The Mystery Fighter II

The humid air clung to Cassie like a second skin, a heavy blanket under the blazing sun. Perched precariously on the side of her motorcycle, the black helmet dangled between her knees, its straps a familiar comfort under her restless fingers.
Her eyes, hidden behind dark sunglasses, scanned the peaceful river below, a glittering ribbon winding its way between distant hilltops. It was a stark contrast to the image that burned behind her eyelids—Kingston’s face, etched with shock and recognition, from their last fight.
Taking a cigarette from her jacket pocket, she lit it, inhaling deeply, the smoke a thin veil against the serene landscape. She knew Kingston was the type to dig, to pry, to demand answers. And she, against her better judgment, had given him some.
Now, here she was, on a quiet hill with Celine, trying to outrun the echoes of that encounter, the whispers of her double life.
