By early afternoon, the safehouse felt less like a stranger's museum and more like a containment chamber—silent, temperature-perfect, sterile enough that even my thoughts sounded too loud.
I sat at the desk in my room, laptop open, trace-net sprawled across the screen in a slow, alive rhythm.
Abyssal glyphs flickered like bioluminescent veins in dark water.
I tapped my fingers once on the desk.
Data tracing wasn't enough.
That was the conclusion we'd reached on the jet. Not looking for the messages Viktor sent, but for the pre-signal—the electrical pulse that comes before data is born. Before information takes shape. Before anything exists for him to erase.
That was the one place he couldn't hide.
Theoretically.
I pulled up a city map, layering grid networks over each other: transit, industrial, residential, private corporate lines, hidden maintenance conduits. Electrical flow webs appeared—pulsing in steady, predictable patterns.
Normal systems were predictable. Normal electricity behaved.
Viktor didn't.
I zoomed in, fingers moving fast, pulling up older logs from last night's blackout. The official report claimed a "localized surge anomaly."
That was bullshit. I had the shattered traffic data to prove it.
What I needed wasn't the report. It was the space between the malfunction and the restoration.
The pulse before the pulse.
If electricity was a language, I needed the consonant he spoke before the word formed.
I sat back, breathing through the ache in my ribs.
"Okay. Think."
He sends a message. It never existed.
He kills a car engine. It never shows a fault.
He blacks out a street. There's no record of the surge.
A clean erasure meant he was catching the electrical moment before it stabilized into data. Before the system could write it down. Before it could even recognize something had happened.
So I didn't need logs. Or packets. Or ghost packets.
I needed pulse signatures.
Raw electricity.
I brought up the trace-net interface and rewrote a portion of the architecture—grafting a detection grid into the framework, turning the net outward. Instead of looking for data, it started listening for abnormalities in voltage drift, micro-surge patterns, electrostatic deviations—things humans didn't notice because they happened too fast to exist in a human timeframe.
Wontony's mask glyph flickered briefly in the corner of the screen.
passive_observation: active
Good.
I needed passive. Active might have drawn Viktor's attention too soon.
A tiny, involuntary smile tugged at my mouth.
"This might actually work," I whispered.
The trace-net responded as if it had heard me.
I leaned closer to the screen, relief and determination twining together until they felt almost like adrenaline.
Finding him wasn't optional anymore. Not if I wanted Elara safe. Not if I wanted myself back.
—
Late afternoon light slanted through the safehouse windows, I was cracking my neck and about to get up when my phone buzzed.
Devil: Office. Now.
I went.
I opened the heavy double doors.
Sylus sat behind the desk, posture straight, coat crisp, hands resting with deliberate stillness on a sealed folder. When I stepped inside, his eyes lifted immediately.
"Sit."
I did.
"There has been a change of plans for tonight," he said. "The buyer altered the arrangement."
I waited.
"They've brought in another seller," Sylus continued. "They want us to play against them."
My brows rose. "Is it poker?"
"Yes. A private game hosted by the buyer."
A beat.
"There will be six seats. The buyer provides two. The competing seller provides two. And we must provide two as well."
It clicked.
"So I'm only there so the table is complete."
"Partially," he said. "You're also there because your presence complicates the psychological read for both the buyer and the opposing seller."
"Because I'm new," I said dryly.
"And because the seller brought someone aggressive. They will attempt to dominate the table. You will make that more… difficult."
I sat back slightly, processing.
Then:
"The buyer must be important if you're willing to comply with whatever game they want to play."
Sylus didn't react immediately.
But when he did, it was with that precise, quiet tone he used when revealing only the amount of truth he intended to reveal.
"The buyer controls access to a specialized market," he said. "Their endorsement determines whether certain prototypes ever reach circulation."
"So they have leverage."
"No," he said.
"They think they have leverage."
My pulse hitched—because the difference was important.
And dangerous.
Sylus went on:
"Onychinus plays the game because it benefits us. Not because anyone commands us. But ignoring their request would inconvenience our timeline."
I tilted my head. "So you're complying because it's efficient."
"Yes."
"And not because they can force your hand."
His gaze fixed on me—sharp, assessing, mildly approving.
"They cannot force anything," he said. "But they can waste my time. And I have no patience for delays."
That tracked.
