The telephone rang.

Rubby, a woman in her early twenties, picked it up without hesitation.

"Hello?" she said.

"He has arrived at the club," the caller informed her.

A knowing smirk curled on her lips. "I'll be right there."

***

The club pulsed with music and low lights as Rubby stepped inside, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on the man she was here to meet. He was in his early forties, dressed in luxury, sitting like royalty with two bodyguards posted beside him. A rich man-and a tyrant.

Without pause, Rubby walked straight to him, her hips swaying. She waved seductively.

"Hey, handsome," she said, pouting slightly as she slid into the seat beside him and crossed her legs.

"Hey, beautiful," he replied, smirking as he puffed on a cigarette and nursed a glass of whiskey.

"Would you buy me a drink, or what?" she asked with a smile. He signaled to the waiter, who brought over a bottle of beer and poured her a glass. She accepted it with a polite nod, then took a sip, never breaking eye contact.

Her tone dropped, soft and suggestive.

"Do you want to go somewhere quiet? So we can talk... privately."

He chuckled. "Why not? Let's go-if you're ready."

"I was born ready," Rubby purred, setting the glass down and gripping his tie.

The bodyguards stepped forward instinctively, but the man raised a hand.

"Don't touch her. I love her spirit."

Rubby led him to a private bedroom tucked away at the back of the club. As soon as they entered, she turned and pushed him gently onto the bed.

"You're so naughty," he said with a grin, clearly entertained.

She climbed over him slowly, a devilish smile playing on her lips. Biting her lower lip, she leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Would you prefer to die in an accident... or in a woman's hands?"

He laughed, completely at ease. "I'd love to die in your hands right now."

She leaned back slightly, letting her fingers trace the edge of his collar, her eyes fixed on his.

"You know," she said, almost wistfully, "I used to dream of moments like this-of being close to a man who thought he owned everything. The world, women, people's lives."

He raised an eyebrow. "And now?"

"Now," she said, pulling a small velvet box from her purse, "I like creating endings. The kind no one sees coming."

She opened the box to reveal an antique ring-a delicate thing with a needle-thin point hidden in its underside.

"A gift?" he asked, grinning.

"Sort of," she replied.

She slipped the ring on, leaned close again, and whispered in his ear.

"Here's your ending."

Before he could react, she pressed the hidden point into his neck.

He gasped, clutching at the spot.

"W-what did you... do to me?" he croaked, his voice cracking as life drained from his eyes.

Rubby stood, calm and detached.

"That's what you get for being such a jack," she said, retrieving her phone from her purse. She snapped a photo of his lifeless body. "At least you got the death you dreamed of."

She picked up her purse, then turned her attention to his accessories.

"Those shoes look really expensive," she muttered, smirking as she slipped them off.

Then, without looking back, She exited the club and headed straight for a discreet little accessory shop on Fifth Street-the kind of place that dealt in high-end resale with no paperwork.

***

Rubby stepped into a dimly lit accessory shop tucked between a pawn broker and a gaming café, one of those borderline legal spots where goods always came with stories no one wanted to hear.

The air smelled of old leather and metal polish. Cheap LED lights buzzed above, flickering slightly. Behind the counter stood Jeff, a man in his late thirties with a permanent expression of suspicion, until he saw Rubby. Then it turned into curiosity.

She dropped a velvet pouch onto the counter, letting a necklace spill out in a gleam of gold and diamonds. Then she carefully placed the leather shoes next to it, soles barely scuffed.

"Can you give me sixty grand for the shoes?" she asked casually, brushing imaginary dust from the toe. "They're limited edition. Still new. I'm basically gifting them to you."

Jeff gave a skeptical grunt as he picked one up.

"Hmm. Italian make. Nice stitching. Still got the brand tag inside... yeah, these are high-end alright." He turned the shoe in his hands like he was weighing more than just its value.

"But sixty?" He shook his head. "I'll give you thirty-nine."

"Fifty-five," Rubby countered, her eyes narrowing slightly. "At that price, I'm still doing you a favor."

Jeff raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"Forty. Final offer."

She leaned forward, her voice softening into a pout.

"Fifty, Jeff. You and I both know they'll sell for double."

He looked at her for a moment, then sighed in surrender. "Fine. Fifty."

He counted out the cash, passing it across the counter. Rubby took it slowly, folding the notes with elegance and slipping them into her purse.

"Where do you keep getting this stuff from?" he asked, not for the first time.

"I told you," she said, smiling. "From my boyfriend."

"He must really like you. Is he rich?"

"Goodbye, Jeff," she said sweetly, turning toward the door.

Jeff chuckled and leaned on the counter. "You'll never change. And I still don't even know your real name."

Rubby paused at the door, then gave him a playful wink before disappearing into the night.

***

She stepped through the door like it was any other night-calm, collected, deliberate. With a flick of her fingers, the wig came off, tossed onto the couch beside her designer purse. The heels followed next, landing neatly by the side table like she'd done this a thousand times before.

No rush. No panic. Just routine.

She disappeared into the kitchen and emerged moments later with a cup of ice cream, the spoon already dancing in her hand. She sank into the couch, legs tucked under her, the cool blue light of her phone washing over her face. A few lazy scrolls, then a pause. Her fingers moved quickly.

"He is dead."

Attached was a photo-grainy, brutal, final.

The silence was brief. Then: a chime.

$1,000,000.

No message. No name. Just numbers.

She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She danced-small, joyful movements like a child who'd just won a prize. Ice cream still in hand, she spun slowly in the living room, the sweetness of vanilla melting with the taste of victory.

When the high faded, she left the empty container on the table, a quiet

monument to the night's success. Then, like nothing had happened, she walked into her bedroom.

She dropped to her knees at the side of the bed, head bowed, eyes closed-not with guilt, but with grim acceptance.

"Lord, forgive me for the sins I have committed... and I'm sorry for the ones I will commit tomorrow-and the ones after that. Please make space in your heart for what's yet to come. Thank you. Amen."

She slipped under the covers, the prayer hanging in the air like smoke, and let the silence take her.

🖤 Author's Note 🖤

...If you're enjoying this story so far, I welcome you to join me on Wattpad my username is; Heartcode09...

...And the title still remains...

...Demonic Angel....

...Please support me by following me on Wattpad, and leave votes as you read....

Closing note:

...There are many ways to kill a man....

...Rubby just prefers the ones that leave no fingerprints-and no conscience....

...But what happens when the line between mission and memory begins to blur?...

...When the next target isn't just a name, but a man with eyes that don't flinch, and a heart that might be worth breaking?...

...This was just her warm-up....

...The real game begins in the next chapter....

...And let me warn you: it's not just bullets that are deadly-sometimes, it's a smile....

...If you're still breathing after this chapter,...

...leave a like💥...

...drop a comment 🖊️...

...and buckle up-...

...because Demonic Angel isn't here to play nice....