The gala wasn't just a party. It was a performance — silk and champagne stitched over rot.
And tonight, it would bleed.
Selica stepped off the armored skiff in silence, her heels tapping the landing as the vessel hissed into dock. Night air caught her dress — a slit cascade of midnight silk, threaded with reactive mesh. Cameras flickered as she stepped off — the illusion beginning with every heel-click.
Inside, the ballroom shimmered like a hallucination of wealth. Chandeliers sparkled like suspended rainfall. A quartet played beneath wings of sculpted glass. Holograms rippled on the walls — smiling children, rising cities, drones painted as peacekeepers.
All lies. Curated. Controlled.
Selica's stride was measured. Elegant. Her wrist scanned at the door.
"Guest ID confirmed," the drone host murmured. "Welcome, Miss Illya Shoren."
The name wasn't hers. Nothing here was.
Her earpiece crackled — soft, intimate.
"Team in position. Visuals clean."
She didn't reply. They didn't need words.
Across the ballroom, Nova leaned at the bar in a dress cut from shadow. She held a golden fizz, untouched. Her eyes scanned, lazy and lethal.
Nara and Mia were laughing with a general near the dance floor, just enough touch in the gesture to feel real.
Lyra watched from the upper balcony — glass in hand, smile perfect. None of them were guests. All of them were armed.
Selica drifted through the crowd like a wraith in silk, every step programmed to be unnoticed.
"Strath entering east wing," Lyra murmured. "Red cuffs. Civilian escort."
"Visual confirm," Nara added. "Guard's ex-Black Talon. Minimal implants."
Selica angled left, brushing past a security drone. She paused by a gold-veined sculpture, catching her reflection in polished chrome.
Perfect. Poised. Hollow.
"Two minutes to intercept."
She slipped into a staff corridor, leaving music and velvet behind like discarded masks. The air turned sterile.
Selica exhaled once. Drew the weapon from her garter.
No sound. No hesitation.
Or so she thought.
"Target entering corridor," Nova said. "Line clear. Take the shot when ready."
Selica crouched, braced her pistol. Finger light on the trigger.
A memory surged, unbidden.
A training room. A child-shaped drone. The instructor's voice: "Fire anyway. Real-world messes don't come with clean lines."
Then—
A laugh.
Childlike. High. Sharp.
A small boy, maybe seven, burst from a maintenance door, chasing a tray drone that buzzed wildly. He giggled as he ran — cheeks flushed, eyes wide.
A woman followed — elegant, flushed, laughing breathlessly. His mother.
The child ran right into the kill zone.
"Her finger froze mid-trigger. One traitorous heartbeat echoed like gunfire in her chest.
"Five seconds," Lyra warned.
"Selica, confirm," Nova said. Voice steady.
Strath entered. Laughing. Flanked by his guard. A perfect shot.
But the boy was right in the path.
If she fired now—
The child would die. The mother would see.
Selica hesitated.
For the first time in years of code and calm, her body disobeyed.
She didn't fire.
And in that moment—
Nova did.
Thup.
The shot cracked sharp and silent.
Strath's smile fractured. He staggered, blood blooming down his collar. His glass shattered. His knees hit marble.
The child froze.
The mother screamed.
Selica lowered her gun, breath caught.
"Target down," Nova confirmed.
"Evac. Selica, move."
Selica moved.
She ran.
Heels pounding across polished floor, corridors flashing red as alarms caught up. A staffer shouted — she shoved past him. Override slammed. Doors went limp.
"Clean-up protocol active," Mia said. "Two civilian witnesses. Orders confirmed."
Selica's chest seized.
No. Not the boy—
But it was already done.
Two soft silenced pops.
Then silence.
The kind that stays.
"Casualties contained," Nova said quietly. "Leaving no witnesses."
Selica said nothing. Her mouth was dry. Not from fear. From knowing she'd be made to forget this.
In her mind, his voice was already speaking. Cold. Clinical. "You hesitated. You endangered the mission. I don't build failures."
She hit the service lift.
Inside, her face was blank. Eyes glassed. Her reflection wavered in the steel paneling.
By the time she reached the lower dock, the team was waiting. Lyra on rear cover. Nara sealing the doors. Mia feeding codes to the pilot. Nova sat with legs crossed, eyes unreadable.
"No alerts transmitted," Nara said.
"ID burned. Collateral purged," Mia added.
Selica stepped on board last.
No one looked at her.
They didn't need to.
They all knew.
She had failed.
The fire was already spreading when Selica re-entered the extraction corridor. Smoke swirled low, licking at her legs. Her steps slowed.
Nova stood near the hatch, pistol holstered. Her gaze unreadable.
Lyra worked the looped surveillance. Nara lit another thermite strip. Mia watched the cameras, jaw set.
None of them said a word.
They didn't have to.
They weren't angry.
They were afraid.
For her.
"North wing sealed," Nova said. "Fire will pass as wiring surge. Looks clean."
Lyra glanced over. Just once. Her expression wasn't hostile.
It was tired.
It was warning.
"Collateral confirmed?"
Mia gave a stiff nod. "Two untagged civilians neutralized. Witness protocol."
Selica's hands curled into fists.
She didn't argue.
She didn't cry.
But something broke quietly behind her eyes.
Nova touched her arm — not cold, not cruel. Just grounding.
"Come on."
Selica nodded.
The others moved ahead.
They didn't need to say it. She was already sentenced
Selica sat in the back of the ship. Strapped in. Still.
Lyra sat beside her. Whispered low:
"…He's not going to let this go."
Nara added from the front, without looking back:
"Not when it risked the op."
Nova watched the fire through the viewing pane.
The hatch sealed.
The ship rose.
Below, the gala burned — a tragedy by morning. A palace turned mausoleum. A boy's laughter lost to smoke.
Selica closed her eyes.
Not to rest — but to brace. Because soon, he'd remind her. What she was. What she wasn't allowed to be.