory, her cock straining against her compression shorts, the fabric growing damp with her desire.

It's a strange feeling, this hunger for violence. She'd been trained to feel nothing but cold, calculated efficiency. But in that moment of triumph, she'd felt something else entirely. A passion, a fire, that burned through her veins like a drug. And now, with Winn so close, she's tempted to indulge in a different kind of heat. She could feel his warmth, smell the faint scent of his fear and excitement. It's like a siren's call, beckoning her to reach out, to push him just a little too far.

But she's made a promise, and Kara Zor-El is nothing if not a woman of her word. She bites her lip, her teeth pressing into the soft flesh, a silent reprimand to her raging desires. She'd told Winn she wouldn't touch him, and she won't. But oh, how she wants to. To feel his pulse race under her hand, to see the way his eyes would widen with shock and lust if she were to press her hardness against him, to watch him squirm and beg for more.

Instead, she voice out loud. "Do you guys think it would be weird if I masturbate right now?"

Alex's head snaps up, her eyes wide as dinner plates. She glares at Kara, her finger pointing like it's loaded with bullets. "I swear to god, Kara," she says, her voice a serrated knife, "if you so much as touch yourself in this bed while I'm in it, I'll make what you did to Edge look like child's play."

Kara groans out a laugh, cupping herself over her underwear. "I didn't hear Winn protest," she says, her voice a seductive purr that makes Winn's eyes go even wider. "So, technically, you're outvoted."

" of course he wouldn't. He's more likely to reach over and jerk it for you." Alex scoffs, throwing a pillow at Kara's face, her tone a mix of annoyance and playfulness.

Kara catches the pillow with a laugh, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Winn's not like that," she says, her voice a gentle reprimand. "Besides, he's not actually my type."

Winn's head pops up like a meerkat's from his pillow. "I-I'm not?" he squeaks, his voice high-pitched with surprise." But i thought you're into the whole timid beta thing."

With a swift motion, Kara whips a pillow at Winn's face. He squeaks again, his eyes shut tight as the pillow connects with a soft smack. He falls backward off the bed with a hard thud and an "oww!" that echoes in the small room.

Alex throws her head back and laughs, the sound a rich, throaty chuckle that fills the space like a warm blanket. "You're such a sadist," she says to Kara, her voice filled with affectionate disbelief.

Lena Luthor's day began with a stretch, her naked body basking in the golden embrace of the early morning sun. The penthouse windows, stretching from floor to ceiling, framed the cityscape like a masterpiece, the light playing across her bare skin like a lover's tender caress. She felt alive, revitalized, her mind buzzing with the promise of a new day. Her bed, the epitome of luxury, had been the stage for a night of restful solitude, a stark contrast to the battles she'd face once the sun had fully risen.

Leaving the comfort of her California king-sized bed, she slipped into a silk robe that whispered against her skin, the fabric as soft and warm as a mother's embrace. The robe was a deep crimson, the color of power and passion.

In the kitchen, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling butter greeted her. The marble kitchen island was a smorgasbord of temptation: French omelets steaming gently, croissants golden and flaky, a rainbow of berries glistening like jewels in a crown, and a chilled bottle of champagne sweating beads of condensation next to a pitcher of freshly squeezed orange juice. It was a feast fit for a queen, and she felt like one as she approached.

The young chef, a boy with a face like a cherub and hands that had never seen a day of hard work, looked up from his task with a smile that was as fake as the flowers adorning the table. He held out a plate with a flourish, his eyes hopeful. Lena took a croissant, breaking it in half and savoring the crunch as she took a bite. The buttery flavor danced on her tongue like a ballet. But the moment was shattered by the cacophony of a violin playing a tune that was as grating as nails on a chalkboard.

"What the hell is that?" she snapped, turning to glare at the source of the noise. The musician, a man with a beak-like nose and a smug smile, didn't even have the decency to look apologetic. Instead, he played on, his eyes closed as if he were in the throes of some kind of musical ecstasy.

Without a second thought, Lena chucked the half-eaten croissant at his head. It arced through the air like a missile, a silent declaration of war. The young chef's eyes went wide with shock, his hand hovering over the plate of food like it was a bomb about to go off.

The musician's eyes snapped open at the sudden interruption, the bow hovering over the strings of his violin as the croissant impacted with a satisfying thwack. His smug smile twisted into a grimace, a spray of crumbs exploding around him like confetti in a tragic parade. The sound of the violin screeched to a halt, the music dying in a symphony of indignation.

Ignoring the chaos, Lena sailed past the kitchen and into the bathroom, her silk robe trailing behind her like a royal procession. She stepped into the jacuzzi tub, the warm water enveloping her body like a liquid embrace. The jets kicked into high gear, their powerful pulses massaging her muscles, each bubble a tiny explosion of relief against her skin. She sank into the water with a sigh, her eyes closing as the heat seeped into her bones, chasing away the chill of the morning. The bubbles tickled her nose, the scent of jasmine and vanilla floating through the air, a heady mix that made her feel like she was in a cloud of pure indulgence.

On the side of the tub, a chilled bottle of mimosa beckoned, the orange juice and champagne a sparkling promise of decadence. She poured herself a generous glass, the golden liquid fizzing against the crystal flute. The first sip was heavenly, the bubbles dancing against her tongue before descending to her stomach, where they mingled with the warmth already spreading through her. She leaned back, allowing the water to cradle her, and took another sip, feeling the tension of the previous night melt away like ice in a sauna.

The water grew cooler as the sun climbed higher in the sky, painting the room in shifting patterns of light and shadow. Lena stepped out of the tub, water droplets clinging to her skin like diamonds, and padded through the penthouse nude, the cool air kissing her body like a lover's breath. The staff had been instructed to leave her in peace, but she could feel their eyes on her, their thoughts racing like greyhounds at the racetrack.

The marble floor felt like ice against her feet as she moved through the house, the chill sending goosebumps rippling across her skin. She reveled in the sensation, feeling alive, invincible. The art on the walls, pieces she'd collected from her travels around the world, seemed to watch her, silent judges of her naked form. But she didn't care. This was her sanctuary, her fortress, where she could shed the armor of Luthor and just be Lena.

