Lazarus grunts in affirmation. “It’s a nest. Rented by ghosts, guarded by AI drones posing as concierge bots. No judicialoversight. No Alliance flag. No warrant access. If we hit it, we’re breaking a dozen laws.”
“Just a dozen?” I murmur.
There’s a beat.
Then Lazarus says, dead serious, “It’s your call.”
Voltar glances at me.
I already know my answer.
“This is our war now,” I say.
No hesitation. No waver.
Just steel.
An hour later,I’m in front of the mirror.
And I’m not looking at myself—I’m looking at someone I don’t fully recognize.
Gone is the soft, shiny-haired woman in thigh-high boots and risky lipstick.
This woman wears matte-black armor molded to fit like a second skin. Not the kind of fashion-forward body plate that sayscosplay assassin. No—this isreal. Reinforced. Lethal. Heavy in the shoulders and light in the waist. Designed to move, not show off.
No heels. Just combat-grade mag boots.
I’ve never felt more like myself.
Voltar watches from the door. Arms crossed. Not saying a damn word.
I tug the chest plate tight. It clicks. My heart doesn’t race. It roars.
When I grab the weapons belt from the counter, he’s suddenly behind me. Not looming. Just… there. Big hands brushing mine as he helps guide the clips into place. Smooth, efficient.
His fingers graze my side. It’s electric.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.
I glance at him sideways. “I’m pissed off.”
His mouth quirks. “Thatisbeautiful.”
We’re silent again. Not the tense kind. The loaded kind.
Then I exhale, sharp. “How many guards?”
“Too many.”
“Turrets?”
“Auto-targeting and biometric scanners on all entries.”
“Windows?”
“Fake. Reinforced steel with glow panels.”
“Backup?”
