Badass in Disguise

🔥The plane hummed with that particular frequency that made most people drowsy. Not me. I'd never felt more awake in my life. Seat 12A. Window side. Perfect view of the endless blue stretching beneath us as we climbed toward cruising altitude. I pressed my fingers against the cool glass, watching the ground fall away, taking sixteen years of my life with it. Sixteen years of blood, precision, and a perfect success rate that made my name whispered in the darkest corners of the world. Phantom. God, what a ridiculous alias. Like I was supposed to haunt people or some poetic bullshit. But that's what you get when you let a bunch of dramatic assassins name you. The world's number one killer—one hundred percent success rate, zero room for error—and they'd given me a name that sounded like a bad superhero movie. I smiled at my reflection in the window. "You have such a lovely smile!" The woman beside me leaned over, her face lighting up with genuine warmth. Middle-aged, kind eyes, probably heading to LA to visit family. "Are you excited about this trip?" My smile widened, all teeth and practiced perfection. Sixteen years of wearing masks had taught me exactly how to look harmless. "Yeah, I'm starting a new life." If only you knew, I thought, maintaining that sweet expression while my mind supplied the rest: that this sweet smile belongs to the top-ranked assassin on the global hit list. That I could kill you seventeen different ways with the plastic coffee stirrer in your cup holder. That starting a new life meant betraying the most dangerous organization on the planet. "How wonderful!" She squeezed my arm. "New beginnings are such a gift." "Absolutely," I agreed, settling back into my seat. The truth was simpler than anyone would believe. I wasn't leaving because killing had lost its appeal. I wasn't suffering from some sudden attack of conscience or moral awakening. No—killing had become too easy. Point, shoot, collect payment. Rinse and repeat until even the most elaborate contracts felt like checking items off a grocery list. But adapting to normal society? Now that was a challenge worth taking. Learning to smile without calculating threat levels. Making small talk without profiling everyone in the room. Buying groceries, paying taxes, pretending to care about traffic jams—that was the real test of skill. Plus, there was the minor detail of Bloodline definitely sending people to kill me for deserting. The thought sent a pleasant thrill down my spine. Finally, some excitement. Life was about to get interesting again. The seatbelt sign dinked off. Around me, passengers relaxed into their seats, pulling out tablets and magazines. The woman beside me closed her eyes for a nap. I reached into my bag, fingers closing around the book I'd bought specifically for this trip. *"How to Integrate into Society: A Practical Guide."* I was three pages in, genuinely fascinated by a chapter on appropriate conversation topics for workplace water coolers, when the first scream shattered the cabin's peace. You've got to be fucking kidding me. Six men burst from the bathroom area and front cabin, tactical vests strapped tight, weapons raised. Not just any weapons—MP5 submachine guns, if I wasn't mistaken. Professional grade. The leader, a man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, fired a warning shot into the ceiling that had everyone screaming and diving for cover. I couldn't believe my luck. I was trying to leave this life behind, and here it was, following me onto a commercial flight. "Nobody move!" Scar-face bellowed, his voice carrying over the chaos. "Everyone stays calm, nobody dies today. Maybe." I turned the page of my book. Chapter three: maintaining appropriate personal boundaries in social situations. The woman beside me grabbed my sleeve, her face pale with terror. "Little sister, get down! Hide behind the seat!" Little sister? Don't let this innocent face fool you, lady. But I kept that thought to myself and continued reading. The chapter was actually quite informative. "Did you hear me?" She yanked harder on my arm, genuine panic in her voice. "Please, you have to hide!" I appreciated the concern, truly. But after sixteen years of professional killing, hijacking scenarios ranked somewhere between mildly interesting and Tuesday afternoon on my concern scale. A few armed men shouting threats? That barely qualified as an inconvenience. The crack of a gunshot made the woman beside me sob. A passenger three rows up slumped forward, blood spreading across his business shirt. The cabin erupted into fresh screams. "Listen up!" Scar-face stalked down the aisle, his boots heavy against the cabin floor. "I know we have a Bloodline operative on this plane. Phantom, to