Finley slept badly after the trials.
Not from guilt. Not even from fear.
From absence.
Hellfire was a void in her mind—a shape without edges. Everything she knew came secondhand, filtered through Luke's warnings and half-burned intelligence fragments. Names without faces. Systems without maps. Power without a flag.
Rafferty noticed the tension before she spoke.
"You're coiled," he said one morning, studying her over a thin tablet screen.
"That's good. Means you're paying attention."
She didn't answer. Silence had become one of her currencies.
"I'm sending you somewhere," Rafferty continued. "Not to spy. Not to sabotage." A pause. "To belong."
That was the word that landed wrong.
"Hellsouth Corridor," he said. "Unofficial Hellfire territory. Logistics firms. Shell hiring fronts. You'll walk in looking hungry. Looking useful."
"And if they vet me?" Finley asked.
Rafferty smiled. "They will."
She was given a new identity. Burned clean. No Rafferty fingerprints. No Luke-accessible backdoors—at least none she could see. The burner phone she carried now was quieter than the last. No glitches. No ghosts.
That scared her more.
Hellfire's outer territory didn't look like an empire.
It looked like work.
Warehouses that hummed instead of roared. Offices that ran on time. People who didn't posture. They measured. Every look weighed something. Every question had a sub-question hiding beneath it.
Finley presented herself as logistics-adjacent. Risk management. A fixer with gaps in her résumé and scars that hinted she'd earned them.
They listened.
Too well.
On day two, someone asked about Rafferty.
She deflected.
On day three, someone asked why she really left her last employer.
She told the truth. A version of it.
On day four, she crossed the line without realizing it existed.
She mentioned Hellfire's name like it was a company.
The room changed temperature.
No one raised their voice. No one threatened her.
They simply stood.
Hands on her arms. Efficient. Practiced. No anger in it—just correction.
She was taken downstairs.
The beating wasn't theatrical.
That was the worst part.
No speeches. No accusations. Just pressure applied until pain became information. Until her body tried to confess things her mind didn't have.
"Who sent you?" a voice asked calmly.
"I came alone," Finley managed through blood.
"Everyone comes from somewhere."
She didn't scream. She didn't beg.
She counted.
When it was over, they left her on a concrete floor with a single instruction scrawled on a tablet beside her:
DO NOT NAME THE FIRE.
She staggered out hours later, ribs cracked, vision ringing, status undefined.
Not rejected.
Not accepted.
Marked.
Miles away, behind layers of air-gapped systems and false civilian routing, Luke watched her signal flatline.
Not dead.
Just silent.
He didn't try to reach her. He knew everything. He knew Rafferty would try to use her against Hellfire.
Instead, he opened a channel he had never used before.
A message routed through obsolete infrastructure. Legacy corporate audit paths. A name embedded so lightly it looked accidental.
To: T. Tan
Subject: An imbalance
Rafferty Rampanda is moving against Hellfire. Not disruption. Erasure.
He is sending assets blind. One is already inside the perimeter.
This is not a warning. It's a courtesy.
No signature.
No follow-up.
Luke burned the terminal and sat back, jaw tight.
He'd just lit a fuse he couldn't see. He can't shut off what he just started. All he needs is time. Time to step forward.
The message he sent immediately reached Mr Tan who didn't hesitate to open.
He read the message three times.
Once as data.
Once as a threat.
Once as a possibility.
Rafferty's name wasn't new to him—but the timing was wrong. Too aggressive. Too exposed. Someone was pushing him to act… or someone was trying to see who would react.
Tan didn't order a sweep.
He ordered a search.
"Find the voice," he said quietly. "Not the asset. Not Rafferty."
"The messenger?"
"Yes."
Tan's eyes narrowed, thoughtful rather than angry. "Anyone can throw a stone. I want the hand that chose me to notice."
"Michael, send this message to Mr Brine. Inform him everything. He needs to see this." He said as Michael walked out as soon as he was done talking.
Mr Brine on another side, was busy on checking his Cctv footages. He paused, considering another screen—footage from the lower levels. A woman leaving Hellfire space is injured but alive.
"Keep an eye on the infiltrator," He added.
"She didn't break. That's interesting. Hope she finds the courage to come back. Something is going wrong here." He said trying to reconnect with his mind.
Finley limped back into neutral territory before collapsing.
When consciousness returned, her secret burner vibrated once.
A single line from Luke. No encryption signature she recognised.
>You crossed a live wire. Stay breathing. I'm moving pieces.
For the first time since returning to Rafferty's world, Finley felt truly exposed.
Not watched.
Seen.
Hellfire hadn't burned her.
It had mesmerised her.
And somewhere between Rafferty's ambition and Luke's quiet interference, the fire had begun to trace its way back—not toward an enemy, but toward the one man clever enough to knock on its door without permission.
The debt of luck was coming due.
And this time, it wouldn't be paid in blood alone.