"Your attire for tonight will be delivered shortly," Sylus added. "Appropriate for the environment."
Internally: I knew this was coming.
Externally: I kept my face neutral.
"And what is the environment?" I asked.
"A high-stakes private salon," he said. "Exclusive, deliberate, curated."
Another beat.
"You will not blend in wearing tactical gear."
Fair.
Annoying, but fair.
"What exactly do you want me to do at the table?" I asked.
"Be observed."
His eyes held mine.
"And then cease being what they think they observed."
That—felt like a Sylus answer.
"And the other seller?" I pressed.
"Arrogant," he said flatly. "Overconfident. Easily provoked."
"By me?"
"By anyone who does not play the role he expects," Sylus replied. "You excel at that."
…Not sure that was a compliment.
But it sounded like one.
"When do we leave?"
"Twenty-three hundred hours. Be dressed and ready thirty minutes early."
I nodded.
He didn't dismiss me immediately.
Instead, his gaze shifted over me—calculating, not unkind, not soft, but searching for variables only he saw.
"The buyer wants a performance," Sylus said. "We will give them one. But it will be ours."
Then, with absolute certainty:
"You'll adapt."
I swallowed. "I'll try."
"No," Sylus said.
"You will."
A knock.
Kieran stepped in with a sleek matte garment bag.
"Delivery for Diana."
Of course.
Sylus didn't look away from me as he spoke.
"You may go."
I stood. Collected the bag. Left with the weight of something new forming in my chest—a mix of dread, curiosity, and the strange certainty that tonight was going to be far more dangerous than the "low-risk" mission I had signed up for.
—
The moment I stepped into my room, I hung the garment bag on the wardrobe handle and just… stared at it.
Sylus had chosen something for me.
Which meant—
It wouldn't be random. It wouldn't be generic.
I unzipped the bag.
Inside lay an outfit unmistakably expensive, perfectly tailored, and dangerous in the quietest possible way.
A fitted deep-green jumpsuit.
Not tactical — but sculpted. Matte fabric, sleeveless, clean geometric lines that carved out a silhouette sharper than anything I'd ever worn. Light enough to move in. Heavy enough to command a room.
Over it: a graphite blazer. Structured. Minimalist. A layer meant not to soften, but to conceal — selectively.
I brushed my fingers over the fabric.
When I imagined wearing this… I understood exactly what Sylus had intended.
Understated. Controlled.
Someone a table might mistake for decoration —
—right until the blazer came off.
The deep green would hit my tebori ink like a spotlight, turning muted elegance into something closer to a warning. Quiet to menace in a single motion.
Sylus hadn't chosen something that made me look like him. He'd chosen something that made me look like I belonged at that table entirely on my own terms.
And I hated — absolutely hated — that I liked it.
I showered, letting the warmth loosen the tension in my shoulders.
Then makeup.
Concealer to erase the exhaustion. Matte neutral shadow to deepen my gaze. Soft liner smudged outward — controlled, subtle, precise. A hint of color at my cheeks so I didn't look resurrected. Lip tint barely darker than my natural shade.
Then the hair.
My fingers moved automatically — dividing, pulling, weaving.
A tight French braid, sleek and disciplined. At the nape, I coiled the end and tucked it under, pinning it out of sight. No loose strands. Nothing soft.
The exposed line of my neck felt… strategic.
When the blazer came off — and it would — the green would frame my tattoos, my jawline, my throat. And when I turned, the deep V down my back would expose the blindfolded dragon between my shoulder blades — not fully, just enough to make men who underestimated me sit up straighter. A reveal meant to shift a table.
I stepped into the jumpsuit.
It hugged like a second skin — tailored so well it felt remembered rather than worn. Movement was effortless. The graphite blazer settled over my shoulders with a quiet click of purpose.
Last, the shoebox.
Deep-green loafers, the same shade as the jumpsuit, with a clean 3.5-inch block heel and a glossy finish.
I slid them on — snug, balanced, grounding.
When I stood, the added height shifted everything: posture, presence, silhouette.
No wobble.
No compromise to movement.
Just elevation.
God, I loved them.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
Exhaled.
"Okay," I whispered to the reflection. "Let's see what tonight wants."
The clock ticked forward.
Almost time.
I slipped on the blazer, slid my phone into the inner pocket.
Gun?
No. Too messy. Too obvious.
It was a game of poker.
…for now.