Moving to the bedroom, she grabbed the flat iron from its velvet cradle. It was an elegant device, sleek and black, the very essence of control. Plugging it in, she watched as it heated up, the digital display glowing a fiery red. She took a deep breath, her heart racing in anticipation, and grabbed a handful of her curly hair. The iron's hiss was like a dragon's breath as it kissed the first lock, transforming it from a wild, unruly mess into a sleek, obedient strand.

The process was almost meditative, the rhythmic clamping and releasing of the iron, the smell of singeing hair, the feel of the heat against her fingertips. Each strand that fell into place was a victory, a small step closer to the warrior she had to be when she stepped outside her sanctuary. The curls, once a symbol of her youth and innocence, were tamed into a waterfall of raven silk that cascaded down to the center of her back, a silent testament to the power she now wielded.

Once her hair was an inky curtain that framed her face, she moved to the walk-in closet, a room the size of a small apartment. The walls were lined with racks of clothes, each piece chosen with the precision of a master strategist. She scanned the rows of outfits.

Her eyes fell on a cropped thin nude turtleneck, the color so faint it was almost invisible. It was like a second skin, designed to cling to every curve and line of her body like a lover's embrace. She pulled it over her head, the soft material whispering against her skin, and she knew it was the perfect choice for the day ahead. It was a declaration of power, a silent statement that she was not to be underestimated.

Next, she slid into a high-waisted knee-length black skirt that was as sharp as the blade she carried at her thigh. The slit up the right side was like a secret smile, hinting at the danger that lay beneath the elegant facade. It was a piece she'd picked up from a designer in Milan, the leather softer than the most tender skin, yet sturdy enough to stand against a knife's edge. She felt the coolness of it against her bare skin, the fabric a silent promise of the chaos she was about to unleash.

Her favorite black leather, knee-high stiletto boots waited patiently by the door, their sharp heels gleaming like the teeth of a predator. They were a weapon in their own right, capable of piercing the most stubborn of obstacles. Lena slipped her legs into them one by one, the leather hugging her like a second skin, the heels adding an extra six inches to her already formidable presence. She stood, stretching her legs, feeling the power that surged through her with every step she took.

"Hello beautiful," she whispered to her reflection in the floor-length mirror, her voice a seductive purr that seemed to resonate in the very air around her. Her eyes, as dark and mysterious as the night sky, danced with the fire of a thousand suns. She traced her fingers over the contours of her face, her touch as gentle as a butterfly's wings. With each stroke, she applied a thin layer of makeup, the mascara lengthening her lashes, the dark eyeliner framing her eyes like the night around the moon. The red lipstick she painted on was the color of power and passion, a declaration to the world that she was not to be trifled with.

The sliver, diamond encrusted L necklace lay on the vanity, glinting in the soft light like a crown jewel. It was a symbol of her past, a reminder of the family she'd been adopted into, the legacy she'd been shaped by. She picked it up, the weight of it heavy in her hand, the coldness of the metal sending a shiver down her spine. Slipping it around her neck, she felt the weight of the world settle on her shoulders, the coolness of the diamonds a stark contrast to the heat of her skin. The L sat in the hollow of her throat like a lover's kiss, a silent declaration of her identity.

With a final glance in the mirror, she strode out of the penthouse and into the embrace of the city. The weather today was indeed beautiful, the sun high in the sky, surrounded by fluffy white clouds that looked like they'd been plucked from a child's drawing. A light breeze danced through her hair, sending the strands into a gentle frenzy, like the whispers of a thousand secrets. The air was warm, a kiss from the sun, and she could feel the energy of the city pulsating around her, the heartbeat of a living organism that never slept.

Her strides were long and purposeful as she walked down the strip, her heels clicking against the sidewalk like the ticking of a time bomb. The people around her, a sea of faces, turned to watch her, their eyes drawn to the force of nature that was Lena Luthor. She felt their gazes, their hunger, their envy, and she reveled in it. But she didn't smile, didn't wave, didn't acknowledge them. Instead, she glared, a look that said she was not to be approached, not to be trifled with. It was a warning as clear as a siren's wail, and they took heed, their eyes snapping away like whips.

Her destination was a small, unassuming boutique, nestled between a jewelry store and a chocolatier. The sign above the door was simple, elegant: "Vera's." It was a name that whispered of exclusivity, of secrets that could only be bought with enough zeroes on a bank account balance.

Inside, the scent of expensive perfume and fine leather greeted her like an old friend. The walls were lined with clothes that whispered of power and wealth, each piece a silent declaration of the woman who wore them. She knew that in this place, she could find something that would make her feel untouchable, something that would make her enemies tremble at the sight of her.

The saleswoman, Vera herself, greeted her with a smile so fake it could have been painted on. But Lena didn't care. She knew the game, knew how to play it. She handed over her shopping bags, the woman's eyes widening at the sight of the designer tags. "I'm looking for something special," she said, her voice a cool slice through the air. "Something that says 'I can kill you with my bare hands, but I'd rather do it while wearing a five-thousand-dollar dress'."

Vera nodded, her smile never wavering. She led Lena to a rack at the back of the store, her movements as smooth as a panther's. "This is what you need," she said, holding up a dress that was as black as the void of space, the material shimmering like a million stars. It was a masterpiece, a testament to humanity's ability to weave magic into fabric.

Lena took the dress, holding it up to the light. It was like looking into the abyss, a promise of darkness wrapped in a bow of elegance. She slid it over her body, the fabric moving like a second skin. The fit was perfection, hugging her curves, accentuating her strength. The dress whispered of secrets and power, of a woman who was not to be underestimated.

As she turned to look in the mirror, she saw the reflection of a goddess, a warrior queen dressed for battle. The dress clung to her like a lover's embrace, the neckline plunging in a way that left just enough to the imagination. The slit up the left side went to mid-thigh, revealing the strap of her holster, the gun hidden beneath it a silent threat to any who dared cross her path.

With a nod of approval, she turned to Vera. "This is it," she said, her voice a purr that sent a shiver down the woman's spine. "Wrap it up."

