Chapter 822 - 821- Johana’s Bad Memory

Chapter 822: Chapter 821- Johana’s Bad Memory

The rain fell like needles.

Thin, cold, relentless. It hammered the cobblestones of the courtyard, turning the gaps between the stones into small rivers of gray water. The sky, heavy and bruised, pressed down on the capital like a lid on a coffin. The clouds were so thick that the afternoon looked like dusk, and the lanterns in the windows of the manor flickered with uncertain light.

Johana stood in the doorway. She was small. Eight years old. Her hair, pink and gray, hung in two braids that her mother had done that morning. The braids were uneven. Her mother had been in a hurry. There had been a job. There was always a job.

Her book, heavy and leather-bound, was pressed against her chest. ’Advanced Mana Theory, Volume Three.’ She couldn’t read most of it. The words were too big, the concepts too abstract, the diagrams too complex. But her mother had told her to study. Had placed the book in her hands, pushed her toward the study, and said the words that Johana had heard a thousand times.

"Study well. Do this. Do that. Do not leave this room until Chapter four is finished."

The words were not suggestions. They were commands. Delivered in the voice of a woman who did not ask twice. Who did not ask at all. Who told. Who ordered. Who expected obedience the way the sun expected the dawn.

Her mother, Mireille, stood in the courtyard. She wore a latex bodysuit. Black. Tight. The material clung to her body like a second skin, every curve, every muscle, every line of her form visible beneath the glossy surface. The suit was high-necked, long-sleeved, extending from her collar to her ankles. But it left nothing to the imagination. The material, thin and elastic, conformed to the shape of her breasts, her nipples visible as faint peaks beneath the latex. The line of her pussy, the cleft between her ass cheeks, the muscles of her thighs. All visible. All on display.

The suit was not for modesty. It was for combat. The latex, enchanted, was tougher than leather. Lighter than chainmail. It moved with the body, didn’t restrict, didn’t catch. The perfect garment for a woman whose profession required speed, flexibility, and the ability to fit through spaces that a person in armor could not.

Mireille was an assassin. An information collector. A woman whose name, whispered in certain circles, made powerful men check their windows and sleep with weapons beneath their pillows. She was not the best in the kingdom. She was not the most famous. She was something worse. She was the most reliable. The one who always completed the job. The one who never left traces. The one whose intelligence network, built over twenty years, reached into every noble house, every merchant guild, every criminal organization in the capital and beyond.

She stood in the courtyard, adjusting her gloves. The latex, stretching over her fingers, creaked. Her body, mature and athletic, was the body of a woman who had spent two decades fighting, running, climbing, and surviving. Her breasts, heavy for a fighter, were firm beneath the latex. Her waist, narrow, curved into wide hips. Her ass, round and muscular, was the kind that turned heads even in a bodysuit. Her thighs, thick with muscle, were crossed by thin scars that the latex couldn’t quite conceal.

She was beautiful. In a dangerous, sharp, terrifying way. The kind of beautiful that made men want her and fear her in equal measure.

She looked back at Johana. Her eyes, pink and gray, the same as her daughter’s, were cold. Not unkind. Cold. The coldness of a woman who had learned, through necessity, to compartmentalize. To separate the mother from the professional. To love her daughter in the same way that a general loved his soldiers. With strategy. With discipline. With the understanding that sentiment was a liability.

"Chapter four," she repeated. "I will check when I return."

She turned. Her hips swayed. The latex, catching the dim light, gleamed. The curve of her ass, the muscles of her thighs, the line of her calves. She walked with the confidence of a woman who owned the world and found it slightly disappointing.

She left. The gate opened. Closed. The sound of her footsteps faded into the rain.

Johana watched from the doorway. Her book, pressed against her chest, was damp. The rain, blowing inward, had wet the cover. She didn’t move. Didn’t go inside. Didn’t study. She stood, watching the gate, watching the space where her mother had been, until the rain soaked through her dress and her teeth chattered and the sky darkened fully.

Then she went inside. Sat at the desk. Opened the book. Stared at the words.

She didn’t read. She couldn’t. Her mind was elsewhere. On the gate. On the rain. On the latex suit and the cold eyes and the way her mother’s hips had swayed as she walked away.

’Will she come back?’

The thought, unbidden, was the thought of a child who had learned, through experience, that returns were not guaranteed. That missions went wrong. That people didn’t come back.

’She always comes back.’

The reassurance was hollow.

Midnight.

The sky, black and churning, was torn apart by lightning. The thunder, deep and bone-rattling, shook the manor. The windows vibrated. The candles flickered. The rain, already heavy, intensified. It hammered the roof, the walls, the windows, with the force of a waterfall.

Johana’s eyes opened.

The sound that woke her was not the thunder. She had slept through thunderstorms before. Had grown up with them. The sound was different. Louder. Closer. The sound of a door, forced open. Of boots on stone. Of voices, low and urgent.

She was out of bed in seconds. Her feet, bare, found the cold floor. She moved through the dark hallway, her small body pressed against the wall, her breathing shallow. The instincts, taught by her mother, fired. Move quietly. Stay low. Listen before looking.

She reached the balcony. The second-floor landing that overlooked the entrance hall. She pressed herself behind the stone balustrade. Peeked through the gap.

The front door was open. The rain, blowing inward, had soaked the marble floor. A figure stood in the doorway. Staggering. Clutching her side.

Mireille.

Her mother’s latex suit was torn. The right side, from her ribs to her hip, was shredded. Beneath the torn latex, her skin was visible. Red. Bleeding. A wound, deep and ragged, ran along her waist. The edges of the cut were purple. Black veins, thin and web-like, radiated from the wound. Poison.

She stumbled into the hall. Her hand, gloved in latex, pressed against the wound. The blood, dark and thick, seeped between her fingers. She reached into her belt. Pulled out a vial. Glass, small, filled with a green liquid. Healing potion.

She drank. Tilted her head back, swallowed the contents. The vial fell from her hand, shattered on the floor. The green liquid, mixing with the blood, created a foul-smelling puddle.

The wound closed. Slowly. The flesh knitting, the edges drawing together, the purple fading. The black veins receded. The healing potion, powerful and expensive, did its work.

Mireille exhaled. Her body, tense with pain, relaxed. She leaned against the wall. Her chest heaved. Her breasts, heavy beneath the torn latex, rose and fell. Her eyes, pink and gray, were closed.

She opened them.