And when I sink onto him, it’s not with desperation—it’s with reverence.
His breath shudders out of him.
“Kristi…”
I rock my hips, slowly, deliberately. He groans low in his throat, eyes locked on mine.
There’s nowhere to hide in this. No shadows. No shields.
Just us.
And the slow, burning dance of skin on skin, breath for breath, promise for promise.
Parting is sweet sorrow, so they say. I say it sucks, but resistance fighters gotta do what we gotta do. Only I can sneak into my uncle’s private estate and get away with it.
Maybe.
The first lock is muscle memory.
I swipe the old admin badge across the exterior gate’s reader. It blinks red—twice—then flickers green, like even the system hesitates. I duck past the threshold before it can change its mind.
Dennis Montana’s estate hasn’t changed. Ornate fencing wrapped in hydrangea vines engineered to bloom year-round. Smooth stone paths where even the night birds don’t dare land. Security drones buzz softly overhead, but I’m a shadow tonight, tucked in matte-black stealth weave and nerve-thin patience.
The gala buys me a two-hour window. I gave it ninety minutes. I don’t need more.
He’s out pretending to save the world, charming press, holding fake children. But his real empire isn’t built on handshakes or policy.
It’s built on blood.
And tonight, I prove it.
The rear entrance to the study’s annex is buried beneath a koi pond. No, really. An underwater hatch. You’d think it was overkill if you didn’t know Dennis.
But I did.
He used to brag about it when he was tipsy. “If I ever have enemies smart enough to find it,” he’d slur, “they deserve to see what I’m hiding.”
Tonight, I take him at his word.
The pond smells like algae and imported purity. I slip beneath the surface, breath held, fingers skimming along the carved stones until I find the latch. A three-point scan: retinal, bioelectric, and an old-fashioned fingerprint pad I bypass usinga polymimetic gel strip I lifted from a covert tech runner Kenron introduced me to.
The door yawns open with a hiss, and I crawl into darkness.
The study feels colder than it should. Like the air forgot how to breathe.
It’s not flashy. Dennis never believed in theatrical villainy. Just rows of filing cabinets. Shelves of binders. A console desk wired directly into untraceable nodes. And at the far end—a climate-sealed storage unit glowing faint blue in the dark.
I start with the physical files. They’re labeled in that arrogant, unassuming way only guilty men use. “Security Review 41A.” “Council Retention Memo.” “Civil Order Clearance.”
Each page is worse than the last.
Deployments. Surveillance authorizations. A redacted line item:Subject 298a—cleared for termination post-interrogation.
My hands start to tremble. I keep going.
Near the back, I find it.
A narrow black box. Sealed with bio-lock, but weakly—like he didn’t think anyone would ever find it. I override the mechanism with a heat pulse and a steady hand.