The woman nodded, her eyes flicking to the gun, then back to Lena's face. "Of course, Miss Luthor," she said, her voice a mix of awe and fear. "It's always a pleasure to serve you."

Lena left the boutique, the dress in a bag that was as nondescript as a ninja's garb. She strolled back to the penthouse, her eyes scanning the crowd, watching for any sign of danger. But the streets were clear, the people going about their business, oblivious to the storm that was brewing in the heart of their city.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a blur of shopping bags and luxury items. She moved from store to store, her hands full of treasures, her eyes always on the lookout. The sales associates at each place knew her by name, their smiles genuine, their greetings warm. They knew the Luthor name, knew the power it held. But they didn't know the girl behind the mask, the one who'd been turned into a weapon by her family's legacy.

As the sun began its descent, painting the sky in a canvas of fiery oranges and deep purples, Lena turned a corner of a building and posted up against it, her legs crossed at the ankles. She felt the coolness of the concrete through the leather of her boots, a stark contrast to the heat of the day. Several people walked past her, their gazes a buffet of emotions: awe, suspicion, and lust. It was a heady mix, one she'd grown used to over the years. But she was not here to be ogled, she was here to hunt.

And then she saw him. A tall, well-built man, the epitome of masculine confidence, with broad shoulders and a chiseled jaw that looked like it could cut through steel. He stopped in front of her, his eyes raking over her body like a predator assessing its prey. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if he thought she'd be an easy conquest.

But Lena Luthor was not easily claimed. She looked at him, her gaze as cold and unyielding as a glacier. She didn't miss the way his eyes lingered on her chest, the way his nostrils flared at the scent of her power. But she wasn't here to be ogled, to be reduced to a mere object of desire. She was a storm, a force of nature, and she had more important things to attend to.

With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed him, the gesture as effortless as a royal decree. The man's smirk faltered, his ego bruised by the lack of interest from the woman he'd deemed as easy prey. But Lena was not a deer in headlights, waiting to be picked off by the first predator to cross her path. No, she was the hunter, and he was not her prey.

A short, grey-haired woman turned the corner, her eyes widening when she saw Lena. For a moment, she flinched, as if caught in the act of something unseemly. Then, she quickly regained her composure, her face a mask of indifference as she approached. Lena's sly smile grew, a knowing glint in her eye. She'd noticed the woman's presence earlier, the subtle shadows that had been following her since she left the penthouse.

"What do you want, you old hag?" she asked, her voice a delightful blend of elegance and the faint lilt of an Irish accent that the Luthor family had never been able to completely extinguish. It was a small rebellion, a piece of herself she'd managed to keep hidden, like a treasure in a dragon's hoard. The woman, who looked to be in her early fifties with a stern expression etched into her features, paused for a moment, as if weighing her options. Then, she stepped closer, her eyes never leaving Lena's.

Margot was a creature of the shadows, a ghost in the Luthor corporate world. Her loyalty to the family was unquestionable, but her methods were as subtle as a sledgehammer. Lena had known her since she was a child, the woman's presence a constant reminder of the strings that were attached to her adoption. But she had long ago learned to play the game, to be the puppet that danced when the right buttons were pushed.

"Perceptive as ever dear,You know why I'm here, Lena," Margot said, her voice as smooth as silk. "The family needs you to take care of a... situation."

Lena lolled her head against the building, huffing in agitation. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you want. But flattery will get you nowhere, Margot." She rolled her eyes, her gaze unyielding, yet the tension in her shoulders belied the calm facade.

Margot's disapproving look was as sharp as a knife's edge. "It's not about flattery, girl," she spat, her Irish brogue thickening. "Your brother has been trying to get a hold of you for days."

"Lex?" Lena's voice was as flat as a pancake, the mention of her brother's name leaving a sour taste in her mouth. "Oh, how unfortunate," she said, her sarcasm as thick as the smog that hung over the city. "Perhaps that's because I already know what he wants. Why else would I've been ignoring his call for almost a month?"

Margot stepped closer, gently clasping Lena's jaw in her wrinkled hands. "Lena, darling," she began, her voice a soft croon that belied the steel beneath. But Lena had had enough of the sweet talk. With a sudden, sharp movement, she yanked her head away, the sound of skin parting from skin echoing in the alley. "Don't 'darling' me," she snarled, her eyes flashing. "The answer is no."

But Margot was not so easily deterred. She leaned in, her breath a whiskey-laced promise of trouble. "You know as well as I do, love, that Lex doesn't ask for things. He commands them. And when the Luthor family needs something, it's your duty to provide."

Lena's eyes narrowed, her jaw clenching. "Duty? You talk of duty like it's something I owe them. They turned me into this.... They didn't save me from the gutter; they just gave me a fancier cage!"

Margot's expression didn't waver, her eyes as cold as the steel in Lena's soul. "You know the rules, Lena. The family comes first, always."

But Lena had had enough. "Tell Lex to hop off his pedestal and get his weasely little hands dirty," she said, her voice a whip crack in the stillness. "If he wants someone gone, he can come out of his ivory white tower and do it himself."

Margot's frown deepened, the lines on her face becoming valleys of disapproval. "You know that's not how things work, Lena," she said, her voice a blend of exasperation and a hint of something else, something that made Lena's skin crawl. "Luthor Corp can't be compromised. Your brother will stay where his skill set can be put to use. Your skill set, however, is needed elsewhere."

Lena tenses her jaw glaring at Margot in defiance." I don't give a rats ass were my skill set is needed!. The answer is n ... " SMACK!

Lena's hand hovered over the spot where the slap had landed, the heat spreading like a brand. She felt the sting of it, the way it seemed to echo the anger and frustration that had been simmering in her chest for years. She knew Margot was right, knew that she had been bred for this, trained from a young age to be the Luthor family's secret weapon. But she couldn't help the rebellious spark that flared within her.

Margot took a step back, the fear in her eyes unmistakable. Lena could see the cogs turning in the woman's head, calculating the odds of taking her down. But she had underestimated the girl she'd sent to be raised as a weapon by the luthors. The laugh that bubbled from Lena's throat was a strange mix of amusement and malice, a sound that sent a shiver down Margot's spine.

