TENET 1: You shall not lay a hand upon another. The Savior alone determines who is deserving of punishment, for judgment is not within the purview of man. To exercise violence without justification is a slight against the Savior; to take a life is the gravest of all sins.

—The Prophet’s Modern Translation of the Holy Book

Like most sinners, I do my best work at night.

The outskirts of Valestadt are dark as I swing myself onto the balcony of Malte Pietersen’s sprawling three-story home. Huffing out a breath, I peer through the balustrade to survey the manicured garden below. Stout trees shiver in the wind, silhouetted by the glow of the moon. I hunch my shoulders and pull my hood closer to my face. Something about the silence has cold threading along my bones.

Or maybe I’m just paranoid. Eyes narrowed, I track an unmarked car that speeds past, hubcaps gleaming beneath the incandescent streetlights. Regiment agents. I’d recognize the slick black vehicles with their bulbous fenders anywhere, and I don’t relax until they’re out of sight. It’s an unnecessary instinct, really: The Regiment poses little threat so long as I can rely on its Prophet to wrangle me out of trouble. Still, Gabriel’s displeasure if I’m caught will be far worse a punishment.

Pietersen’s house is quiet. Set back from the main street, it was almost too easy to grapple my way up the ivy-encrusted brick. I adjust my gloves and peer through the glass doors, trying to see past the moon’s silver reflection. Outlines of furniture are visible in the sparsely decorated parlor beyond, but the room is definitely empty.

Impatience sours my throat as I jam my pick into the keyhole. When I feel the back of the lock, I yank it out again, turning my tension wrench. A number of the pins fall into place. Rich as he is, Pietersen ought to have invested in better security measures, but I know how the Regiment feels about modern technology. I pick the remaining pins with quick efficiency, holding my breath as I turn the handle.

It gives, just as I knew it would, and I step into the deadly quiet room. The air smells like lemon oil polish and new furniture. It feels suffocatingly still after being on the balcony, and I thank the devil when the wooden floorboards don’t creak beneath my feet. With a final glance over my shoulder, I begin a slow creep to the hallway, squinting as my eyes adjust.

I’ve barely made it clear of the parlor when I draw to a halt, every muscle in my body tensing. A warm glow emanates from the room adjacent, the door open just enough for me to hear the rapid tap-a-tap of a typewriter over the frantic slam of my own heartbeat.

Pietersen. It has to be.

You are a ghost, Talin, Gabriel reminds me ahead of every new assignment. My sinners are never seen, never heard, until the moment they strike.