Between Eve Polastri and Villanelle as romantic.
The evening breeze off the Thames was crisp, brined with the scent of a city that never seemed to truly rest. Eve Polastri stood on the balcony of a modest flat in Brixton, her gaze tracing the outline of London's night sky. The city was full of ghosts—of memories, of whispers, and, for her, particularly of one enigmatic assassin.
It had been months since the bridge. Since that look. That choice to walk away—to try and fail at something like normality. She now knew normal was a world that, for her, had become unreachable, tainted by a touch of chaos in the form of Villanelle.
Her hand shifted to her pocket, crumpling a crinkled piece of newspaper she'd pocketed earlier that day. The headline screamed of an MI6 officer found dead, an unsolved murder with too much subtlety to be anyone but her. It couldn't be, though. Villanelle was out there, ostensibly living her altered existence, while Eve was here, sifting through conspiracy theories on online forums, her former life as an investigator a disowned chapter.
But the past refused to remain buried. As if on cue, Eve's phone buzzed, slicing through the hum of traffic below. An unknown number flashed on the screen, and against better judgment, she answered.
"Eve, my dear, you should see the other side of the river. The view is much better."
The voice was unmistakable, even with the mock sweetness it carried. Villanelle. Eve's pulse quickened, her mind raced. Fear, excitement, anger—a cocktail of emotions she thought she'd learned to control.
"What do you want?" Eve's voice was steady, almost cold.
"You're in trouble, Eve. We both are." The gravity in Villanelle's tone was new, unsettling. "Meet me? For old time's sake."
Without waiting for a reply, the line went dead. Eve stared at her phone, the silent device now a screaming siren to act. No details, no explanation, but the message was clear. Something was wrong, something that clawed back the façade of their shared normality.
The following morning found Eve in an obscure café in Soho, its walls lined with indie pop art. She had chosen it knowing well it wasn't Villanelle’s style—a small act of rebellion, asserting she still had some control.
Minutes ticked by, with every second stretching taut the wire of her nerves. And then, as if materializing from the steam of the espresso machines, Villanelle appeared. Casual. Almost benign. Except, Eve noticed, for the sharpness in her eyes, echoing an urgency Eve had not expected.
"I hate this place," Villanelle announced, sliding into the booth opposite Eve, a grimace painted on her face. "It’s like a clown exploded."
"Good to see you too," Eve shot back.
They sat, the weight of history, betrayal, and an unspoken longing suspended between them. And under it, something new—fear. They both felt it, the tremor beneath their bravado.
"An MI6 agent is dead," Villanelle began, her voice a whispered veil. "And they think it's me. But it's not. And if I know one thing about The Twelve, it's that they don't like loose ends."
The Twelve. The mention of the secret organization sent a chill down Eve's spine. They were never far from her thoughts—their faceless shadows a constant reminder of her outcast status. "And you're saying they're coming for us?" Eve asked, her question dangling in the air, an invitation to a dance they both knew too well.
Villanelle leaned forward, her gaze piercing, "Yes. They think we know too much. But together," she paused, a smile flickering, "we're unstoppable."
The chapter closes with Eve's internal battle, the sensible part of her screaming to run, to forget this insanity. But there was another piece, the one forged in the fire of her connection with Villanelle, whispering a perilous but undeniable truth.
They were bound by fate, by an enemy who made allies of former lovers, and by a dangerous game that seemed far from over. For Eve, this was both her curse and her awakening. And as their eyes locked, a silent agreement formed—a truce in the makings of a war neither was prepared to lose.