For a moment, she considered it. Her hand curled into a fist, the urge to strike back a living thing, pulsing with every beat of her heart.but it was likely to knock the last breath out the old decrypted bitch,she knew better. The old woman had resources, connections that could ruin her, or worse. No, she wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing her anger. Instead, she let the laughter spill out, a sound and dark and twisted .

A woman stares at them shell shocked. Margot smile at the woman.then lies effortlessly" My daughter. She has a mouth on her I tell you."

The lady looks between them awkwardly, unsure of what to say. "Don't worry, I'm fine," Lena says, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Old age is getting the best of mother," she adds with a roll of her eyes. The woman's gaze shifts to Margot, who seems to have aged a decade in the space of a second.

Lena's smile is as sharp as a shiv. "Alzheimer's," she mouths silently, tilting her head to the side in a sad, pitiful gesture. The woman nods, her own smile forced as she retreats, giving them a wide berth. Lena watches her go, her eyes narrowing.

Margot's grip on her jaw tightens, the sting of her words as palpable as the imprint of her hand. "Do not forget your place, Lena," she hisses, her voice a serpent in the shadows. "Your family's wealth, status, and lifestyle are not yours to throw away." The reminder hangs in the air, heavy and suffocating, a noose that tightens with every syllable.

But Lena is not so easily cowed. Her eyes flash with a fire that could incinerate a sun. "They're not my family," she says, her voice a knife's edge. "They're the people who bought me, who shaped me into their weapon, who used me as their pawn." Margot's eyes widen slightly, her grip faltering as the truth of Lena's words sink in. It's a revelation that could shake the very foundations of the Luthor empire if it were ever spoken aloud."I wouldn't be surprised to find out the luthors had me abducted as a child."

Margot shoulders tense, leaving lena to believe what she said wasn't to far fetched. Lena doesn't remember much about her childhood. She's just aways had this eeiry feeling that the luthors isn't giving her the full story.

"Can't you just get Andrea to do it, she loves selling her soul for cash," Lena quips, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Margot's grip on her jaw loosens and she steps back, her eyes never leaving Lena's. She caresses her bruised cheek with a gentleness that seems out of place . "My dear," she says, her voice a serpent's coo, "you have a tremendous talent for this. Why keep running from it when you can embrace it?" She reaches out, her hand brushing against Lena's cheek, her thumb tracing the line of her jaw.

For a moment, Lena feels a strange warmth, a sense of belonging that she hadn't felt since she was a child. But it's fleeting, like a candle in the wind of reality. "I'm not a weapon," she says, her voice shaking. "I'm not just something to be used and discarded when the job is done."

Margot sighs, her eyes filled with something akin to pity. "You are what you've been made to be," she says gently. "A Luthor. And Luthor's don't have the luxury of choosing their fate. They make it."

Lena jerks away from her touch, her eyes blazing. "I'm not a Luthor," she spits out, the words bitter on her tongue. "I'm just a girl with their name, their money, their blood on my hands."

Margot sighs, the lines around her eyes deepening. "You were chosen for a reason," she says, her voice a soothing balm over the jagged edges of Lena's anger. "Andrea is a wildcard, unpredictable and sloppy. But you, Lena, you're a masterpiece. Your kills are like a well-executed dance, a symphony of precision and power. No blood, no mess, no evidence to tie back to us. That's what makes you invaluable."

" I shouldn't be mentioning this but, there's talk about a promotion ... if you can continue to prove yourself a valuable asset of course." Lena can't help the way her face lights up at the praising and the mention of a promotion. She's an ambitious omega after all.she was born to give orders not receive them.

Margot's eyes twinkle with a knowing look, she had her hooked. " who is it this time?" Lena asks, trying to keep her voice even, trying not to let the excitement seep through.

Margot's smile widens, a Cheshire cat's grin that sends a shiver down Lena's spine. "Ah, my dear," she says, her voice like a velvet caress, "patience is a virtue, isn't it ? Lex will brief you with the details."

Lena nods, her thoughts racing. A promotion. It was something she'd been dreaming of for years, a way out of the shadow's that had been cast over her since she was a child. A way to prove to the Luthor's that she was more than just a weapon to be used and discarded.

With a flick of her wrist, she sends the shopping bags flying in a dramatic arc, the contents spilling onto the sidewalk like a treasure trove for the less fortunate. She doesn't bother to watch as they scatter in the breeze, her mind already moving on to the task at hand. The dress, the shoes, the jewelry - it was all a facade, a way to blend in with the high society she despised yet craved. But now, she had a new goal, a new reason to play the game.

Her heels click against the pavement as she struts towards the blacked-out Ranger Rover that's been idling at the curb, the engine purring like a sleek panther waiting for its prey. The driver, a stoic man with a buzzcut and a mirrored aviator, opens the door for her with a nod, his eyes never meeting hers. She slides into the plush leather interior, the scent of wealth and power wrapping around her like a second skin. The dress she'd chosen, the one that whispered of darkness and destruction, was already forgotten as she slipped into her role.

The car pulls away from the curb, the city fading behind her like a forgotten nightmare. Lena's heart races as they approach the Luthor mansion, the gothic monstrosity that had been her home for the last decade. Her home, yet it had never truly felt like it. It was more like a prison, a gilded cage filled with snakes waiting to strike. The wrought-iron gates parted with a creak that sent a shiver down her spine, the mansion looming over her like a dark cloud. The memories of her childhood flood back, a tide of pain and fear that she'd spent years pushing down. The screams, the whispers, the endless training sessions that had turned her into the perfect killer.

Inside, the classical music swells, wrapping around her like a velvet cloak. The decor is a stark contrast to her bright, chic penthouse: dark woods, deep reds, and gleaming gold. It's a place that screams of power and money, a tragic vampire's lair that sucks the light out of the room. The chandeliers cast eerie shadows on the floor, the walls lined with portraits of dead ancestors that seem to judge her every move. The grand staircase spirals upwards like a serpent, a silent sentinel to the secrets that lay above.

