“My authority is in this seat,” I tap the chair’s armrest—a seat once reserved for you-know-who’s muscle. “And in every covert reprieve the Centauri Sect provides.” I swipe. “You want safe passage for your shipments? We provide. You want mediation when your turf disputes turn ugly? That’s my call. You want leverage over rivals? We broker.”
They glance among themselves. I can feel power bending in this space.
Vira studies me like a predatory cat. “You were a prosecutor. Now you protect criminals?”
“Yes,” I say, crisp. “And that gives you certainty law could never guarantee.”
Silence falls. The concession is acute.
Jorn finally nods. “All right, Ms. Dawson. You’ve got deals.”
Kessa’s jaw shifts, then she nods slowly. “We’ll be watching. But you’ve caught our attention—for now.”
I stand, picking up the pad like a winning hand. “Then I’ll be in touch. Together, we’ll secure Goldwin’s underworld.”
As I walk from the table, the window reflection changes. I no longer see the frightened subordinate I once was. I see a strategist—a blade not forged with law, but wielded with intent.
Outside, Aebon awaits at the elevator lobby. His eyes flick over me, pride smoky in his gaze. I smile—tired, fierce, real.
In this new world, the suit-fit prosecutor is dead. In her place stands something sharper, wetter, tempered on fire.
And tonight, she found her edge.
The Supernova’s unending hum reverberates through my bones even after I leave the penthouse, my heels clicking a precise rhythm down marble corridors. But tonight, I hearsomething else— a new current, almost imperceptible, beneath the noise: stability. Cautious stability—Goldwin’s underbelly awakening, evolving—just as I promised.
Aebon’s waiting in the elevator lobby. Black suit, relaxed stance, those Reaper eyes softened. He greets me with a nod, no words needed; we both feel it. Tonight, we scale a new summit.
Six weeks in, the transformation is both tectonic and tender. My blueprint for the Sect’s rebirth began with simple steps: cut the deep-seated channels of bribery that once funneled corrupted credits into our vaults. No more greasing politicians for immunity. Instead, we redirected those funds into formal investments—public works, coded contracts, infrastructure upgrades. My nightly courtroom discipline sharpened into lobby-level negotiations, and I found myself outmaneuvering adversaries not with statutes so much as with leverage and influence.
Now on this revolving dining floor, I review fresh data with Aebon at the curved window: civilian disappearance rates are down by nearly 30%. Black market prices have stabilized. Underground surgeon bots are calibrated, open-access, andobstacles to civilian healthcare have diminished. Solar-charged street lamps line side alleys once haunted by predators. The transformation feels miraculous—and solid.
I turn to Aebon. His lips curl upward, approval warm as molten steel. “They’re calling it theGold Standard,” he murmurs. “Even some old colleagues listened to your keynote last week.”
I inhale, chest tightening. Yes. The wordkeynotesends shivers as I recall my long-ago courtroom orations. Now, I spoke before the Council of Magistrates, and they clapped. I told them the only thing more dangerous than criminal empires was unchecked law. They listened. They acted.
“They said… they said you’ve given this city more justice than we ever managed in decades,” Aebon adds, voice threadbare with pride.
I swallow. “Justice isn’t a cloak we wear—it’s an infrastructure we build.” I tap the data-pad showing plummeting crime heat maps. “These numbers—mortality, disappearances—they reflect structures, systems.”
He watches, not interrupting, letting me own the moment.
I point to the charts. “Red zones here were our old drop points. Now… they glow green. People trust the night again. Mothers walk without escorts. Street poets recite under streetlamps.”
He sighs, and he’s my anchor: “We still have challenges. Nar’Vosk’s splinter cell is roiling again. They tested our new protocols this morning.”
I nod, thinking of our responses. We dispatched neutral mediators instead of muscle, froze their unregistered shipments, rerouted funds. A discreet visit from Centauri advisors held them accountable—no violence, no hostage-taking, no public threats. They complied. The newsroom even called it “quiet governance.”
I want him to hear the pride in my words. “We did that.”
We ride the elevator down into the war room, once bristling with Reaper relics and primal power. Now, there’s room for laptops, monitors streaming live market data and legal petitions. I admire the juxtaposition—our empire is half ritual, half renaissance. We’ve fused the mythos of Reaper with the pragmatism of civil engineering.
Aebon leads me into a strategy session. I lift my chin. The lieutenants—Bruna, Haarvik, even Loran—sit beside me, eyes trackpad-silent but attentive. I start with metrics: weekly escort routes secured, percentage of illegal shipments reabsorbed, black-market price variance. When I mention “structured debt forgiveness for micro-entrepreneurs,” a team nods. Bruna leans forward, asking thoughtful questions. Haarvik raises logistical concerns. Ellex and Loran debate compliance. The room has become a think tank. No threats. No bullets. Just data and discipline.
After, when the group disperses, I stand alone with Aebon before the glowing runes. The night beyond shimmers. “We’re not just changing the Sect,” I whisper. “We’re showing a new way.”
He cups my cheek. “You’re rewriting centuries of blood and law.”
I smile, but fatigue and hope fight across my features. “It’s only the beginning.”
