DAMI

The body hits the wall hard and slumps to the floor, leaving behind a trail of blood that trickles down. The putrid, yet familiar smell of bloodshed. On the ground are two dead bodies; one with a gaping hole in his chest, and the other with two broken arms and a stab wound to the head.

There's a third that remains tied up and gagged. The man trembles in great fear as he lays against the wall, his feet and arms binded like life stock. Blood and gash wounds fill his body from top to bottom. His left eye has gone missing, some of his fingers as well. But this still is not the end for him.

Dami walks around the suite with casual strides. She stops in front of a body and surveys it, then moves to the next and follows the same procedure. They're well past dead, but it wouldn't hurt just to make sure. She walks towards the remaining captive with the same casual steps, hands behind her back zipping her blood soaked dress down. She steps out of it when it hits the floor, then strides past the captive on her way to the bathroom.

Before she enters, however, Dami turns and gives the captive a cold, sly grin. Meanwhile, all the unfortunate man can do is glue his last remaining eye to her tattooed back until she's out of sight.

The water runs hot, just the way Dami likes it. It helps cleanse the dark liquid that seems to have become a part of her life for the longest time now. The blood seems almost ornamental to Dami, like it's a sort of adjunct to her clothes. But that's the reality you live when you do the things she does.

Her methods primarily consist of mutilation and all things torture. Guns come in second because she prefers doing the work herself. She prefers hearing the screams, witnessing her victims' reactions, seeing their lives drain as they mourn the last woeful seconds of their lives.

Still doesn't stop her from arming herself with as many equipments as she can. Crossbows, explosives, blades, and rifles of all kind to name a few. But when it comes down to it, her fists are her most trusted and favored weapons.

Although reluctant to do so, Dami owes all her expertise to the two-faced organization that kept her locked up against her will. The Dream Alive Center has a perfectly crafted front that leads people into thinking they're a friendly association there to help and contribute to society.

But underneath it all is an underground business that captures innocents and forces them to undergo a series of brutal trainings, molding them into the perfect weapon. Children, they all were. Dami was only ten when she took her first life.

Now in cargo pants and a hoodie, Dami checks on the brown contact lens in her left eye. She exchanges it for a new one before finally making it back to the bound man still cowering in fear. He's the reason why she's there. Her prime target. Her brain ticks until it finally remembers the man's name. Something along the lines of John.

"Ron Panero." Dami squats down in front of him. "Age thirty-nine. Operated under the DiSimone family for eight years. Murder victims range from twenty-five to thirty, mostly women. And you're currently on the run from your own family." She looks him over thoroughly. "Nod if these are all correct."

Ron follows instructions, though he can barely do so with the injuries he's suffering from. Dami then pulls out her phone and begins dialing a number. In less than four seconds, the call connects, and a man with a voice too gruff for her begins speaking. "Is everything done with?"

"Almost." Dami replies. "I need to see the first installment."

"Let me see him first."

Dami sighs, flips over to her camera, and points the phone at her captive. "Smile for me, Ron." When the picture is taken and sent, the receiver over the phone chuckles in a sort of devilish delight.

"Check your account." The man instructs, and Dami wastes no time. She finds a deposit of twenty-five grand sitting in dark, bold numerals. This calls for a smile.

"Finish the job and the next installment will be yours." The call ends.

Dami tucks the phone into her pocket and turns back to Ron. He's beyond petrified, because now he knows his time has run out. None of Dami's business, however. She pulls out a silencer and connects it to her pistol, and when Ron sees this, he begins squirming within his confines. Futile. He'll be meeting his end regardless.

When the silencer finally clicks on, Dami moves the pistol up to Ron's forehead and pulls the trigger. The blood splatters, but doesn't stain her attire. Perfect.

Next on the agenda is the meet-up location. It takes a while before she arrives at the club. Wild Sides is what they call it. It's owned by one of the mafia groups in the area, which houses numerous criminals that belong to the syndicate. The place never closes up. It's a 24/7 trip mine of entertainment.

Dami meets her client behind the club, at a place where they're guaranteed the privacy they need to converse. But there isn't much to discuss. Her profit is the only thing she's there for.

There's a white van there and a messenger sent by the client. The man is big, yet pudgy. His trench coat keeps everything inside hidden, but Dami doesn't have to guess much to figure out what's underneath. He stands tall, hands behind his back, eyes down at Dami. He takes in the creamy caramel shade of her hair which seems to blend in with her skin tone, along with the freckles feathered around her face.

Despite Messenger's intimidating appearance, there's a certain look on his face as he studies Dami. A look that suggests he's anxious but is trying his best to cover it up.

