[hot] - Abby Winters Mya

“This one’s free.” Mya leaned forward, and Abby caught a whiff of something clean and sharp—rainwater and cedar. “The shipment isn’t weapons, Abby. It never was.”

Mya wasn’t hard to spot. She was the one not pretending to read a newspaper. She was the one with the spill of copper hair caught in a messy knot, a single silver locket resting in the hollow of her throat, and eyes the color of a stormy sea. She was the one watching Abby with a calm, unnerving patience. abby winters mya

Abby’s blood chilled. Her handler, a man named Sterling with a face like a cracked leather wallet, had been adamant. Black market antiques. Destabilizing regional powers. Intercept or destroy. “Then what is it?” “This one’s free

The air left the room. Prague. A safehouse fire. A partner she still saw in nightmares. “You’re lying.” She was the one not pretending to read a newspaper

She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t. Because if she did, she would see the ghost of a shared history in Mya’s expression, a history she didn’t remember but her bones knew. And that was a truth more dangerous than any shipment.

Behind the fogging window, Mya finally took a sip of her cold tea. She touched her silver locket. Inside was a tiny photograph—Abby, younger, laughing, her arm around a woman whose face had been scratched out.