The system worked. Until recently.
But perhaps the flaw had always been there, waiting. The same flaw that turned chancellors into monsters and politicians into tyrants.
Power never corrupted all at once. It crept in through small permissions, tiny entitlements that expanded like cracks in a foundation.
A man bends one rule because he can. Then another, because no one stopped him the first time. Slowly, the rules cease to exist at all, rewritten by those who benefit most from their absence. It was how empires rotted from within. How democracies slid into fascism while giants convinced themselves they were exceptions to the societal decay below.
But rot didn’t always stem from the root. Many times, it spread from the top, where the giants wrote the rules that didn’t apply to them.
Jack turned from the fire. The irony was not lost on him as he sat high above the rest, deciding the punishments for those below.
His hand curled into a fist, the RA ring biting into his finger. He should have seen it coming.
The soft gurgle of draining water reached his ears, and Jack stilled. Soon, he’d have to face the consequences of his failures again.
He moved quickly to the narrow table beside the front door. The drawer slid open on silent runners. He placed his gun inside and pushed it closed.
The suite was chilled after the rain, so he adjusted the iron grate, leaving the hearth open. He crouched before the flames, staring as they licked hungrily at the fresh wood. Orange light played across the stone wall, casting shadows that shifted and danced like living things.
Minutes passed. The drain had long since fallen silent.
A soft knock shattered the stillness.
Jack rose and retrieved the key from the low table, his movements unhurried despite the tension coiling in his chest. He approached the door and pressed his palm flat against the cool wood, reaching for his phone.
He powered it back on and tapped the security app, pulling up the camera feed of the hallway outside his door.
A servant stood rigid, a silver tray balanced on gloved hands. And looming behind him, close enough to cast a shadow over the smaller man’s shoulders, Hunter Volkov glared at the door with murder in his eyes.
“Leave it and go,” Jack said, his voice carrying through the door.
Hunter stepped forward and glared up at the camera with a growl. “I am not playing games, comrade.” His accent thickened with his temper. “This is against rules and you know it. Do not make me break down this door.”
Jack pressed his palm flat against the wood. Hunter could do it—would do it, if provoked far enough. But that would only terrify Daisy more, and right now her fear mattered more than Hunter’s protocol.
She needed time. He would give it to her.
“Thorne,” the eldest and most dangerous Volkov growled impatiently.
Jack kept his voice level, unhurried. “You know me, Hunter. Have I ever put a tribute at risk?”
Silence stretched through the door, heavy with unspoken accusations.
A Russian curse whispered through the wood. “Nyet. The answer better be the same come dawn.”
Jack watched the camera feed as Hunter reluctantly waved the servant away. Silver clattered softly against the floor.
He glared up at the camera once more. “You make me regret this, comrade, and you will pay.” His heavy footfalls retreated down the hall, each step a grudging concession.
Jack waited until the camera showed an empty corridor before turning the key in the lock. He retrieved the silver tray and then locked the door again.
“You moved the key.”
He turned and stilled.
Daisy stood in the center of the room, her hair slicked back from her face, her body wrapped once more in the crimson bedding. Water still glistened on her bare shoulders, catching the firelight like scattered jewels.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
