Content Warning: This chapter contains discussions of violence, racial slurs, psychological manipulation, and threats of harm. Reader discretion advised.*
18:07 PM | Veil Society Gala, Ironcliff City
Adrian's gaze moved upward. Aveline stood taller than expected, the cream silk of her dress hugging her frame with the kind of precision that looked effortless but probably wasn't.
Her shoulders squared. Her head tilted slightly in that infuriatingly confident way.
He squinted, eyes flicking to the brick wall beside them—six-inch bricks stacked up the length of her silhouette. He started counting under his breath, thumb twitching as he traced the air. Six inches times... what, twelve bricks? Maybe thirteen? Roughly seventy-eight inches. Six-foot-six.
Damn. That made her three inches taller than him.
"How tall were you again?" he asked casually, though his voice carried a faint challenge.
"Six-foot-six," she replied, not missing a beat.
He grinned, small but satisfied.
"What?" she demanded, brow arching.
"Nothing. Just... I was right."
She gave him a look: half amusement, half incredulity. "Right about what?"
He shrugged. "Calculated it. Based on the bricks."
"You calculated my height?"
"Eyeballed, technically. Bricks are six inches each. You hit twelve and a half. Simple math."
Her lips curved into something warmer than her usual calculated precision, a genuine flicker of amusement breaking through the steel. "You're out of your damn mind."
"Probably," he muttered, fighting a smile.
Every movement she made was precise, rehearsed, as if she'd mapped out every gesture in advance. Then she leaned in for a side hug, and heat crawled up Adrian's neck before he could even process what was happening. She had him pinned in the pretense before he could react. He couldn't possibly get out now, not without looking like a fool.
Her scent hit him first: sharp and confusing. Gunpowder and metal, like the aftermath of a fired round, tangled with faint spice, sweat, and something floral and heady, jasmine, maybe. Arabian. Expensive. Dangerous. And definitely addictive.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he blurted.
Aveline only smirked, her hand settling against his waist with the kind of confidence that suggested she owned every inch of space around her. Her fingers were long, veins tracing beneath pale skin, faint tendons flexing with deceptive gentleness. Her nails were clean, cut short, the kind of hands that had seen both blood and silk.
"We're on a pretend date, remember, dumbass? Try to act like you've been in public before."
His throat tightened. "Yeah... whatever."
She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. "What are you, a teenager? Never had a girl hug you?"
He exhaled somewhere between a groan and a laugh. Never confessed, never looked weak, never blushed.And now?
He looked like a tomato.
A bloody tomato.
Great.
18:10 PM | Back Alley
They slipped away from the gala's main hall into a narrow alley, the air cooler here, the dim quiet more bearable than the gold-dripped decadence inside.
"We've got ten minutes before the auction starts," she said, voice low and even. "You and I need to talk strategy, or at least figure out how not to shoot each other mid-operation."
"So... like a first-date icebreaker?" he asked dryly.
"Sure. If your last first date involved potential homicide."
The alley smelled faintly of damp stone and something floral: roses, maybe, from the balconies above. Cobblestones clicked under their steps, the sound of their shoes echoing between the walls. Somewhere distant, music drifted, strings and champagne laughter, all wrong for what they were about to do.
A figure stepped out of the shadows—a boy, no older than seven. Dark hair, pale blue eyes that looked too old for his face. Clothes worn but not filthy.
"Sir... would you like to buy my sandwich, please?"
Adrian crouched automatically, already reaching for his wallet. "Here, kid—"
"Stop."
The word sliced the air like a blade. Aveline drew her pistol in one fluid motion, leveling it at the boy with the kind of calm that made Adrian's stomach drop.
"Now scurry off, you little piece of—"
BANG!
The bullet whizzed past the boy's ear, embedding itself into the brick behind him with a sharp crack. The kid froze, eyes wide, face drained of color.
Aveline smiled faintly, gun still raised. "Shame. I missed."
Adrian snapped upright, horror flooding through him. "Are you insane ? He's just a kid!"
She turned, eyes cold as winter glass, voice colder. "Even if it's a kid, you wouldn't know if that sandwich was laced with poison, would you?"
The boy's lip trembled. He bit Adrian's hand: reflexively, desperately,before bolting down the alley, disappearing into the dark like smoke.
Adrian groaned, clutching his hand. "You're insane."
"Maybe." She holstered the gun without a second glance. "But alive."
He wanted to argue, but her logic was solid. Of course it was. Everything she did even madness was calculated. He groaned internally.
Just follow her, idiot. Just... don't think too hard about it.
Aveline spun on her heel, jaw tight. "That little scene just wasted 5 minutes. Let's move."
And she strode back toward the gala without waiting for him to reply.
18:15 PM | Entrance Hallway
Golden sconces cast long shadows on marble floors. Champagne flutes sparkled in soft amber light as laughter drifted from every corner hollow, performative, dangerous.
Adrian adjusted his collar, feeling underdressed beside her. Aveline didn't seem to notice nor care.
A guard stepped forward, blocking their path with a hand raised. "Where are you trying to go?"
Aveline's fingers brushed the guard's shoulder, firm and commanding. Her gaze locked onto his, unflinching, unblinking. "He's with me. He's my date."
