— December 21, 2008, Present —
Arthur leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "So what's your current status? Last I heard, you controlled most of Western Europe."
"I do." Ariadne's voice carried quiet satisfaction, the kind earned through blood and careful planning. "The UK, France, Germany, Spain, Italy… large chunks of Eastern Europe. Major cities, key trade lines, the networks that actually matter—they answer to me."
Arthur raised a brow. "All of it?"
"Not entirely." She never sugar-coated things; it wasn't her style. "There are holdouts. A few independents too stubborn or too insignificant to care about, regions too chaotic to bother stabilizing. But the organized underworld? The parts that generate real power and wealth?" A pause. "Mine."
Arthur exhaled softly, half impressed, half contemplative.
"Eight years," he murmured. "You built an empire in eight years."
"Nine, if you want to be precise." A hint of amusement colored her tone before it softened. "And I can't take all the credit. Not for the speed, or the efficiency. I wouldn't have pulled any of this off without Melina."
The name triggered memories. Arthur's mind drifted back to that frozen night in Belarus, when he had changed many fates for the better.
— Flashback: Spring 2004, Belarus —
The Red Room facility was a monument to Soviet paranoia—concrete bunkers buried beneath frozen earth, connected by tunnels that went deeper than any map would ever show.
No sleek aerial fortress yet. That innovation came later, after Dreykov learned the hard way that ground assaults were still very much possible.
Arthur had come here for two reasons. First, to give Ariadne skilled allies, the kind who would accelerate her future grip over Europe's underworld. Second, to save the souls trapped in one of the world's cruelest programs.
"I'm excited," Arthur announced as they approached the squat concrete entrance. "Haven't had a proper workout in months."
Ariadne rolled her eyes. "Everything's a game to you."
"Not everything. Just the parts where I get to dismantle an evil institution."
She rolled her eyes, but a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as they moved through knee-deep snow. Two predators slipping toward their prey.
The first Widow patrol never stood a chance.
Ariadne's chi blazed as she struck, not the raw burst of power, but controlled applications. A strike to the temple, unconsciousness without permanent damage.
Three more Widows came next. Ariadne dropped them in under six seconds.
"You've improved," Arthur remarked, dealing with a cluster of non-Widow guards behind them. He barely gave them more attention than swatting flies.
"I practice," she said simply, already gliding toward the next checkpoint.
Inside, the facility became a showcase of her growth. She moved like flowing water—no wasted motion, no unnecessary force. Against the guards, she was merciless. Against the Widows, she was gentle in a brutal world—incapacitating without crippling.
Arthur followed but stayed back. This needed to be her victory.
When they reached the main training hall, fifteen young girls stood in tight formation—some barely ten, others mid-teens. Two stood out: a redhead with sharp, wary eyes, and a smaller blonde who watched like she was memorizing every detail.
Arthur recognized them, Natasha and Yelena, but he just took and then flicked his hand. A sleeping spell washed over the room like a soft breeze; every girl crumpled harmlessly to the mat.
Ariadne exhaled in relief. "Thank you. I wouldn't have fought them—even to knock them out."
"Didn't plan to let you."
Ariadne strode toward Dreykov's office while Arthur peeled away to secure the side passages and clean up the stray guards. His steps were silent, but he stayed within earshot—curious, watchful, letting her lead.
The office door burst open under Ariadne's kick.
Inside, Dreykov stood behind his mahogany desk, pistol already drawn. Beside him, Melina Vostokoff held a combat stance—ready, protective.
"Who sent you?" Dreykov demanded, his accent thick with fear disguised as anger. "The Americans? Who dares attack the Red Room?"
"No one sent me," Ariadne said, stepping into the room. Her voice was quiet, almost gentle. "I came because everything you stand for disgusts me."
"You don't even know what we represent!" Dreykov's hand shook slightly. "We create perfect agents! Warriors who protect the motherland!"
"You torture children into weapons," Ariadne replied, unblinking. "You steal their choices. Their futures."
"That is how all great agents are made!" Dreykov insisted. "Through discipline! Through sacrifice! The weak are made strong!"
"The innocent become slaves," she said, chi flickering faintly around her fingers. "And it ends today."
Dreykov sneered. "Sentimental nonsense. Melina—kill her."
Melina obeyed instantly.
Ariadne shot towards Dreykov, but Melina moved to intercept, protecting her leader with the desperation of someone who believed loyalty was survival.
The two women clashed in a blur of motion—Melina fast, precise, deadly. Ariadne faster. Her dragon-touched chi sharpened her every strike.
But Ariadne held back. Arthur could see it from the doorway—she was pulling punches, trying to disable rather than destroy.
"You don't have to protect him," Ariadne said through the rhythm of impacts, deflecting a knife thrust. "You know what he does to them."
"He gives them purpose!" Melina shot back, spinning into a kick Ariadne narrowly parried.
"He gives them chains," Ariadne countered, catching Melina's wrist with controlled precision. "You know the truth."
"I know survival," Melina hissed, wrenching free and retreating toward Dreykov. "The world is cruel. He prepares them for it."
"You trained those girls," Ariadne said, stepping aside as Melina unleashed a flurry of jabs. "Do you really believe they're meant to kill on command their whole lives?"
"They serve the cause," Melina snapped.
"And when they don't want to anymore?" Ariadne pressed. "Will you kill them?"
From behind his desk, Dreykov laughed.
"Worry about yourself, little girl," he taunted. "Melina is loyal. She'd die before betraying me."
Ariadne's restraint snapped.
That laugh - that smug, satisfied laugh about loyalty from a woman he'd broken - ignited something in Ariadne.
Her chi erupted, golden threads blazing through the white fire.
A heartbeat later, she moved.
One moment she was blocking Melina's strike. The next she had twisted away, shot across the room, and closed the distance to Dreykov in less time than it took him to blink.
He tried to raise his gun.
Too late.
Ariadne seized his wrist, twisted it backward with inhuman speed and strength, and forced his own finger onto the trigger. The barrel, now pointed upward at a cruel angle, pressed against the underside of his own jaw.
His eyes widened.
"No—"
Click.
The shot was deafening in the enclosed room.
Blood and bone exploded across the wall behind him. Dreykov collapsed, dead by his own hand, in a way.
Silence.
"He's dead," Ariadne said simply.
She turned to Melina—frozen, trembling, torn between horror and relief.
"Now," Ariadne said softly, "we can have a real conversation."