"He said he had a plan!" I scream, twisting in my seat to look at her. The movement rips at my exhausted muscles, at the bruising on my arm where the needle was. "He always has a plan!"
"This was the plan," Nyx replies. She flicks a switch, banking the helicopter hard to the west, away from the city, away from the pyre. "The Omega Protocol. If the position is overrun, deny the asset to the enemy. Scorched earth."
Scorched earth.I stare at the receding glow. He burned it. He burned himself. To buy me time. To distract Thorne. To let the ghost slip away.
My hand goes to my ear. The bone-conduction piece. "Alaric?" I whisper. "Alaric, are you there?"
Silence. Not the rhythmic silence of a pause in music. Not the heavy silence of the forest. Static. White, empty, indifferent static. The connection is dead.
I slump back in the seat. The fight drains out of me, leaving a hollow space so vast it feels like it could swallow the world. I look down at my dress. The black velvet is ruined—stained with snow, mud, and splatters of hydraulic fluid from the landing gear. Thediamonds at my throat feel like a noose. I am the Queen of the Underworld, sitting on a throne of ash.
"Where are we going?" I ask. The words sound distant, like someone else is speaking them.
"The Deep Storage," Nyx says. "A Cold War-era bunker under the old rail yards. It’s the only place off the digital grid. No signals in or out."
"I don't care," I whisper. "Take me to hell for all I care."
Nyx glances at me. Her eyes, usually dead, flicker with something like respect. Or maybe pity. "He told me you were tough," she says. "He didn't tell me you were broken."
"I'm not broken," I say, closing my eyes against the tears that threaten to fall. "I'm empty. There's a difference."
I touch the bite mark on my palm. It throbs.Pain is information.It tells me I’m still here. And as long as I’m here, the music isn't over. It’s just changed keys. From Major to Minor. From Love to Requiem.
The bunker is a tomb of concrete and rusted steel.
We land in a subterranean loading bay, the helicopter descending through a massive sliding roof that closes with a thunderousclangthe moment we touch down. The air here is stale, smelling of diesel, wet concrete, and decades of silence. Nyx shuts down the engine. The rotors slow, the whine dying into a rhythmicwhoop-whoop-whoopbefore stopping.
"Out," she commands.
I unbuckle. My limbs feel heavy, leaden. The blood loss from the transfusion is catching up to me. I stumble as I climb out, my high heels skidding on the oil-stained floor. Nyx catches me. Sheis smaller than me, wiry and strong. She holds me up. "Can you walk?"
"I can walk," I snap, pulling away. "I’m not an invalid."
I straighten my spine. I smooth the ruined velvet dress. I walk. I walk past rows of crates, past old machinery covered in tarps. The lighting is sparse—yellow industrial cages hanging from the ceiling, casting long, swinging shadows.
We reach a heavy blast door. Nyx spins the wheel. It opens with a groan. Inside, it looks like a command center. Banks of monitors (currently dark). A cot in the corner. A table loaded with MREs and water. And a laptop. Sitting open on the metal desk. A red light blinks on the webcam.
"He left this for you," Nyx says, standing by the door. "I'll be outside. Secure the perimeter."
She leaves. The heavy door clicks shut. I am alone.
I stare at the laptop. I don't want to touch it. If I touch it, it becomes real. If I play the message, it means he’s really gone. It means this is his last will and testament. But Alaric didn't raise a coward.Show me the monster.
I walk to the desk. I sit in the metal chair. I hit the spacebar.
The screen flickers to life. A video file. Alaric. He is sitting in the penthouse. It is night. He is wearing the black shirt I saw him in, the one I cut open. His shoulder is bandaged. He looks pale, tired, but alive. This was recorded before we left for the Gala. While I was in the shower. While I was dying my hair.
"Elodie,"the recording begins. His voice is calm. Clinical. The voice of the Doctor."If you are watching this, then the Gala was a success. Thorne is exposed. And the Obsidian Tower has fallen."
He leans forward, resting his good elbow on the desk."It means I am dead. Or captured. But knowing me... I chose the fire."
I let out a sob, covering my mouth with my hand.You arrogant bastard.
"Do not grieve,"he commands from the screen."Grief is inefficient. Grief is a pause in the tempo, and we do not have time for pauses. Thorne is wounded, but the Syndicate is a hydra. Cut off one head, two more grow. They will come for you. They will come for the land."
He reaches off-screen and picks up a glass of whiskey. He swirls it."You are the Asset, Elodie. But you are no longer a passive asset. You are the Executor."
He holds up a key. A small, black USB drive."This drive contains everything. Not just the medical records. The accounts. The Cayman holdings. The blackmail files on every member of the Board. It contains the codes to the Swiss vaults where I keep the operational funds. Roughly two hundred million dollars."
