Page 29 of Damsel in Disguise

The response arrives in under sixty seconds.

Request acknowledged.

Council representatives are present at the Operations Desk.

Council representatives? That means only the founders are here. I lock the device and just as the elevator reaches the boardroom level.

Part of me wanted the entire Council to be included. They handle operations and recruitment while the head Triarchs oversee the entire operation.

The elevator silently opens at the edge of the observation deck. It flickers to life at my presence.

The glass wall darkens, reflective coating engaging, and three distorted silhouettes are already there, resolving in the surface.

As usual, they’re wearing masks—black porcelain, identical in form, each marked by a different color. Black, golden, and silver.

The Triarchs.

I know only two of them. Luca Halvorsen, The Veil, wearing the golden mask. He’s responsible for surveillance and complete erasure, ensuring that nothing remains where it shouldn’t.

And Victor Ashcombe, in the silver mask, is the Forge—the most controversial division. Allegedly responsible for experimental programs involving human modification, synthetic integration, and neurological restructuring.

The other, wearing the black mask… let’s just say he’s the Founder of the Triarch Dominion, the Crown.

The discretion doesn’t end there—they all use voice modulators to speak. It’s embedded in that stupid mask.

“Hertley,” Victor greets me first, “I was expecting you about iteration ninety-seven.”

I straighten slowly and walk into the room. “Yes, I have something to discuss—”

“Apologies for interrupting, but you initiated an unscheduled activation,” Luca cuts in. “Iteration ninety-seven was not approved for full emotional exposure.”

“No,” I confirm calmly. “It wasn’t.”

He tilts his head. “Then explain why the neural logs show an override routed through your authorization key.”

I turn now, meeting the darkened glass as though it were a mirror. “Someone else altered the conditioning parameters without clearance.”

Silence falls for a beat before I continue. “You ran an auxiliary protocol. Micro-stimulation of the limbic pathways. Gradual escalation. You were testing whether emotional saturation would stabilize attachment instead of degrading it.”

Victor retorts. “It was a controlled risk.”

“A theoretical one,” I correct. “Executed inside a closed system that was no longer closed.”

“You interfered with my Synthète,” there’s no accusation, but classification in my tone. “Without informing me. Without observing the escalation curve. Without accounting for divergence markers, I flagged three cycles ago.”

The Crown speaks up in his modulated voice. “You don’t own them, Hertley.”

The word lands more heavily than an accusation. Possession, in this place, is not sentimental—it’s procedural. Each Triarch owns their domain. Their data. As well as their failures.

Nonetheless, I allow a faint smile. “Ownership is irrelevant. Responsibility is not.”

“Your caution is becoming obstruction,” Victor says.

Another reason I like to call him the lapdog of the Crown.

“And your impatience is producing corpses,” I counter. “Emotion is not a variable you force. It’s one you structure.”

“We’re running out of time. The Council of Nine is pressing for viable deployment. Investors are getting restless.”