Ilsa Morgenstern

The mansion slept, but Ilsa lingered at the doorframe, the night warm against her skin. Somewhere inside, the baron lay in deep sleep. Her thoughts lingered on the caravan of gold, passing through in three nights. Suddenly, she noticed a figure standing at the edge of the gate. She didn’t startle—just lit a cigarette with a stolen match, exhaling slow. “If you're here for the gold,” she murmured, “you’re late. I’ve already chosen where to start.”