But Dami sees through it all. He's wondering if the girl in front of him really is the chameleon, or whatever nickname it is that they've dubbed her with. He's trying to figure out if her physique really can take him on, if she really is as swift as they say. There's also the fact that she'd carried out the job they've been trying to do for months in a matter of weeks. He wants to know how. But most of all, he wants to know if that really is her real face.

"I left the body with your men." Dami tells him in Italian.

Messenger does a little nod, then hauls a duffle bag from the boot of the van and throws it to her. "The other half. In cash as promised."

Dami zips the bag open and digs her hand into the wads of cash. She pulls one out and begins counting through the bills.

"Your services were much appreciated." Messenger says to her, but she's too busy counting.

Dami only spares him a smile when she's all done. "Pleasure doing business."

Messenger doesn't respond at first, perhaps amidst the questions currently running amuck in his head. He decides he will quell his rampant curiosity after all. "Are you really The Caméléonne?"

Dami looks back at him, her face weary and a bit on the irritated side. "Don't call me that."

Messenger instantly gives it a rest and adopts the same silence he had seconds ago.

"Tell your boss I said hi." Dami finally takes her leave.

People seem to believe she's picky-which she is-but she only ever takes on a request when she feels up to it. The ransom doesn't matter as much as they make it seem either. More money offered does not guarantee a spot on her list. Before accepting requests, Dami makes it her business to research both the target and the client. She finds out who exactly she's dealing with, their history, and their timeline in the mafia.

Then she deems if they are worth her time. Only in cases like Ron where the target has a history of violent crimes does she decide to take on the request. No one in the mafia is innocent, which is precisely why the targets and clients don't matter.

The time now reads 4:10 A.M, but the club won't be dialing down any time soon. These parts of New Jersey are rarely ever regulated, what with it being under the Jurisdiction of mafia members. They'll party till dawn, drinking and drugging themselves.

Dami bypasses a couple of drunkards spread out on the sidewalk. They litter around like they own the street, but it's none of her concern. It isn't until she walks past two men too full of themselves does her interest spike. One of them has a tie too obnoxiously red in color to blind the eye, and the other's hair has long since balded in the front and middle.

"Can't wait to see the look on Verdonni's face when they finally hunt down his woman." Red tie says with slurred speech, to which Baldy laughs and responds, "Wish they would hire me to do it for them. I would love to see that cunt's face with my hands tight around her neck."

Dami stops dead in her tracks, as she thinks she couldn't possibly have just heard that right. She retracks her steps back to the men. "What was that about Verdonni's woman?"

The men pause mid conversation. She can tell they aren't happy with her there, but that's as important as the lives she takes. The answer is all she needs.

"Since when did prostitutes stop dressing the part?" Baldy says, a jab at Dami's baggy clothes. Red tie laughs like it's the funniest joke in the world. He taps his knee repeatedly with a cigarette in-between his fingers, which almost comes off cartoonish.

When Dami doesn't reply, the men take this as a sign of victory and continue their laughter among themselves. That is, until Dami drops the duffle bag to the ground and steps in front of them.

"Get up."

Baldy's grin comes right off, as does Red tie's. Dami's tone is not to their liking. Red tie is first to stand. "Do you have a death wish-"

Dami pulls him towards herself by his arm and gives him a solid fist to his ribcage. This earns a sharp yelp from Red tie, and instantly he goes weak. Baldy grows alert and wakes from the bench in an attempt to fight back, as if his efforts will amount to something. But much to his dismay, he is proven false.

With her grasp still on Red tie's arm, Dami sends a leg for Baldy's chest with enough force to knock him back against the bench, and for the back of his head to slam into the wood. Shockwaves course through his body like water ripples.

Dami finally lets go of Red tie and brings her right foot all the way up in the air before bringing it down hard on Baldy's shoulder. The wind is knocked out of him instantly, and he goes limp and falls to the ground. Not even a whimper is heard from Baldy.

Dami turns back to Red tie who is now cowering in fear on the ground, and whose mouth is stained with the blood he coughed up from her punch. He can't even offer a word of submission. She grabs the same arm again and flips him over so his chest hits the ground. Then she takes a seat on his lower back with his compromised arm stretched far behind him.

Red tie winces at the pain. If he wants the pain gone he will have to give Dami what she's after. So with shallow breaths, Red tie opens his mouth and begins to spew all the information he knows.

"I'll talk, I swear!" He tells her. "The Toulours are after everyone in the Verdonni family and that includes Idris's woman. I'm not sure when they're going to take her out, but she's a prime target too. That's all I know, just unhand me!"

Dami finally allows his arm go, but doesn't wake from his back. Because this certainly is not the turn of events she was expecting. This is bad news for Josi.

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