Without a second thought, Lena makes her way to the liquor cart, the gleaming crystal bottles whispering sweet nothings of oblivion. She pours herself a generous glass of whiskey, the amber liquid glinting in the soft light like a treasure from a pirate's hoard. It burns a fiery trail down her throat, the warmth spreading through her like a balm to her soul. She needs it, the courage it gives her, the false sense of power. Dealing with Lex sober was like walking into a lion's den with a handful of raw meat.

Her eyes drift to the oil painting of Lex that hangs over the mantle, his cold, dead gaze seemingly following her every move. She can almost hear his smug laughter, taunting her from the canvas. The way his eyes bore into hers, it was as if he could see right through her, into the very core of her being. She clutches the glass tightly, knuckles whitening, willing it to shatter. But the glass remains unyielding, a silent testament to her frustration. The whiskey does little to warm her, the chill from the portrait seeping into her bones.

"Drinking already, sister?" The voice is like a snake slithering through the room, and Lena visibly flinches as Lex Luthor himself appears beside her, his grin as sharp as a knife's edge. He's dressed in a tailored suit that screams of money and power, his eyes gleaming with a mischief that makes her skin crawl. She turns to face him, her posture defiant, the whiskey sloshing in her glass.

"Would you prefer I greet you with a gun in hand?" she asks, her tone as smooth as the alcohol that warms her belly. She knows how to push his buttons, knows that he's the one who's really afraid of her. The thought brings a small, wicked smile to her lips. It was stupid to sneak up on her; she could have easily stabbed him.oh How... tragic (satisfying) would that have been.

Lex chuckles, his eyes glinting with a dangerous amusement. "Paris, Lena? Really? That was quite the vanishing act, even for you." His voice is like silk, but there's a steel thread running through it, one that could slice through bone if she's not careful.

Lena shrugs, sipping her whiskey with a nonchalance she doesn't quite feel. "Fashion week," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You know how it is. Can't be bothered with trivial family matters when there's haute couture to attend to." Her eyes never leave the painting, the coldness in her voice as sharp as the glass she holds.

Lex steps closer, his cologne a suffocating cloud of expensive musk. "Ah, but family is never trivial," he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Especially when it comes to matters of succession." He leans in, his breath hot against her ear. "You know what I need from you, Lena. Don't disappoint me again."

With a sneer, Lena turns to face him, her eyes as cold as the whiskey in her hand. "Cut the crap, Lex. You want me to dance, you tell me who's next on the chopping block," she says, her voice a whip crack that slices through the tension. She takes a step back, placing the glass on the cart with a clink that echoes through the room. "I don't have time for games. Who needs to be dead?"

Lex's smile widens, his teeth as white and sharp as sharks. "Ah, the ever eager killer," he purrs, his eyes gleaming with a mix of admiration and contempt. "Very well. General sam lane," he says

Lena raises an eyebrow, her voice as cold as the whiskey she's been nursing. "And you think I'm just going to eliminate him because you say so?"

Lex's smile never falters. "Oh, Lena, always so suspicious. But when it comes to matters of national security, even your skepticism should take a backseat." He strolls over to the fireplace, his reflection flickering in the polished chrome of the weapons case behind him. "General Lane has been playing a very dangerous game, selling secrets to the highest bidder. And we can't have that, can we?"

Lena's eyes narrow, the whiskey burning a path of doubt in her mind. "And you expect me to just take your word for it?" she challenges. "You, of all people, calling someone corrupt? That's like a pot calling the kettle black with a PhD in hypocrisy."

Lex's smile remains, a chilling mask of amusement. "When Leviathan wants someone dead," he says, his voice as smooth as the whiskey that burns in Lena's throat, "it's in our best interest to comply. You know the rules, Lena. You've played this game long enough. If Leviathan is after General Lane, then he's a problem that needs to be... handled."

Lena's eyes flash with a mix of anger and curiosity. "And why should I care what Leviathan wants?" she asks, her voice a cocktail of ice and fire. "What makes them so special that we have to dance to their tune, who's leviathan?"

Lex chuckles, his eyes glinting with the light of the fireplace. "Leviathan is everything and everyone, Lena. They're the puppet masters pulling the strings of the world," he says, his voice as smooth as the whiskey they'd both been avoiding. "And when they ask for something, we provide."

Lena rolls her eyes, the mockery dripping from her words like venom. "How convenient," she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "They're a secret society that can't be questioned. The boogeyman of the elite. You always give the same answer, don't you, Lex? It's like a broken record." She crosses her arms over her chest, her body language screaming defiance.

But Lex's smile doesn't waver. He pours himself a drink, his movements as precise as a surgeon's. "They are the reason our family sits at the top of the food chain," he says, his voice a low growl. "Without them, we're nothing but a bunch of over-privileged brats with too much time and too little sense."

The room seems to close in around Lena as the implications of his words sink in. The Luthor name, the power, the fear they instill in others – it's all because of Leviathan. They're the invisible hand guiding their every move, the unseen force that keeps them in check. She's been a pawn in their game since before she can remember, and the thought makes her stomach churn.

"But who are they?" she presses, her voice insistent. "What's the end goal ?"

Lex takes a sip of his whiskey, the firelight playing across his face like a macabre masquerade. "You're smarter than that, Lena. You know better than to ask questions that have no answers," he says, his tone patronizing.

Lena smirks, the corner of her mouth tilting up in a way that could cut glass. "And you're smarter than to think I'd just take your word for it," she counters, her eyes gleaming with a challenge. "But since we're playing make-believe, why don't you tell me a bedtime story? Maybe one about the day you discovered Santa isn't real and your heart grew three sizes smaller."

Lex's facade cracks, just for a second, before smoothing back into place. But it's enough. His hand shoots out, grasping hers and shoving a small envelope into her palm. The paper feels cold and slick, like the skin of a dead fish. "Your intel is inside," he says, his voice a whip crack. "Don't make me regret this."

