As she marched down the sterile and drowsily lit corridor, Karina checked her body one last time.
Lyra sat on her lower hip, cold against her skin. She’d been with her since Karina was eight years old, when she had nothing to her name except for a sack of clothes and a trash chute for a home. Aleksander was lodged somewhere in her boot, clinging to her ankle like a child. They had met each other in a dingy cantina on Nal Hutta, when a Mandalorian had driven him into Karina’s right shoulder and left him there to rot for two whole days. Then there was Genya, hidden under her sleeve, sharp to the touch. Karina's favorite.
Of course, these were not people. They were the names of some of her many knives, gifted to her through the years.
They were Karina’s closest friends.
Perhaps she was delusional, or it was a habit born out of childhood trauma, but the Syndicate assassin didn’t care. The knives had kept her safe and alive for more than a decade. Without them, she would still be on Nar Shaddaa, molding in some sewage pipe. Instead, they had become her salvation, and right now, as she strode through the laboratories of MorataCorp, they would serve as the key to her freedom.
Karina wore the armor of an Independent Systems specialist, but not her own. That was too risky, and if she was caught on surveillance footage, it would immediately destroy her cover in the Consortium military. She had to play this smart. She only had one shot at this mission, and to succeed, she would need every ounce of her wit, intelligence, and most of all, her skill with a blade. Her contractor, the man who’d taken her brother Dima, had given her a single job:
Steal fifty doses of the AMS vaccine, and kill Dr. Ilana Morata.
@Killa Ree