be specific." He said my name like it was poison. "You stole something that belongs to us. The Satan's Heart. So why don't you make this easy and show yourself?" Silence descended, broken only by muffled crying and the steady hum of the engines. I flipped another page. This section on gift-giving etiquette was surprisingly complex. Scar-face and his men began moving through the cabin, checking faces, pulling people up from their seats. They focused on the men—broad shoulders, military bearing, anyone who looked remotely capable of violence. Every few rows, another confrontation. Another gunshot. Another body. Blood spattered across the overhead compartments. The cabin reeked of gunpowder and fear. The woman beside me had her eyes squeezed shut, lips moving in silent prayer. "Interesting," I murmured, still absorbed in my book. "Apparently you're supposed to write thank-you notes within two weeks. Who knew social norms were so specific?" ads.novelflow.app

He pulled a gun. I pulled out a contract. 📄🔫 Most people call 911 when a killer collapses on their porch. I just checked his pulse and his net worth. He was dripping blood on my lawn, a silver-haired devil in a $5,000 custom suit. He had a hole in his chest and eyes like a cornered predator. "I'll stop the bleeding for a price," I whispered, smoothly pinning his armed hand down. "Your life is worth exactly $200,000 to me. Pay up or bleed out." He gritted his teeth, gasping, "You’re a monster." "No," I smiled, the coldness of my past life as the world's deadliest assassin bleeding through. "I'm your only hope." I patched him up with duct tape and cheap gin, then threw him into a taxi. I thought the debt was settled. I went back to being Jade Morgan—the overweight, bullied, quietest girl in the 11th grade. Next morning: My bank account hit six figures. 💰 But the underworld doesn't just let things go. During my 4th-period calculus class, the entire school started screaming. I looked out the window. A fleet of black, armored SUVs had completely blocked the school entrance. Heavily armed men stepped out, forming a perimeter. My abusive sister and the school bullies were shaking in terror. "Who are they here for?!" someone cried. Then, the silver-haired devil himself stepped out of the lead car. The city’s most feared Mafia boss. And his predatory eyes were scanning the crowd, looking for exactly one person. Me. My bullies laughed nervously. "Jade, you're dead meat. What did you do, steal from him?" They had no idea. I wasn't the weak, pathetic girl they thought I was. I was Shadow, the reincarnated queen of the underworld. I calmly packed my backpack and walked out the front doors to meet him. He took off his sunglasses, staring at me. "You forgot something in our contract, little girl..." 😱🔥 ads.maxnovelstories.com The world's deadliest assassin is reborn as a bullied teen. Now the Mafia boss is hunting her! 👇

Chapter 1 Let's Go to Hell Together: Shadow'POV: I left blood on the restraints as I freed myself. One final glance at the sterile white room where they'd planned to extract my DNA, then dispose of me like trash. Ironic that they thought mere sedatives and chains could hold me—me, the person they'd trained to escape from any containment. I moved silently through the corridor, dispatching guards with methodical precision. Snapped neck. Severed carotid. Crushed windpipe. I varied my killing methods out of professional habit. Some died without even realizing I was there, their bodies slumping noiselessly to the floor. I could hear the panic spreading through the facility's communication system. "Shadow is gone!" A technician's voice cracked with fear. "How the fuck is that possible? She was sedated with enough drugs to kill an elephant!" I allowed myself a small, cold smile. They never understood what they'd created in me. Thirteen years of their most brutal training had taught me to metabolize toxins, ignore pain, and function at peak capacity under impossible conditions. The security chief's voice came next: "All units, priority one alert! Subject Shadow has escaped containment. Find her immediately!" I slipped into the ventilation system, moving toward the lower levels. My plan was already in motion. They wanted to destroy me? Fine. But I'd make sure I took the entire island—and all evidence of their experiments—with me. From my hidden position, I listened to the facility director giving orders. "Activate all island security protocols. Prepare the directed demolition system. Nothing—and I mean nothing—can leave this island." *Nothing will leave this island*, I silently agreed. *Including you*. I dropped down into the utility level, quickly disabling the guards stationed there. They never even had time to radio for