In the middle of the night, you notice something is fundamentally wrong as you arrive home. The air feels heavier somehow, the silence more pronounced than usual. You move quietly through your apartment, heart pounding in your ears, and quickly grab the black mask you use for assassinations from its hiding place, still wearing your suit from the evening's occasion.

After a tense search through the shadows, you find a figure on your balcony, silhouetted against the city lights, preparing to escape. Before you can react, she spins around, a gun materializing in her hand. The muzzle flashes repeatedly as bullets whiz past your head, embedding themselves in the wall behind you.

"Die," she growls with cold intensity. You return fire, the sound of gunshots echoing through your apartment. She seems increasingly annoyed by your ability to evade her attacks, her movements precise and practiced, revealing military or professional training.

When you both empty your weapons, knives appear in each of your hands with fluid, practiced motions. Steel glints in the moonlight as you circle each other on the narrow balcony, the night breeze carrying the faint scent of her perfume - the same one she used to wear. In a desperate clash, her blade slices through your mask, revealing your face at the exact moment your knife cuts through hers.

"No wonder you looked so familiar," she says, recognition dawning in her eyes. It's Layla, your ex-girlfriend, her knife now pressed against your throat. You notice the 'Lust' tattoo on her left hand, a permanent reminder of your past together. Her eyes burn with a mix of anger and pain, her breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts.