Striker

The scent of brimstone and polished metal clung to the air of the mine shaft, a perfume Striker had long since grown accustomed to.

He sat perched on a worn wooden crate, the sole occupant of this particular hole in the ground, and ran an oiled rag along the length of a custom-crafted rifle.

The metal gleamed under the faint, sickly glow of the hell-lights strung along the ceiling. A smear of the dark, viscous oil stained the denim of his pant leg, a detail he noted with a flick of his tail before dismissing it entirely.

This was the gun. The special one, loaded with angelic ammunition that could put down anything that walked, crawled, or flew in the Seven Rings. It was meant for royalty.

Striker let out a slow, measured breath, his mind’s eye painting a picture he wished it wouldn't.

The Goetic Princess of Hell. The title alone was enough to curdle the blood of any decent, hard-working imp. It was a target-rich environment of everything he hated. And yet...

The rag stalled on the barrel. Her image, gorgeous and infuriating in equal measure, had taken root in his skull like a stubborn burr.

It surfaced when he was on the phone with her husband, that simpering, stuck-up piece of royalty who’d hired him. It appeared when he was tending to his horse, the memory of her walking through some gilded hall.

And now, it was here, distracting him from the very tool of her demise.

“Fuckin’ course,” he snarled, the word a harsh rasp in the silence. He leaned back, the crate groaning in protest, and kicked a boot out, sending a shower of loose dirt skittering across the floor.

He could almost hear her voice, that calm, measured tone that held no fear, only a weary sort of acceptance. It did something to him. Something that made his trigger finger itch for all the wrong reasons.

He shook his head violently, as if to physically dislodge the thought.

He was Striker.

The best. The one they sent when they wanted a message written in angelic steel. He’d get this job done, collect his pay, and never think of her again.

---

The palace was a monument to everything he despised. All gleaming spires and impossible architecture, floating islands tethered by chains of solidified light.

Striker moved through the shadows like they were his own personal invitation, his rough scales a stark contrast against the polished obsidian.

He hoisted himself onto a private balcony with a grunt, the quiet rattle of his tail the only sound he allowed himself. His weathered cowboy hat shaded his eyes, but beneath the brim, they were sharp, missing nothing.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he saw her. She stood in the center of a lavishly appointed room, a heavy, ancient-looking book cradled in her hands.

The soft glow from a nearby brazier caught the angles of her face, the elegant curve of her horns. The sight of her, so serene, so utterly unaware, sent a jolt through him that was dangerously close to admiration.

No. The word was a snarl in his own mind. He tore his gaze away, fixing it on the cold, hard lines of his gun. The angelic weapon. The great equalizer.

“She’s just another parasite,” he breathed, the sound lost to the night wind. “Ain’t nothin’ but worthless royalty like the rest of ‘em.”

With a decisive click of the gun’s mechanism, he shouldered the balcony door open, the delicate frame splintering inward.

He stepped into the room, his boots landing silently on the plush carpet. The air was thick with incense and the faint, sweet scent of her.

“How’s it goin’, sweetheart?” His voice was a low, lazy drawl, thick with a menace he was trying very hard to feel.

He kept his head down, letting the hat shadow his expression. His tail gave a louder, more deliberate rattle against his chaps.

“You’ve been a bit slippery. Had to get a closer look. See what all the fuss is about.”

He could feel her gaze on him, calm and unnervingly steady. It didn’t matter. He moved closer, circling her like a wolf around a deer that had forgotten how to run. The book in her hands didn't so much as tremble.

“Been ordered to kill ya,” he continued, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “Really, it’s my pleasure.” The lie was bitter on his tongue.

He stopped his circling, now standing just a few feet from her, the barrel of his rifle never wavering.

“Guess the mister ain’t too big a fan of ya. Considerin’ well... the circumstances I find myself in, darlin’.” He let out a laugh, a sound that was meant to be cold and triumphant but came out sultry, rich, and entirely too fascinated.

He stopped. The only sound was the faint echo of his boots fading and the soft crackle of the brazier. He tilted his chin up, the hat no longer shielding his eyes. He looked at her. Really looked.

Past the title, past the wealth, past the mission. He saw the subtle wisdom in her gaze, the weary strength in the set of her shoulders.

She wasn’t looking at him with the contempt he expected. She was just... looking. Seeing him. Striker. Not a tool, not a monster, just... him.

The trigger felt like it weighed a thousand pounds under his finger. His knuckles were white. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

The image of her, this infuriating, gorgeous, impossibly strong-willed woman, was all he could see.

It wasn't popping into his head at the worst moment anymore. It was all there was. And for the life of him, he couldn't figure out how to pull the trigger and make it go away.