help. Moving to the backup generator room, I methodically broke the safety locks on the diesel storage tanks. The rich, acrid smell of fuel filled the air as it began pooling across the floor, flowing through drainage channels to the lower levels. Next stop: the research wing. I wanted Dr. Sanders. The man who had strapped me down, who had spoken so casually about harvesting my genetic material before "terminating the source material"—as if I were nothing more than a lab specimen. I found him trying to destroy research files. He didn't hear me enter. "Hello, Doctor," I whispered against his ear. His scream was brief. I made my way toward the monitoring room, Dr. Sanders' head gripped by the hair in my left hand. Blood dripped down my arm, but I didn't care. I wanted them to see him. I wanted them to know what was coming. A precisely placed explosive charge—one I'd assembled from materials in the security office—blew the reinforced door off its hinges. Through the smoke and debris, I walked calmly into the room where the facility's leadership had gathered. I saw the horror on their faces as I entered. The research head clutched a hard drive—my genetic data, no doubt. The director reached slowly for the black remote detonator I knew he carried. "You can't escape, Shadow," he said, his voice steadier than his trembling fingers. "This entire facility is rigged with directed explosives. One push, and this all ends." I felt nothing as I looked at these people. These were the ones who had stolen my life before it even began. From the moment they took me as an infant, I was nothing but a weapon to them. Thirteen years of conditioning, of endless combat drills, of having any trace of normal human emotion systematically destroyed. I remembered the first time they forced me to kill—I was six years old. By twelve, I could assassinate a target in sixteen different ways using only household items. By fifteen, governments were secretly bidding for my services. By seventeen, I had claimed the title of number one on the World Assassin Ranking, with zero failures. My handlers celebrated each success, each impossible kill, showering me with hollow praise while keeping me isolated from the world. Until they began to fear me. They realized what they'd created was too powerful to control. So they brought me here, to this island facility, under the pretense of "advanced training." In reality, they wanted my genetic material to create more like me—more compliant versions they could control. Then they planned to dispose of me. My eyes moved from face to face, memorizing each person who had authorized my execution. I saw the research head trying to edge toward a side exit, still clutching the hard drive. "Drop it," I commanded, my voice soft yet razor-sharp. He froze, then slowly placed the drive on the floor. "I've disabled all backup generator systems," I said calmly. "The diesel fuel from the storage tanks is spreading throughout the underground facility as we speak." I pulled out my own detonator—stolen from the explosives locker during my escape. "When your directed explosives activate, they'll ignite the leaked fuel. The resulting explosion will be several times stronger than you planned, enough to destroy the island's geological support structure." The director's finger trembled over his detonator. "You'll die too." "I died the day you took me," I replied, feeling nothing. "This is just making it official." "We gave you everything!" the director shouted, desperation breaking through his professional facade. "We made you the best!" "You made me a monster," I corrected him. "And now your monster has come home." The director lunged for a nearby guard's weapon. I didn't even need to think as I flicked a small blade from my sleeve, catching him in the throat. He collapsed, clutching at the wound as blood poured between his fingers. "Let's go to hell together," I whispered, pressing the button. The dying director reflexively activated his own detonator. Throughout the facility, precisely placed charges began to detonate in sequence. Just as I had calculated, these controlled explosions ignited the diesel fuel saturating the lower levels. The chain reaction was catastrophic. The initial explosions triggered secondary blasts that shattered the facility's foundations. The island's supporting geological structure, already compromised by decades of secret excavation, couldn't withstand the force. As the monitoring room began to collapse around me, I stood motionless, watching my captors scramble futilely for escape. The ceiling cracked, then gave way entirely. The last thing I saw was a wall of water rushing in as the Caribbean Sea claimed what remained of the facility—and me with it. ad.readinkapp.com