It’s my day off. I don’t get many of those, so I take them where I can. Tonight, it’s this dive bar—dimly lit, loud enough to drown out my thoughts, and anonymous enough to let me fucking breathe.

The air stinks of beer and fried food, with a tang of cigarette smoke hanging in the corners. It’s the kind of place where no one gives a shit about a blind woman signing up for a game of pool. That’s the appeal. Here, I’m just Sally, a name they’ll forget before the night’s over. Not Zora. Not an Original. Not the so-called Blind Assassin.

I need that. A break from the stares, the whispers, the constant weight of being her. Tonight, I’m no one.

The guy at the table—the shark, as I’ve been calling him in my head—has been running the table all night. He’s good, sure, but not great. His shots are clean, his form practiced, but there’s no real thought behind it. Just muscle memory and ego. His friends cheer after every shot, loud and obnoxious, hyping him up like he’s fucking Einstein with a pool cue.

He lines up his final shot with a dramatic pause, drawing it out like the crowd’s hanging on every second. The eight ball drops, and his opponent shakes his head, stepping back with a weak smile. The shark basks in the applause like it’s his birthright.

I sip my drink, letting the ice clink against the glass. My name’s next: Sally.

The shark strolls over to the chalkboard, squinting like he’s solving a damn riddle. “Sally!” he calls, dragging it out for laughs.

“Here,” I say, standing and grabbing my drink. The second I step forward, the room shifts. His eyes catch on my sunglasses, and his grin falters. “Wait—you’re blind?”

“That’s what they fucking tell me,” I say, brushing my fingers over the loaner pool sticks.

His friends laugh, though it’s nervous now, like they’re not sure if it’s okay. He scratches the back of his neck, forcing the grin back on his face. “Alright. No problem. I’ll take it easy on you.”

“Do that,” I say, testing the weight of a stick before picking one. It’s too light, but it’ll work. “Just don’t cry when you lose.”

That lands. His friends laugh a little louder, and I see his jaw tighten.

“Ladies first,” he says, stepping back with a stiff smile.

I rack the balls, shifting the triangle back and forth until the vibrations feel right. Leaning over, I let the noise of the bar melt into the background—the clink of glasses, the scrape of chairs, the hum of the neon light behind me. The table hums through my fingers like a map, every ball clear in my mind.

I adjust my stance, feeling my body shift slightly—shoulders loosening, grip firming up, movements flowing smoother than before. It’s instinct, natural. Part of me knows it’s not my body doing this, not entirely.

The cue stick moves through my fingers, and with a clean strike, the break sends the balls scattering. Three colors drop, one after another. A stripe wobbles on the edge but doesn’t fall. Perfect.

I straighten and rest the stick on the floor. The shark’s grin is gone. His friends exchange uneasy glances.

“Not bad,” he mutters, stepping up to the table.

His shot’s off. He sinks a stripe, but the cue ball follows it into the pocket. His curse is low, sharp, and angry.

“Tough break,” I say, brushing past him to line up my next shot.

The cue ball glides across the table, two more colors disappearing into pockets. The game’s mine if I want it, but I let it drag out. Watching the cracks form in his confidence is too good to pass up.

Then a chime buzzes in my ear.

I straighten, muttering under my breath, “Fuck me.”

Pressing a finger to the earpiece, I say, “What?”

Theresa’s voice comes through, crisp but edged with something that sounds like amusement. “That’s how you answer me? Charming.”

“It’s my day off,” I mutter. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Well, sorry for interrupting your me time, but we’ve got movement. Something big.”

I glance at the shark, who’s gripping the stick like he’s about to snap it in half. “I’m in the middle of something.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s life or death,” she says dryly. “Sink your balls and get moving. We’ll talk when you’re done.”

The connection cuts before I can reply. I exhale, drop my hand, and mutter, “Of course.”

The rest of the game doesn’t take long. Each shot lands clean, the balls sinking like clockwork. The eight ball drops last, rolling into the corner pocket with a quiet thud.

I set the stick down, turning toward the shark. He’s standing there, still gripping the stick, his mouth half-open like he’s searching for an excuse.

“You got lucky,” he says, his voice low and stiff.

I pick up my drink, tilting my head. “If that helps you sleep tonight.”

His friends laugh again, but it’s different now. Quieter. At him, not with him. I toss a handful of credits onto the table. “Next game’s on me,” I say, heading for the door.

Outside, the air is sharp and cold against my skin. I breathe it in, letting the noise of the bar fade behind me.

My body settles as I walk, the subtle shifts smoothing out. My muscles realign, my stride falling back into its natural rhythm. For a second, I imagine staying in there—letting the noise and warmth swallow me whole, forgetting who I am.

But that’s not how this works.

“What now?” I mutter, the earpiece pressing against my temple. Whatever it is, it better be fucking worth it.