The phone's ring pierces the air like a gunshot, shattering the tension. Lex pulls out a sleek black burner phone, flipping it open with a flourish. "Lex Luthor," he says, his tone as cold as the metal in his hand. Lena watches him, her eyes narrowed. He's hiding something, she can feel it. The conversation is quick and clipped, full of coded words and hushed tones.

Her heart skips a beat when she hears him say, "What do you mean Morgan Edge is dead?" It's a question that hangs in the air.

Lena's eyes widen, watching Lex's face contort with rage. "You," he snarls into the phone, "You find out who did this and eliminate them, or I'll eliminate you," he says, his voice like the crack of a whip. She can almost feel the fear on the other end of the line, the tremble in the voice that responds with frantic promises to deliver results.

With the envelope burning a hole in her pocket, Lena turns on her heel and leaves, her heels clicking against the marble floor like the beat of a war drum. The whiskey in her glass is forgotten, the taste of it sour on her tongue. She can't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at the chaos that lex has found himself in. But it's short-lived. There's a new mission now, a new dance to perform for her shadowy puppet masters.

Days later, Lena finds herself in the desert, her ginger wavy wig and green contacts her only disguise. The heat is a living, breathing entity, wrapping around her like a lover's embrace, whispering sweet nothings of madness into her ears. The base sprawls in the distance like a mirage, a bastion of civilization in a sea of sand. She's been to places like this before, places where the sun is a cruel god that demands blood and sweat in return for its light.

The event is in full swing, a kaleidoscope of military precision and familial camaraderie. Soldiers and their loved ones mingle, their laughter a stark contrast to the clandestine whispers of her mission. Her heart races as she scans the crowd, looking for the face that matches the name on the paper in her pocket. General Sam Lane, a man who's been playing a dangerous game, a game that's about to come to a very abrupt end.

As she approaches the checkpoint, the guard's eyes flick over her, his gaze lingering on the curves her dress hugs tightly. She smiles sweetly, batting her lashes behind the green contacts that hide her true self. "ID, ma'am?" he asks, his voice gruff yet courteous. She pulls out the ID card with the name "macy Vanderbilt" printed neatly across it.

"I'm here to see Captain Castellanos," she says, her voice a blend of innocence and confidence. It's a name she'd picked out of a hat, a fig leaf of a lie to get her past the gatekeepers.

The guard's eyes narrow as he looks over the list, his finger running down the names as if searching for a hidden message. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you're not on the authorized list of guests," he says, his tone firm yet apologetic. The line behind her murmurs, impatient and sweaty in the relentless sun.

Lena's smile doesn't waver. She pouts, her eyes wide with feigned disappointment. "Oh no, not again," she says, her voice a mix of sugar and steel. "I got all dolled up for nothing. You know how forgetful my husband is." She flips her wig with a dramatic sigh, playing the part of a wronged spouse to perfection.

The guard's expression softens, his hand hovering over the ID. "Look, I can't just let anyone in," he says, his voice filled with a hint of regret. "It's protocol."

"Oh, I understand," Lena says, her voice dripping with sweetness that could make a saint crave dessert. "But surely, there's some way around it?"

The soldier eyes her up and down, his gaze lingering on her curves, a leer that sends a shiver of revulsion down her spine. She's used to this, the way men look at her like she's a toy to be played with. But she's not just any toy. She's the one holding the strings, and she'll make him dance.

"I suppose," he says, his voice a low rumble, "I could make an exception. For a pretty little thing like you." He winks, his smile all teeth. "But only if you do me a little favor."

Lena's eyes narrow, the sweetness in her voice replaced with a coil of steel. "What kind of favor?" she asks, playing along.

The guard leans in, his breath hot and sour against her cheek. "Just a little pat down, make sure you're not hiding anything... dangerous," he says, his hand lingering on the word.

Lena's stomach turns, but she keeps her smile in place. It's not the first time she's been felt up, and probably won't be the last. She's been through worse, much worse, and she's not about to let a simple-minded grunt ruin her mission. She nods, playing the part of the obedient wife, and allows his hands to roam over her body, the disgust a palpable third presence between them. His touch is a violation, but she uses it, letting the anger fuel her resolve.

The guard's hands are rough, his grip bordering on painful as he slides them between her legs. She clenches her teeth, her nails digging into her palms. She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks, a blush of rage rather than embarrassment. But she doesn't react, not outwardly. Inside, she's a volcano on the brink of eruption, but she remains a statue, a master of her emotions. His hands linger, his breath hot and heavy against her neck. The urge to break his nose is almost overwhelming, but she's not here to satisfy personal vendetta's, not today.

With a final pat, he releases her, his eyes gleaming with a victory she knows is hollow. "Alright, you're clear," he says, his voice thick with lust. "You can go through."

Lena nods sweetly, her smile never wavering as she steps through the checkpoint. But in her mind, she's already planning his demise. She'll make it quick, painless even, just a whisper of death that takes him before he knows what's happening. It's a promise she makes to herself, a silent vow that echoes in the empty space where her heart used to be. But for now, she has a job to do, a dance to perform for her invisible puppet masters.

The base is a hive of activity, a beacon of order in the chaos of the desert. She watches the children squeal with delight as they run towards their returning parents, the soldiers' strong arms scooping them up into tight embraces. The omegas, their faces alight with joy, cling to their husbands, their love a stark contrast to the coldness that has seeped into Lena's soul. For a moment, she wonders what it would be like to be them, to live a life where the biggest concern is what color ribbon to tie around the welcoming banner.

Her eyes follow a young couple, laughing as they stumble over a three-legged race, the sun glinting off the man's military dog tags. Their love is a living thing, a tangible force that seems to radiate from them like heat from the sun. And for a brief, fleeting moment, Lena feels a twinge of something she hasn't felt in years: jealousy. It's a bitter taste, one that makes her stomach churn. She's been trained to be a weapon, to feel nothing but the cold, hard edge of a blade sliding home. But here, surrounded by love and warmth, she can't help but wonder what it would be like to be normal.

