The city thrummed with ambition and greed.

She blended into the crowd, a nondescript figure amongst a sea of suits and briefcases by day. By night, she transformed into something else entirely.

Her mission was far removed from the typical underworld dealings of those who excelled in her profession.

She didn't take lives.

She aimed to change them.

Her weapon of choice wasn't a gun, or knife, or chemical toxin like Novichok. It was a sleek syringe, filled with her own concoction of a shimmering, iridescent serum. A potent blend of chemicals that ignited a part of the brain that wasn't active in all humans. It altered the brain permanently.

She would slip amongst the shadows, disguised as a waitress, a maid, a mistress, for the elite. The politicians, CEO's, the decision makers who shaped the world through their choices for their own selfish gains, those were her targets.

Children were going hungry, whilst the rich feasted.

Families displaced through gentrification, whilst real estate moguls turned into billionaires.

She had created the serum by accident. A mislabelled vial stored in direct sunlight.

Sunlight, the very thing that enabled earth to grow, to flourish.

At first she didn't realise what she'd created. But as the days turned into weeks, and then months, the testing was conclusive. Not only that, it was reproducible, stable, and viable.

She made a choice.

Through community gatherings and grassroots movements, she silently empowered those whose shared stories of suffering gave her the targets she needed.

Executives, politicians.

The world slowly began to change. A ripple went out through the city, then globally.

Men and women who were once indifferent to people's suffering suddenly, strangely, came down sick for a day or two. Feeling heavy, exhausted, like the start of a cold. Then afterward, an enduring heaviness that was unexplainable. A weight caused by the realisation that their actions had knowingly caused other people's pain.

Some changed their ways, forging a new path, one built of understanding, compassion, and hope.

Others grappled with the consequences of their actions. The heartache at what they had done. The decisions they had heartlessly made haunted them, to the point that they could no longer stand to be under the crushing weight of guilt that this new found empathy had bestowed upon them.

The elite hadn't felt empathy before. But they were well versed in fear.

The stories, their colleagues suffering. What was this virus-like plague that was seemingly only effecting the upper-class?

The whispers spoke of a woman. Some said she was dressed in all white and only appeared at night. Others said she cried all the time, and if you heard her cries, run. She is not to be taken advantage of.

She enjoyed these stories.

You can't catch a story.

But if you're complicit to sufferings of the world, maybe, just maybe, you'll catch cold.

The client’s penthouse sat on the eighty-fifth floor of a tower in the heart of the city. The elevator doors swung open to reveal him standing in the center of a huge glass room, leaning very deliberately against a glass coffee table as though he’d been expecting her.

“You’ve heard the stories of the Mourning Lady.”

Darya nodded lazily, then went back to polishing her belt buckle. “A plague with no cure and no symptoms that only affects the rich. A woman dressed in white who moves like a ghost through the world, putting thoughts in people’s brains that they don’t want or need.”

The client cocked his head curiously—he hadn’t been expecting that last part. “Indeed,” he mused. “An apt description. People like you and me understand that empathy can cloud reason, makes us irrational. It gets in the way of other objectives—things like universal truth and utilitarian benefits. Where would we be if we spent all our time making endless moral calculations instead of getting things done?” He laughed, a sound approximately as genuine and warm as the plastic rose on his lapel. “Why, one could even argue that if humanity were too empathetic, we would still be in the Stone Age.”

Darya put down her polishing cloth and looked him dead in the eye. His eyes darted to the conspicuous bulge on the side of her thigh, and she nodded gravely. “Mr. Badger, if that is your real name, I’m not here to wax philosophical. There’s only one thing I know how to do, and I’m assuming you're here to help me do it.”

He chuckled, again that artificial laugh. “Straight to the point, as always. Yes, five hundred thousand dollars will be yours. Half now and half on completion.”

She glanced down at her pistol contemplatively, as though deciding whether or not to draw it on the client now and save herself the hassle of negotiating. She ultimately chose not to, directing her eyes instead to the window and the city skyline outside. “Give me two weeks.”

“Pleasure doing business with you.” The client extended his hand to shake. “May I just say, your reputation precedes you. They told me you were the best gun in the city, of course, but what I really wanted was the steadiest hand—the kind of person who can carry out orders without flinching, no matter how difficult, dangerous, or dubious. And you, my dear, do not disappoint.”

Darya didn’t acknowledge the compliment. Instead, her focus remained fixed on the city outside, tracking the lights and streets as she shook his hand.

“Never killed a ghost before,” she murmured. “Can’t wait to see how it’s done.”

Years had slipped by since Darya first embarked on her mission to silence the elusive Mourning Lady.

The world had changed in ways that she could hardly fathom. City’s that once thrummed with ambition and greed had evolved into a vibrant tapestry of collaboration in such a short period of time.

This was a new era, where the voices of children and the less fortunate echoed loudly, guiding the decisions that was fast shaping the future. The streets were alive with colour, community, and connection. It was what the world had been starved of for so long. Community gardens flourished where concrete had once reigned. Laughter spilled from open windows as families gathered to share meals and stories. The air was filled with the scents of fresh herbs and flowers, a testament to humanity’s newfound respect for nature. The world had shifted from the relentless pursuit of happiness attained through wealth to a harmonious existence, where resources were shared, not hoarded, and the well-being of all was prioritised. The mental health crisis quickly faded as people connected to each other through storytelling and understanding.

Darya stood on the balcony of her modest apartment, overlooking the sprawling city below. The skyline had changed; towering green structures intertwined with nature now dominated the view, each building a testament to sustainable living. Gone were the days of cutthroat capitalism; in its place was a cooperative society that embraced equality and nurtured the planet.

Yet, in the shadows of this utopia, Darya felt a gnawing conflict within her. The Mourning Lady had become a symbol of hope, a ghost who had inspired a revolution of empathy. Darya had watched as her serum had spread through the veins of the elite, igniting a spark of conscience that had led to a seismic shift in societal values. But now, as she prepared to carry out her latest contract, she questioned the morality of her actions.

The client, Mr. Badger, had painted a picture of the Mourning Lady as a threat to the very fabric of this new world. “Empathy clouds reason,” he had said, his voice dripping with disdain for the very ideals that had transformed society. Darya had listened, feeling the weight of his words.

As she paced her apartment, she recalled the faces of those who had benefited from the changes. Children who now had access to education, families who had found homes, communities that thrived in unity. The Mourning Lady had been a catalyst for this transformation, and now Darya was being asked to extinguish that light. The decision loomed over her like an ominous storm cloud. Should she carry out the hit, and potentially be the turning point of history where the world returned to capitalism? To “us vs them.”

Another idea floated across the forefront of her mind.

Should she find a way to protect the legacy of the Mourning Lady? To transform from being the weapon, a tool for hire, to a shield.

With a deep breath, she stepped away from the balcony, and let her thoughts drift to the stories she had heard, tales of the Mourning Lady’s impact on those who had been touched by her presence. People spoke of a profound awakening, a realisation that their actions had consequences, that their wealth did not absolve them of their responsibility to others. The Mourning Lady had become a beacon of change, and Darya was being asked to snuff it out.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the city, Darya made her choice.

In the heart of the city, where shadows danced and stories intertwined, Darya embraced her new mission: to protect the ghost and the world she had helped create. The battle for the soul of humanity was far from over, but Darya was ready to fight for this new future.

Gathering her tools of trade, Darya prepared for her deadliest challenge yet, to eradicate her client, and thereby put a target on her back.