-Spades-

1

The city of Madrid was no stranger to crime, but Spades was different. She was a legend, a whisper in the dark, a nightmare that stalked the streets with silent precision. No one knew her name, no one had ever seen her face, but everyone feared the woman in the red hood.

Tonight, the city hummed with the usual nocturnal energy—bars overflowing with laughter, streets alive with footsteps echoing against cobblestones. The scent of roasted chestnuts and cigarette smoke drifted through the air as neon lights flickered against wet pavement. Yet, in the shadows of an alleyway near Plaza Mayor, a different kind of energy pulsed—something cold, something final.

A body lay sprawled against the brick wall, a gloved hand frozen in its last desperate grasp toward salvation. A single playing card rested atop his chest. The Ace of Spades. The city had learned to recognize her mark. Everybody left in her wake carried a piece of the deck. Some whispered that each card had a meaning, a purpose, a story known only to her. Others believed it was just a game, a twisted ritual she alone understood. But one thing was certain—no one had ever seen her, and no one had ever caught her. She moved like a shadow, slipping between the cracks of Madrid's underworld, never leaving a trace beyond the bodies she claimed.

From her perch on a rooftop, she watched as the crowd gathered around the latest spectacle. The onlookers murmured in hushed tones; their gazes locked onto the lifeless form at their feet. Some gasped at the sight of the card; others turned away in silent terror. The legend of Spades had been growing for years, and now, with each kill, her name was spoken with both fear and reverence.

She pulled her hood tighter against the wind, her crimson cloak billowing behind her like spilled ink against the night. Madrid was her city. Its alleys, its rooftops, its forgotten corners—she knew them better than anyone.

She hadn't always been this way. Once, long ago, she had been a child. A girl with a name, with a past. Katherine Slade. But that name had died in a foster home, buried beneath the weight of neglect and cruelty. She still remembered the first time she had killed. The way the blade had felt in her small hands, the way the blood had run like ink on paper. He had deserved it. They all did. And with each life she took, the past grew quieter, until all that remained was the rhythm of the hunt.

Her targets were never random. Every kill was chosen carefully, methodically. But it wasn't just about justice or revenge—it was about the thrill. The way her pulse quickened when she watched a person realize they were about to die. The way fear flickered in their eyes before the blade met flesh. There was a purpose, yes, but there was also pleasure. A perfect balance of art and chaos, a dance she had performed over a hundred times. 137 bodies, to be exact. Each one a part of her collection, each one a chapter in her story.

The dead man below had been no different. A trafficker, a parasite who preyed on the lost and the desperate. His sins had been many, his punishment absolute. Spades had watched him for weeks, following his every move, tracing the dark network he was a part of. And tonight, the Ace of Spades had been his final reckoning.

She reached into her pocket, fingers tracing the edges of the next card. The deck was far from empty.

A sudden movement in the distance caught her attention. A figure, lingering in the shadows at the mouth of the alley. He was watching, but not like the others. His stance was too rigid, his gaze too steady. A detective, perhaps? A journalist hoping to catch a glimpse of the infamous Spades? Either way, he was a problem.

With practiced ease, she melted into the darkness, navigating the rooftops with the effortless grace of a phantom. The city was her playground, its hidden paths known only to her. She descended into the labyrinth of backstreets, weaving through the city's veins, past shuttered shops and abandoned courtyards. This was where she thrived, in the silent places where the living feared to tread.

A fog had settled over the streets, damp and clinging. It wrapped around her like a second skin as she moved, a predator unseen. She took the long way, moving deeper into the city's forgotten spaces—places where time seemed to pause, where the ghosts of Madrid whispered secrets only she could hear.

She stopped before an old iron gate, its bars rusted with time. A push, a creak, and she was through, stepping into a courtyard swallowed by ivy and moonlight. Here, among the ruins of forgotten history, she took stock of her next move. She drew the card from her pocket, flipping it between her fingers. The King of Diamonds. A wealthy man, powerful, but corrupt to the core. His sins were many, his arrogance absolute. He would die soon, and she would make sure it was a masterpiece.

A cat slinked past, disappearing into the night. A reminder that she was not alone in this city, that predators came in many forms. She moved again, slipping through an old service entrance and into the backstreets once more. The hunt had begun anew, and she was ready.

By morning, Madrid would wake to another body, another card, another whispered legend of the woman in the red hood. And Spades? She would already be gone, fading into the shadows until the next dance began.