But the illusion shatters as quickly as it had formed. This isn't her world, these aren't her people. Her reality is one of shadows and blood, of whispers in the dark and the cold embrace of the grave. And as she melts into the crowd, her eyes scanning for her target, she knows that she'll never truly belong here. The Luthor name is a curse that she'll carry to her grave, a legacy of death and destruction that no amount of love or normalcy can ever wash away.

The air is thick with the scent of BBQ, the smell of charcoal and meat wafting over the base like a comforting blanket. But Lena's stomach is a tight knot of anticipation and dread. She's a ghost in a world of color, a silent predator waiting for the moment to strike. And as she spots General Lane, his buzzed head and stern features a stark contrast to the joyous backdrop, she knows that the time for playing house is over. The hunt begins now.

Her eyes drift down to the folder in her hand, the name "Sam Lane" staring back at her like an accusation. She's gone over his file a hundred times, memorizing every detail. His medical records had been particularly enlightening. Diabetes, anger management issues - all useful information, erectile dysfunction..hilarious but useless , it's the peanut allergy that has her smirking to herself. How poetic, that a man of his caliber will be taken down by something so small, so seemingly innocuous.

With a deep breath, Lena pushes through the crowd, her hips swaying gently in a way that draws the eyes of every man in the vicinity. It's a dance she's perfected over the years, a seductive rhythm that whispers promises of pleasure and comfort. And like a moth to a flame, General Lane can't help but be drawn to her. She approaches him with a sweet smile, her eyes sparkling like diamonds in the desert sun.

"General Lane, I can't believe it's you," she says, her voice a siren's song that makes his heart stumble in his chest. "Thank you for your service," she adds, her hand lingering on his forearm. The touch is feather-light, yet it sends a jolt through him, making him feel more alive than he has in years.

He looks at her, his eyes a mix of suspicion and desire. "Do I know you, miss?" he asks, his voice gruff.

"Oh, no," Lena giggles, her voice as sweet as the sugar-coated lie she's about to spin. "But I've heard so much about you. You're a hero, a legend," she says, her eyes sparkling. "I'm just a grateful citizen looking to show her appreciation."

General Lane's chest puffs up like a rooster in a cockfight. "Well, I do what I can," he says, his voice gruff, but his eyes are already glazed over with the sweet nectar of his own ego.

Lena leans in, her breath a warm whisper against his ear. "And what you can do is incredible," she murmurs, her voice dripping with sincerity. "I've heard stories that would make the gods weep with envy." Her hand slides up to his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You're the kind of man that makes this country great," she says, playing into his need for adoration.

The General's eyes narrow, his hand coming to rest on hers. "Flattery won't get you very far, Miss..."

"Vanderbilt," Lena says, her smile never wavering. "But I wasn't offering just flattery," she purrs, leaning closer so that her breasts press against his chest. She knows the effect she's having on him, the way his pupils dilate and his breathing quickens. But it's not sex she's offering, not when she knows his body can't deliver. No, she's playing a different game, one where his ego is her pawn and her wit is her queen.

"Your medal," she says, her eyes flicking to the shiny bauble on his chest. "You must have dozens of them. Tell me, what did you do to earn this one?" Her finger traces the outline of the metal star, the tip brushing against his skin with a feathery touch.

General Lane's chest swells with pride, his face breaking into a smile that reveals teeth as straight and white as the fence that separates them from the desert. "This one," he says, his voice thick with emotion, "was for my actions during the Iraq invasion. Saved a dozen lives that day, and not just any lives - these were the best and brightest of Earth's finest."

Lena nods, her eyes wide with feigned awe. "You're truly a hero," she says, her voice a symphony of admiration. "But I bet you have even more amazing stories to tell," she adds, her hand still resting lightly on his shoulder. "Maybe in a more... private setting?"

General Lane's smile widens, his eyes darkening with interest. "As a matter of fact, I do," he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "My office isn't far from here. I have a few... mementoes that I don't get to show just anyone."

Lena nods, her smile never wavering. "I'd love to see them," she says, her voice a soft invitation. She knows the game she's playing is a dangerous one, a delicate dance of seduction and deceit. But it's a dance she's been taught by the best, a dance that's kept her alive and breathing in a world where trust is a luxury she can't afford.

They walk together, the General's hand at the small of her back, guiding her through the maze of the base. The air is thick with the smell of victory and the sweat of fear, a scent that clings to him like a second skin. She can feel his eyes on her, his gaze as hot as the desert sun. But she's used to the heat, used to the way men look at her, used to the power she holds over them.

Inside his office, the walls are lined with awards and framed photos of him shaking hands with presidents and celebrities. She nods and smiles, playing the part of the adoring fan girl as he tells her about each one, his voice a droning buzz in her ear. But her mind is racing, planning the kill. The peanut allergy, so simple, so easy. and it would all be over.

Her hand moves to her purse, her fingers wrapping around the small tube of lip gloss. She'd made it herself, a concoction of pure peanut oil and a hint of sweetness to mask the scent. It had been a tedious process, finding the purest oil, mixing it just right, but it was worth it. For him, it would be the kiss of death. She applies it to her lips, watching his eyes follow the movement, his pupils dilating with hunger.

"You know, General," she says, her voice a purr, "I've always had a bit of a... crush on you. Ever since I was a little girl watching the news with my father." She giggles, a sound that's as fake as the hair on her head. "Could I... possibly get a kiss?" She asks, her eyes wide and hopeful, all the shyness in the world wrapped up in that one question.

General Lane's face flushes with pleasure, his chest puffing up like a peacock's plumage. "Well, if you insist," he says, leaning in.

Their mouths meet in a chaste kiss, the kind shared between strangers in a fleeting moment of connection. But there's nothing fleeting about the hatred that fuels Lena's actions. As their lips touch, she can feel the beat of his heart, the rush of his blood, the very essence of his life force. She holds the power of life and death in her hand, and it's a heady feeling. Her eyes are closed, but she can see the room around her, the shadows playing tricks in the corners, the whispers of her past missions echoing in her ears.

His eyes flutter open, a look of pure bliss on his face. He pulls away, a smile tugging at his lips. But the moment is shattered as his face turns a deep shade of red, the color of a sunset that's been painted with the blood of a dying world. His hand shoots up to his neck, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. The sweat beads on his forehead, rolling down his face like tiny rivers of fear.

