Page 152 of Damsel in Disguise

And now I stand on my floors she cleaned of blood.

The silence presses differently now—less controlled.

There are no guards. No butlers or maids. Only automation allows me to pretend to live a simple yet sophisticated lifestyle.

Now, with Delilah gone, it’s just me and the machinery.

Subconsciously, I check my Dominion wrist watch. It stopped bugging me a while ago.

With a heavy sigh, I start preparing myself for the confrontation.

The biometric elevator descends in complete silence, lowering me deep beneath layers of reinforced steel and concrete.

Black stone walls rise around me, carved with the repeated symbol of Triarch Dominion. Thin silver circuitry pulses beneath ancient markings like veins carrying electricity through a corpse. Massive pillars stretch upward into darkness while low mechanical humming vibrates beneath the floor itself.

At the center of the chamber stands the circular, elevated transmission altar. It’s surrounded by shallow water, dark enough beneath the sporadic spotlights.

Usually, all three heads appear during such a summons.

Tonight, only one waits for me—the Crown.

He sits motionless upon the elevated throne beyond the water, face concealed beneath polished obsidian carved into a featureless expression.

Long black robes spill down the sides of the seat like liquid shadow, hiding every shape of his body.

No other Triarchs. No council member either.

Just him alone, waiting for me.

Something about that feels significantly worse. Still, I step onto the platform because I can’t ignore it.

The moment my feet cross the inner circle, the chamber seals shut behind me with a deafening metallic groan.

“You’re unusually late today,” he sounds strangely human with no distortion.

This is strange. For the first time, I’m hearing his voice.

“Delilah destabilized,” I reply evenly. “Assessment required more time than anticipated.”

“You could’ve brought her here.”

“I saw no value in disrupting an active developmental phase of a new Synthètes with a defective one.”

“You’ve become remarkably proficient at justifying deviations, Hertley.”

The words land harder than they should for being true. Yet my pulse remains steady anyway.

The Crown slowly turns around in the chair.

For the first time, I’m seeing the mask he’s wearing clearly.

A thin inverted triangle of silver detailing runs over the obsidian eye sockets down to where the mouth should be, dividing the mask with surgical symmetry.

“You appear… unusually disordered tonight.”

“I was already running late.”

The silence that follows grates on my nerves.