𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 ━━ 𝐕𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐙𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐳

n i n e

Soren Striker wasn't a snitch.

As she lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, she tried remembering what her life was like before Gotham. She knew she was an assassin for high-profile targets. She remembered bits and pieces of her childhood, but nothing that helped her remember who she was.

She could remember the day her parents died very clearly. She couldn't have been any older than seven at the time. A car crash. She was the only one who survived. Isn't that how it usually went for people like her?

Her life after the crash was a large blank, up until her memory of the first time she killed for money. The time in between was a mystery to her, but she did know those were the years she received whatever sort of training it was that made her like this.

She didn't know what she would do about Torres, but for now, she wouldn't be returning to him. She knew that would only get her killed, or at the very least, seriously injured.

No, until she decided how to solve her little predicament, she would keep a low profile.

Soren sighed and sat up, unable to sleep. Her mind was too full of thoughts, and her body longed to go to the cathedral. She complied and put on the nearest set of clothes, her work pants, a black cropped tank top, and a slightly oversized black jacket, as well as her work boots.

Soren left her house and got on her motorcycle, speeding off into the grimy streets of Gotham. The wind blew her unkempt hair behind her and as she inhaled, the city's familiar scent of smoke and smog filled her nose.

By no means did the smell of Gotham delight the senses, but Soren had learned to find comfort in the consistency of the city's stench.

Gotham City Cathedral soon became visible through the fog. Soren dismounted her bike and headed up the stairs to the front doors. An eerie sense of dread in the pit of her stomach set her on edge.

The old cathedral had once been intended to be a spiritual centre of the city. Stone gargoyles and tolling bells were designed to keep evil at bay, at the time of construction the cathedral overshadowed and dominated the surrounding buildings. Now, it lay condemned by the public due to the dwindling faith in God, and the rise in crime.

Soren entered the cathedral and shivered, a chill extending from her neck down her spine. Something felt different, almost an emptiness in her soul, but she couldn't quite figure out why.

She followed her regular path through the pews and took a seat in the confessional. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."Soren waited for a response, and when one didn't come, she spoke again. "Father?"

Nothing.

Sorens eyebrows knitted together in confusion. The cathedral had never been so silent. She felt a growing sense of paranoia, and she didn't like it. A pressure on her chest constricting her lungs made it difficult to breathe.

She stood abruptly, leaving the cathedral with an urgency that almost scared her. The moment she felt the brisk air of the outdoors on her face, she gasped, she could breathe easy again. She ran for her motorcycle and jumped on.

Whatever just happened, it was new, and it scared Soren.

She needed to get her mind off it and decided she would do that by going to Mooney's club. First, though, she went home to change into something more appropriate.

Soren changed into a tight black dress and black heels before making her way down the street toward her destination. Typically, any woman dressed like her would be in danger walking the streets of Gotham alone, but Soren had no problem defending herself.

Mooney's club attracted all sorts of villainy and scum, along with some of the elite of Gotham. Of course, many of the 'elite' of the city could be considered scum as well.

As Soren entered the yellow-lit establishment, a few pairs of eyes watched her strut to a booth in the darkened corner of the room. She sat and crossed her legs, resting her arm on the back. She waved a server over to her table and leaned forward.

"I'll have a Vieux Carré, thanks." Soren smiled, a hint of flirtatiousness in her eyes. The server nodded and left for a few minutes before returning with her drink, a low-ball glass with an ice cube topped with a cherry speared on a cocktail pick.

The  Vieux Carré, a cocktail that originated in the French quarter of New Orleans, consisted of rye whiskey, sweet vermouth, Cognac, Bénédictine liqueur, and bitters. Soren favoured this drink over others due to its potency and the flavour that gave her a strange sense of nostalgia, though she couldn't quite place why.

As she sipped her drink—the rim now marked with the imprint of her lipstick—she scanned the crowd of people bustling around the club. Though she didn't recognize the majority of them, there were a few familiar faces, people she had seen around Gotham in passing but not interacted with.

"Soren Striker." A low, slightly raspy voice interrupted her. "We need to talk."

Soren looked up to see none other than Jim Gordan standing in front of her. "Hey, handsome." She smirked and brushed her wavy locks over her shoulder. "If you're here to arrest me, Detective, well, we both know how that went last time."

"That's not why I'm here." He stuffed his hands in his pockets.

Soren tilted her head slightly and pressed her lips together for a moment before nodding and gesturing for him to sit. Jim took a seat across from her and rested his elbows on the table.

"What can I help you with?" Soren leaned back, one hand fidgeting with the pick in her drink.

"I had a CI spying on your boss. Word got out that someone had been talking to cops and now he's gone MIA because he's afraid Torres knows it's him."

Before Jim could continue, Soren held her hand up to stop him. "I can help you, Detective." Soren stood and slowly walked around the table, her hand delicately brushing along the surface.

"The question is, though-" Situating herself in the detective's lap, she traced her fingers along the side of his neck. "-what can you do for me in return?"

"That depends, Ms. Striker." Jim cocked his head, trailing his hand up her leg and resting it on her thigh. "What is it you want?"

"Nothing yet, but you'll owe me." She moved her hand up into his short hair and twirled the strands around her finger.

"You want me to owe you a favour? That's insane."

Soren clenched her fist and tugged his head back, leaning forward and hovering her lips over his. "And yet, we both know you're gonna do it."

Jim groaned slightly at the motion, his eyes closing against his will. "Fine."

"Perfect." Soren stood abruptly and began writing on a notepad she had snagged from his pocket. She handed him the notepad and pen. "Meet me at this location, tomorrow, at 10 pm.

Before Jim could say anything, Soren sauntered off, his eyes trained on her the entire time. Once she was out of his eyesight, Jim slumped against the seat, mentally cursing himself for letting her manipulate him so easily.

And she had left him to pay her bill.