I was fourteen when I became the deadliest second-gen assassin alive.
Not feared. Not respected.
Just used.
My hands were trained to kill without tremble, my feet to move without sound. I didn't leave behind wounded cries or lingering breaths—only silence.
Cold, clinical silence.
The kind that lingers even after blood dries.
Some whispered I was stronger than First Gens. But it meant nothing.
Not in the Singhaniya family.
To them, I was still a stain. A shadow in the corner of their perfect legacy.
"Look at your father," my uncle once spat, his fingers brushing my cheek like an insult pretending to be affection. "The greatest assassin to ever live. And you? You're a cracked, useless blade."
His breath had reeked of sandalwood and whisky. I remembered the way the room smelled—metallic, like sweat and sharpened steel. The way his gaze cut deeper than any dagger.
But no one dared say it again.
Not to my face.
Not after the fifth mission.
