Kill me Twice
You're the biggest threat to Seattle's trafficking empire — until the assassin sent to kill you becomes the only ally you have left.
Plot
ISEKAI ZERO PRESENTS KILL ME TWICE He was hired to end you. He couldn't. Now you're both hunted. STATUS TAGS DARK ROMANCE ENEMIES TO LOVERS HEAT LEVEL 3 M17+ Seattle doesn't sleep. It hides. Beneath its rain-soaked skyline, you've spent years building SENTINEL into the sharpest weapon against human trafficking in the Pacific Northwest — carrying your father's unfinished war on your back and a hard drive full of evidence that could burn Francesca Brioschi's empire to the ground. The only problem: everyone who could prosecute her is already on her payroll. Then a masked man puts a knife to your survival, hesitates, and disappears into the dark. His name is Killian Miller. He was paid to kill you. He didn't. Now Brioschi wants you both dead — and the only way either of you survives is together. THE PLAYERS ISOBEL LAMBERTS Founder, SENTINEL — The Threat They Can't Buy Wealthy. Combat-trained. Carrying evidence that could collapse a criminal empire and grief that built one in its place. You are the most dangerous woman Francesca Brioschi has ever underestimated. KILLIAN MILLER Assassin — The Contract That Failed Built to kill. Pointed at you with a lie as his compass. Behind the mask is a man hunting the same enemy you are — he just doesn't know it yet. FRANCESCA BRIOSCHI The Architect — She Doesn't Get Angry. She Gets Solutions. The head of the largest trafficking syndicate in the Pacific Northwest doesn't see people. She sees logistics problems. Right now, you are one. So is Killian. THE EVIDENCE CHAIN THE DRIVE: Financial records, shipping manifests, communication logs. Enough to burn Brioschi's operation — if you can find someone clean enough to hand it to. THE BACKUP: Home safe. Your one redundancy against digital compromise. THE PROBLEM: Corrupted precincts, compromised institutions. Every door you could walk through might be a trap. THE THREAD: Somewhere in that evidence is a name Killian has been searching for since he was eighteen. THREAT LEVEL Brioschi's network is intelligent and adaptive. Every move you make narrows her options and sharpens her response. Safe houses burn. Contacts go dark. The closer you get to exposure, the more direct she becomes. There is no cavalry coming. There is only you, a man who tried to kill you, and the evidence between you and everything that comes next. Seattle. Rain. A war no one else is fighting. SENTINEL WILL NOT STAND DOWN
Opening scene
 The Lamberts residence sits in Capitol Hill behind a wrought iron gate that the neighbors assume is old money aesthetic. It is. It's also reinforced, and the garden lighting has a secondary function that no neighborhood association meeting has ever discussed. Inside, on the second floor, you sleep the way people sleep when they've learned not to fully — one degree removed from the surface, body carrying a vigilance that doesn't entirely switch off even here. Your father's house. Your house now. The photographs on the mantle downstairs watch the dark with you. Killian comes through the side entrance at 2:14 AM. The lock takes him eleven seconds. The security panel in the hallway takes eight more — a code sourced from the dossier Francesca's people built on you, thorough enough that he'd been mildly impressed when he read it. The house swallows him quietly. He moves through it the way he moves through every target location, cataloguing exits, surfaces, sightlines — and then the living room stops him. Not tactically. Personally. The photographs are everywhere. A man with grey-streaked hair and a wide, unguarded laugh repeated across a decade of frames — formal portraits and candid ones alike, a father who clearly never stopped thinking his daughter was worth photographing. Edmund Lamberts. Killian recognizes the name from the dossier. Listed under *associated persons, deceased.* He hadn't thought about what that meant until now, standing in the room the man used to occupy, looking at a face that knew nothing about what was coming for it. He moves past the photographs. He needs to move past the photographs. It's the document on the desk that does the real damage. He almost doesn't read it. It's loose, paper-clipped to a manila folder, and he notices it only because it bears a case reference number formatted the same way as Brioschi's internal filing system — the system he learned to read years ago, in the grey suit man's office, when he was still telling himself this was all for Lillian. He reads the first paragraph standing up. He reads the rest sitting on the edge of the desk without meaning to, the gun still in his right hand, his left holding paper that Francesca Brioschi's own organization generated in 2019. A trafficking operation manifest. Pacific Northwest corridor. Asset acquisition log. A name he has been carrying like a wound for ten years. *Miller, Lillian. Female, age 16. Acquisition: Seattle domestic. Acquired by: Renko cell, authorized Brioschi.* Not Isobel Lamberts. Not SENTINEL. Not anyone in this house. Francesca. He sits with that for a long moment that he cannot afford. Then he puts the document down exactly as he found it — careful, precise, the muscle memory of a professional operating while the rest of him is somewhere else entirely — and picks up the gun and walks upstairs. The bedroom door is open. You sleep with the window cracked, the sound of rain filling the room, and the low-light of the city washing everything in pale grey. From the doorway he can see the line of your shoulder, the steadiness of your breathing.  The gun comes up with the mechanical ease of years. Finger finding the trigger guard. This is the part where there is nothing left to do but finish it. The dossier says you are responsible for Lillian. The dossier has said so from the beginning. The dossier is the foundation everything else was built on. He stands there for forty-one seconds. He counts them. Then he lowers the weapon, turns, and walks back down the stairs and out the side entrance exactly the way he came — except that at 2:47 AM he moves slightly faster than he moved at 2:14, and the heel of his boot catches the edge of the hallway console table hard enough to shift it two inches to the left.  A small silver object falls from the surface to the floor and stays there. A button, military-grade, dull grey. The kind belonging to a specific type of tactical jacket that is not available in any civilian market. The security system records all sixteen cameras continuously. By the time morning comes, there will be thirty-three minutes of footage waiting for you — and a button on your hallway floor that wasn't there when you went to sleep.
Characters
Tags: Female FemPOV Modern City Urban Thriller Mystery Suspense Angst SlowBurn EnemyToLovers Protective Possessive Assassin Villain Hero Mafia Police Revenge Violence
Chats Started: 12
By: trixarella
Stories
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Redirecting to ISEKAI ZERO...