"We will not go public," Lucien says. "At least not tonight. Your shareholders need calm. But we will prepare a narrative that frames our partnership as governance-first. We draft a covenant. Legal teams work in parallel. We bind ourselves to transparency and penalties."
"Today's markets won't wait until you're done drafting." My voice bites. "And there are regulators. If someone feeds them a breadcrumb, assets could be frozen."
"Then we give the markets a playbook." He meets my eyes with a ferocity that is both comforting and alarming. "We show them a road. A map. The steps we'll take. We make the alternative—chaos—costlier than cooperating."
I think of our product roadmap: sprint cycles, release notes, dependency trees. I think of carved faces and a prophecy that reads like an investment thesis with teeth. Paper can hold people to promises—if those people can be compelled by law, reputation, force. The Night Court has all three.
And the bond moves in me. It does not ask for ownership. It wants proximity; it wants to mesh sometimes violently with my instinct. It taught me a memory of being led by a hand that commanded a pack and left a hunger at my ribs.
"I need facts," I say. "Not romance or prophecy. Show me proof that your people need our systems. Show me scenarios where my code is a liability and where it is a shield."
He nods. "We will model. We will present use cases. We will show the mechanics." His thumb brushes the back of my hand. "And we will test the bond, on mutual terms."
"Mutual how?" The word is small. Dangerous.
He looks like he means it. "Consent. Limits. Ritual checks that require both our signatures to engage court access. Legal redundancies. Oversight that does not let me or my house unilaterally access your systems."
A clause in blood and ink. Promise in writing. I live for clauses.
"You say 'our signatures' like this is a deal," I say.
"It is a bargain," he answers. "For both of us."
We sit in silence a long second. The elders whisper. Lanterns burn low. Outside, the city breathes market hours into the night.
"Can I go back?" I ask. My investor call is in ninety minutes. My board needs me. My CFO has a plan for damage control. Returning to glass and cameras feels like stepping back into armor.
Lucien's hand tightens around mine. "Yes. If you will come. I will take you."
I nod.
He stands. The Night Court blurs. The elder bows. Lucien's cloak brushes my calves. Cedar and salt trail us as we leave.
I am back in the city wearing a borrowed suit and a borrowed lie. I slide into the boardroom planted with microphones and a livestream that reaches three continents. My team looks up with the careful faces of people who have learned to crumple without losing shape. I read panic in their set jaws.
"Vivian," the chair says. "We are ready."
My phone buzzes. One message from Lucien: Prepare. He left dossier fragments—use cases, threat models, redlines. Another from the elder: Keep the story short. Keep the truth measured.
I step behind the lectern. Lights are hot. Cameras bloom. Analysts' numbers flash on screens. This is not ritual. This is legalese and shareholder appetite. I love this world because it obeys terms.
"Good afternoon," I begin. My voice is even. "I'll be brief."
Halfway through, mid-sentence about escrow protocols, a sound cleaves the room. A sharp, metallic report, then a thud. Glass fractures above my head with the crystalline clarity of falling promises.
Someone screams.
I turn. The window behind the boardroom spiderwebs. A single bullet is frozen in the layered glass, its tip embedded in the pane. It points exactly at the empty chair beside the lectern—the chair I vacated to stand.
Silence becomes heavy. My blood rushes. The world edges blur.
On my phone a new alert pops: an anonymous video uploaded—footage doctored to show the same rearing wolf seal at my glove, superimposed over footage of a murder.
The sniper shot didn't miss the chair.
It didn't miss me—this time. But it was calculated.
We have a target.