Lena steps back, her smile fading as she watches the horror unfold. She's seen this dance before, the chaotic ballet of death that follows her every step. But she doesn't revel in it, not anymore. It's just another job, another notch on the bedpost of her soul. She's the clueless spectre, the ghost in the room that no one sees coming until it's too late.

He points to his desk, his hand trembling, his throat closing like a vice around his windpipe. His eyes are wide with panic, searching hers for a glimmer of hope, a spark of humanity. But all he finds is the cold, unyielding gaze of a woman who's been taught to feel nothing but the thrill of the hunt.

Lena walks over to the desk, her heels echoing in the suddenly quiet room. On the gleaming wood surface sits an EpiPen, a beacon of salvation in a sea of chaos. She picks it up, holding it out to him, but instead of giving it to him, she keeps it just out of reach.

"What's the matter, General?" she asks, her voice devoid of any warmth. "Are you feeling... unwell?" She watches the horror in his eyes as he realizes what's happening. His hand claws at his neck, desperation etching lines on his face. His words come out as a strangled whisper, "Bitch... what did you do?"

The word hangs in the air between them, a declaration of war. She smiles, the expression cold and empty. "My job," she says simply, the words cutting through the silence like a knife.

With a flick of her wrist, she sends the EpiPen spiraling through the air, watching as it glitters in the sunlight that streams through the window. General Lane's eyes follow it, desperate hope flickering in their depths. But it's a hope that's quickly snuffed out as it clatters against the far wall, landing just out of his reach.

He tries to scramble for it, his body convulsing with the effort, but his legs betray him, collapsing under his weight. He hits the ground hard, his knees cracking against the cold tiles like the sound of a gunshot in the stillness. His eyes bulge as he gasps for air, his fingers stretching out like desperate branches reaching for a lifeline that's just out of reach.

Lena remains still, watching the spectacle of his demise with a detached fascination. It's like watching a movie play out, one she's seen a hundred times before. She's the puppeteer, and he's the marionette, dancing on the strings of fate she's so masterfully pulled. His eyes, once filled with pride and lust, now hold only terror and the dawning realization that he's been played.

The panic in his gaze is a living thing, a creature born of fear and desperation. It claws at him, consuming him from the inside out. His hands clutch at his throat, his fingers turning blue as he fights for air that won't come. His body convulses, a macabre ballet of dying muscles and twitching nerves. And through it all, she remains the picture of calm, a silent observer in a world of chaos.

Her eyes are cold, devoid of any spark of human emotion. It's a look that's been honed over years of practice, a mask that hides the girl who once felt the warmth of love and compassion. The girl who's been replaced by a killer, a weapon forged in the fires of the Luthor family's ambition. She watches him, her mind a whirl of thoughts and memories that seem so distant now. Memories of a life before the the luthors ,before the blood and the lies.

The general's body spasms, a final dance of life's last moments. His eyes, once full of authority and arrogance, now glaze over as the light flickers and then vanishes, leaving behind the emptiness of a man who's been snuffed out like a candle in the wind. It's a sight she's seen before, but it never gets easier. Each life she takes is a part of herself she can never get back, a piece of her soul that crumbles away like dust in the palm of her hand.

Her eyes flick to the switchblade on the desk, a silent witness to countless deals and dirty secrets. It's a tool of power, of control, much like the one she wields in the shadows. Without a second thought, she snatches it up, feeling the cool metal in her palm, the weight of it a comforting reminder of the world she inhabits. It's a small, almost insignificant thing, but in the right hands, it's a weapon that can bring down empires.

On her way out of the base, Lena's steps are swift and silent, her heels clicking against the concrete like the ticking of a time bomb. The chaos of the BBQ is a distant memory, the laughter and joy a stark contrast to the cold, calculated world she's been born into. Her eyes scan the crowd, searching for any sign of danger, any hint that her mission has been compromised.

And then she sees him. The soldier from the checkpoint, the one who had violated her with his groping hands, his lecherous gaze. He's leaning against a jeep, a smug smirk on his face as he watches the festivities, no doubt thinking of his encounter with the mysterious woman who had so easily slipped through his grasp. She clenches her fist around the switchblade, her knuckles turning white. He's a blight on her otherwise perfect mission, a reminder of the corruption that runs rampant through the veins of humanity.

With the grace of a panther, she glides over to him, her hips swaying in a silent promise of death. His eyes light up as she approaches, his smirk growing wider. He opens his mouth to say something, to offer her another round of his pathetic advances, but she's already there, her hand a blur as it darts out to meet his throat. The blade slices through skin and cartilage, a hot line of resistance that gives way with a sickening crunch. His eyes go wide with shock, his mouth opens in a silent scream that's cut off as the blood gurgles from his throat, painting the desert sand a dark, viscous red.

The world slows down around them, the sounds of laughter and music fading into a dull roar. Time seems to hold its breath as she watches the life drain from his eyes, a morbid fascination that's become all too familiar. His hands come up, desperately trying to stop the flow, but it's a futile gesture, a dance of futility that she's seen too many times. She's the grim reaper in heels, the angel of death that no one ever expects.

With a final gurgle, the soldier slumps to the ground, his body going slack. Lena wipes the blade clean on his shirt, her movements methodical, almost loving. She slides the knife back into her purse, her eyes never leaving the dying man at her feet. It's a sight that would make most people recoil in horror, but for her, it's just another day at the office. Another job well done.

Her mission accomplished, she turns and walks away, the sun setting behind her like a crimson curtain closing on the day's events. Her heels crunch through the sand, leaving a trail of blood and destruction in her wake. She's a living ghost, a specter that no one sees until it's too late. And as the base fades into the distance, she can't help but feel a twinge of regret. Not for the lives she's taken, but for the one she's lost - the girl who used to laugh at the stars and dream of a better life.

But that girl is gone now, buried under layers of lies and blood. In her place stands a woman with a mission, a killer with a heart that beats only for the thrill of the chase, and she's unstoppable.

---