A knock on the connecting door pulls my attention. I open it to find Marissa transformed.
Gone is the exhausted operative in travel clothes. The woman standing before me looks like she stepped out of Berlin's high-end fetish scene, all leather and calculated seduction. Cerberus provided everything she'd need for deep infiltration—the dress is black, tight enough to be a second skin, with strategic cutouts that suggest more than they reveal.
Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, styled in waves that look effortless but probably took careful work. The crystal bracelets remain on her wrist, the only piece of Marissa Vale visible beneath the Nocturne persona.
"Will this work?" she asks, and there's something vulnerable beneath the confident presentation. Like she's asking if I can still see her beneath the performance.
"You look like you belong in Koval's world," I say, which is true but incomplete. What I don't say is that she's stunning, that the dress makes my mouth go dry, that watching her slip into this seductress role is already twisting something possessive in my gut.
She reads the unspoken anyway. "That's the point. Koval responds to power and sex, preferably combined. If I'm going to get close enough for a private meeting, I need to be exactly what his world values."
"And what's my role?" I keep my voice level, professional, ignoring the way my pulse has kicked up just from looking at her.
"The specialist I brought to negotiate security protocols." She steps into my room, movements deliberate and graceful in heels that add inches to her height. "You're ex-military, cold, efficient. Someone Koval will respect because you're dangerous but controlled. Someone who makes it clear I'm valuable enough to protect."
The way she says it makes something predatory shift behind my ribs. Valuable enough to protect. Like she's mine to guard. Like any threat to her is a threat to me.
I force the reaction down. "What do we know about Koval's operation at Kronos?"
She shifts into mission briefing mode, the transformation subtle but present. "Kronos is a BDSM club with legitimate front operations and very illegal back-room dealings. Koval uses it to conduct Iron Choir business—meetings with buyers, negotiations with rival organizations, recruitment of assets who respond to the power dynamics the club represents." Her fingers drift to the crystal bracelets, that unconscious gesture I'm learning to recognize. "He'll be there tonight, holding court in the VIP section. Getting his attention is easy. Getting a private meeting for intelligence verification is harder."
"And you're confident you can manage it?"
"I've managed contacts like him before." The admission carries weight. "Koval and I have worked in adjacent circles. He knows Nocturne's reputation—someone who delivers results and doesn't ask inconvenient questions about methods. But we've never met face-to-face."
Heat flares in my chest at the mention of history, even professional history. I shove it down, lock it away behind assessment and mission parameters. "Then we play it exactly as you described. I'm the dangerous specialist. You're the valuable asset. We get the meeting, we verify the Laurent intelligence, we extract."
She nods, but the way she’s looking at me tells me she's catching every micro-expression. "Archer, if this gets complicated—if Koval pushes boundaries or tests the relationship dynamic—you need to stay in your role as specialist. He's paranoid and violent. If he sees anything to make himsuspicious, he'll disappear and we’ll lose any hope of using him to get what we need."
"I know the stakes." My tone leaves no room for doubt. "Cover stays intact."
The look she gives me suggests she's not entirely convinced, but she doesn't push. "Then let's move. Koval keeps late hours, so we want to arrive when the club's active enough to blend but not so crowded we lose sight of him."
Berlin's underground is exactly as I remember it. The cab drops us at an unmarked entrance in an alley that reeks of rain and urban decay. A bouncer built like a tank checks credentials against a list, then waves us through to descending stairs that seem to go down forever.
Kronos reveals itself in layers. The entrance level is relatively tame, a bar and dance floor where Berlin's alternative crowd mingles with tourists seeking authentic underground experience. But we descend further, through security checkpoints and heavy doors, until we reach the level where real business happens.
The aesthetic is pure BDSM theatre. Exposed brick walls, industrial lighting, leather furniture arranged in intimate clusters. Private alcoves with curtains that suggest privacy without providing it. A central stage where demonstrations happen, though tonight it sits empty, waiting for later performances. Music throbs through speakers, bass-heavy and hypnotic, creating an atmosphere that's equal parts dangerous and seductive.
Marissa moves through the space like she owns it, all confidence and calculated sexuality. Men watch her pass. Women too. But she's focused, scanning the room with the same assessment I'm running, looking for Koval among the crowd that populates the VIP section.
I follow close enough to establish connection but with enough distance to play the role of protective specialist. My hand settles at the small of her back, deliberate and claiming. The touch is performance, part of our cover. But the heat of her skin through the strategic cutouts in the dress is anything but professional.
She leans back slightly, acknowledging my presence. "There," she murmurs, tilting her head toward an alcove where a man holds court surrounded by associates and beautiful people who might be companions or assets or both.
Dmitri Koval is exactly what the intelligence files suggested. Early forties, Russian features, expensive suit that doesn't hide the violence in his eyes. He's watching the room with the attention of someone who trusts no one and expects threats from every angle. Everyone in the alcove defers to him, movements careful, voices measured. Even from across the room, the threat is evident.
"He's seen us," Marissa says quietly. "Now we wait. Let him decide to approach."
The waiting is tactical calculation. If we approach directly, we look desperate. If we ignore him entirely, we look disrespectful. So we position ourselves at the bar, order drinks that are expensive enough to signal money but not so expensive that we're showing off, and let Koval's paranoia work in our favor.
It takes less time than I expected. One of Koval's associates approaches, a woman in leather and steel who looks like she could kill someone with her bare hands. "Koval wants to meet the new faces," she says in accented English. "He's curious about the beautiful woman and her dangerous companion."
Marissa's smile is all seduction and danger. "Tell Koval that Nocturne is flattered by his attention."
The woman's eyes widen slightly at the name. I see recognition there, maybe even respect. She returns to Koval,speaks quietly, and his attention locks onto Marissa with new intensity.
"He knows you," I murmur.
