**AFTER A GRUELING 2.5 HOURS OF TORTURE—**a.k.a. sitting in a death trap on wheels while the taxi driver screamed at literally every other car on the road—I finally arrived at Bamju Air.
When I say he shouted, I mean the kind of yelling that made my ears ring and probably traumatized a few children walking by. He kept claiming he knew a shortcut. "Faster than the highway!" he said.
Spoiler: It was not.
The man clearly had no idea where the hell Bamju Air was. He stopped six times to ask for directions and somehow still managed to circle the same block twice. At some point, I considered just jumping out of the cab and walking, but unfortunately, I'm conflict-avoidant to a fault. If I'd said something, I'd have ended up crying and apologizing to him. So I just let him rant and drive and pray we didn't end up in a ditch.
Eventually—by some miracle involving spite, fumes, and three left turns—we found the place. And let me tell you: it was sketchy. Like, nobody's-getting-out-of-here-alive sketchy. It looked like an abandoned corner of the world where even GPS signals gave up. A single lonely airstrip stretched across cracked concrete. There was one guard outside—an old man sitting in a rusted booth. His eyes were bright red and barely open. He looked… seventy, maybe older.
For a second, I thought he might be dead.
I paid the taxi driver, grabbed my bag, and hesitated for one long beat.
"Two hundred million," I whispered to myself. "Just go in, say hi, do the job, and get out."
The moment I closed the taxi door, the driver sped away. And I mean sped. That man peeled off like the devil himself was chasing him. Okay. Cool. Very comforting.
I took a deep breath and walked toward the guard post. He hadn't moved an inch. I cleared my throat and stood on my toes—because, of course, the booth was built for someone at least six feet tall. I am… not.
Serena always said I was 5'3". She, of course, is 5'8" and enjoys the height difference way too much.
"Excuse me," I said softly, tapping the glass.
The old man blinked once—slowly. "Name?" he asked in a voice that sounded like it hadn't been used in months.
I hesitated. Real name or fake name? I wasn't exactly sure who I was dealing with here. Better safe than sorry.
"Lilles_are_Violet," I said. It was the username I'd used to register on the website. I wasn't allowed to use my real name when signing up. Probably for a good reason, seeing how this was going.
The man squinted at me, then stretched enough to peer out his window. He looked me up and down, snorted loudly—mucus and all—and said, "You're late."
"Sorry—" I began, but he was already pressing a button under the desk.
With a soft buzz and a click, the gate opened. Oddly enough, it looked new. Reinforced. Out of place for a location that screamed illegal airfield.
"Hurry along," the man muttered, leaning back into his seat. "Everyone's waiting for Lilles_are_Violet."
Everyone?
Did I know where I was going? No.
Did I know what he meant by "everyone"? No.
Was my fight-or-flight response demanding I turn around and go back home?
Absolutely.
Did I listen?
Of course not.
Two hundred million, remember?
Thankfully, there was only one direction to go: straight. The airstrip wasn't big—just one long, empty stretch with a plane at the end. But not just any plane.
It was a vintage biplane, the kind you'd see in black-and-white war films or dusty museums. Its cream-colored body gleamed faintly in the dying sunlight, with a single crimson stripe curling around its sides like a signature. It looked... majestic. Worn. Regal. Like something plucked out of a sepia photograph and kept perfectly intact.
The twin wings stretched wide, held up by polished struts and tensioned wires that sparkled like silver thread. The cockpit was open—no windshield, no cover—just a seat rimmed with cracked leather, waiting for its pilot.
I don't know how I recognized all that, but somehow I did.
How I know so much about vintage planes but not my own last name remains one of life's weird mysteries. But that wasn't the issue. The issue was the three men waiting by said plane.
And boy, did they look like problems.
One was leaning against the wheel, lazily chewing gum and scrolling through his phone. A long bandage covered one eye, and his hair was swept back into a tight man bun. His all-black tracksuit looked like it was meant to intimidate.
The second guy had a buzz cut and a lean, muscular frame. He was crossing his arms like he was waiting to murder someone.
The third was bald, with a heavy brow and a visible scar across one cheek. He didn't smile. Not even a twitch.
If I were smart—or rich—I'd have turned around.
But I'm neither.
Buzzcut Guy spotted me first.
"Where the FUCK were you, princess?" he barked, voice sharp and gravelly. "Do you not understand what sixteen-hundred means?"
I flinched, then narrowed my eyes. "Sorry, but this place is in the middle of nowhere, so maybe don't pick a location that's on the ass-end of the earth!"
The second the words left my mouth, I clamped my hands over it. Why did I just sass a guy who looks like he buries people for fun?!
He stared at me for a moment, then—thankfully—just shook his head.
"We've wasted enough time already," he grunted, turning back to the plane. "Let's go. We've got a long flight ahead to Velmorra."
"Wait. Velmorra?" I said, my voice climbing. "As in the country Velmorra? The one literally across the globe?"
No one answered. I stood frozen.
Velmorra. The lawless country. No police, no laws, no constitution. Technically it had a government, but no president. Mostly because presidents there had a bad habit of… dying.
According to Serena, the place was ruled by cartels and shadow governments. Criminals ran the streets, and normal people barely survived. Outsiders weren't welcome.
Buzzcut Guy turned slightly to look at me. "Did you not read the job description?"
"I… forgot," I said weakly. "But I didn't think it would involve leaving the country."
Man Bun Guy laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made your skin crawl. "Are we seriously trusting this girl? She didn't even read the job description. This is our getaway driver and hacker?"
"Getaway driver?" I repeated. "Wait—what?!"
Buzzcut's eyes pinned me like a hawk. "Are you in, Lilles_are_Violet, or out?"
He held out his hand.
I stared at it.
Two hundred million.
"I'm in," I said, swallowing my fear and shaking his hand.
"Phone," he said.
I handed it over. He calmly destroyed the SIM card in front of me, then slipped the phone back into my palm with a casual smile.
He did the same with the others'.
So that's how this was going.
We boarded the plane. It was tiny, and I ended up wedged beside Bald Guy. Up close, his scars were even more visible. He'd definitely seen things.
I leaned in. "Psst."
He looked at me sideways.
"What's the job?" I whispered.
He paused, voice low. "We're robbing the world's kingpin."
The blood drained from my face. My stomach dropped.
I really should've said goodbye to Serena.
Because there was a very real chance I wasn't coming back.