“Three-phase strike,” I order. “Bruna—take the brothels. Burn every registry, free the girls. Make it loud. Haarvik—cut the supply line at Mekar. Leave one survivor. A mouthpiece. Ellex—you and the Ghosts hit their bribe chain. We leak it to the press after. Corruption trial by sunrise.”
Bruna chuckles, flexing knuckles cracked with old blood. “You want messy or elegant?”
“I want surgical carnage,” I say. “Make it an art piece.”
She grins wider.
The room grows hot. I can smell the bloodlust blooming like steam. And still, I remain seated. Still. In control. On the outside.
But inside, the Reaper’s loose.
And the city of Goldwin? She doesn’t know what’s coming.
When the meeting ends, they leave fast—obedient and silent. Because they know what I didn’t say.
This war isn’t about territory anymore. It’s personal.
I stand at last, stretch my limbs, feel the armor of control shift on my shoulders.
In the quiet, I walk to the northern viewing port, where the skyline of Goldwin pulses like a dying heartbeat.
I press one hand to the glass. Beyond it, neon veins of the city stretch like arteries, and somewhere out there—Aria sleeps under guard, her breath labored but healing.
My fingers tighten.
No one hurts her again. Not without forfeitingeverything.
I whisper to the night. Not a threat. A promise.
“No more politics.”
The glass reflects my eyes—burning bright.
“We end this.”
I don’t announce myself.
No grand speech. No banners. No horns.
Just the hum of the drop shuttle cutting through Goldwin’s storm-choked night, wind howling like an omen as I descend into the heart of Nar’Vosk territory with death riding my shoulders.
My crew’s strapped and tight behind me—ghost-faced, wide-eyed. Some haven’t seen me fight in a decade. Someneverhave. The silence between them says it all.
They think they know what I am.
They don’t.
The vault is buried under an old train depot—grime-caked metal and rusted stone, tucked in the bowels of the industrial district like a rotten tooth. We land hard, boots crunching on broken concrete.
I don’t flinch.
I inhale.
And the scent of blood, oil, and ozone hits like a punch to the gut.
There are twelve guards on perimeter. Seven more inside. Automated defense turrets. Heat-scanners. Sonic alarms.
I don’t care.