The man froze. His pupils dilated slightly. Then he lowered his gaze and bowed slightly, stepping aside without another word. "Apologies, ma'am."
Adrian blinked.
Terrifying. Brilliant. Completely unhinged.
And yet I'm still following her. Why the hell am I following her again?
18:20 PM | Gala Interior
Chandeliers hung like glass constellations, scattering light across the golden décor. The scent of roses and sandalwood mingled with wine and money. Every guest looked like a secret wrapped in silk, smiling too brightly, drinking too deeply.
Aveline's gaze swept the room—calculating, sharp. She noted exits, cameras, guards. Always one step ahead.
Adrian's thoughts drifted, unbidden.
Part Italian, huh... and here you are, betraying your own bloodline. La Sangre Nera would call that heresy.
The thought itched at the back of his mind, uncomfortable.
Unless she has a reason. Unless there's something bigger she's after.
He filed the thought away, just another loose thread in a tapestry he couldn't yet see the pattern of.
18:35 PM | Dinner Table Discussion
The mahogany gleamed beneath candlelight. Servants moved in near silence, plates arranged like an art piece.
Aveline leaned in, voice low and even. "There's a group called Voronola Region, North Ironcliff City. Russian and Italian roots. Rivals of La Sangre Nera. Old alliances, bad blood, politics."
She paused, gaze momentarily distant.
"Their leader.." Her voice dropped, almost reverent. "Blonde as winter light. Eyes like fractured crystal,blue, but cold. The kind that don't blink when they should."
Her fingers traced the stem of her champagne flute, slow and deliberate.
"She moves like a storm in a glass cage. Controlled violence. You see her coming, but you can't look away. She can command artillery with a whisper, runs half the Ironcliff armory under false contracts. Controlled chaos's her art form."
Adrian stared. She's describing a murderer like it's a goddamn sonnet.
"You sound almost... impressed," he said carefully.
Her lips curved yet it was not quite a smile. "Respect isn't admiration. It's survival. You don't survive Voronola territory without understanding how she thinks."
Fair point, but still creepy as hell.
He smirked. "Why are you in the C.R.I.M.E. division again? You should just write poetry about psychopaths."
Her head turned, slow and deliberate, eyes narrowing with deadly precision. That side-eye alone could kill a man.
"Shut up," she said smoothly, sipping her champagne.
18:55 PM | Main Hall
Dinner wound down. Aveline was mid-conversation, her accent clearly,subtly Russian. Laughter echoed. Then came the voice harsh, arrogant, venomous.
"Mongrels like this bring disgrace to the Canadian pureblood," a man sneered—
Cedric, sharp-faced and cruel. "They don't know a thing about being pure."
Aveline froze. Her lips curved into something that looked like a smile but wasn't.
The champagne glass in her hand cracked a soft, wet sound. Blood pooled down her wrist as shards dug into her palm, red glinting against ivory silk.
Adrian flinched. She didn't.
She rose, calm as a glacier, pulled a strip of gauze from her clutch, and began wrapping her hand. Her fingers trembled only slightly not from pain, but from restraint.
Beneath the shimmer of her dress, he caught glimpses of scars: pale lines, puckered tissue, old burns, bullet marks poorly concealed by fabric and shadow.
And here I was thinking I had it rough.
Her body was a map of survival. And right now, it was broadcasting one message: murder.
The man laughed again.Big mistake.
Aveline's smile softened into that quiet, psychopathic calm. The kind that didn't need words.
This idiot doesn't even realize he's poked a viper.
Moments later, Cedric excused himself to the washroom. She followed, completely soundless, deliberate, inevitable.
18:58 PM | Washroom
Cedric leaned over the sink, humming softly as he washed his hands. Mirrors reflected his own pale face, oblivious to the danger breathing down his neck. Then a whisper of heat brushed the back of his neckna breath, sharp and scented with gunpowder and spice.
He froze.
Aveline's shadow stretched across the tiles like a predator mid-hunt. Her eyes glinted under the fluorescent light, almost glowing wild but controlled. Cedric's spine pressed against the cool basin as she moved silently behind him, each step deliberate, inevitable.
Before he could turn, her knee snapped into his lower abdomen, nearing his crotch with surgical precision. The air whooshed out of his lungs. He gasped, arching backward, spine scraping the porcelain edge.
A knife appeared at his neck, the steel cold, slick with condensation from the humid washroom air. He felt the subtle tremor of her muscles as she balanced herself, deadly grace humming beneath her skin.
The scent of her perfume: gunpowder, spice, jasmine, was now mixed with the sharp tang of his own fear-sweat. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting her shadow across the tiles like a predator mid-hunt.
"Move, speak, or flinch," she whispered, breath warm against his ear, "and I won't act so kindly."
Cedric's eyes widened, reflection fractured in the mirror by terror. Her other hand pressed lightly, impossibly against his shoulder, holding him in place. Every motion was calculated, practiced, surgical.
She leaned closer, eyes narrowing. The faint glint of light off the blade traced the line of his throat like a lover's touch turned lethal.
"Say that again," she murmured, voice soft as silk over steel, "and it'll be the last thing you'll ever say."
He tried to speak, but only a strangled cough escaped. The knife pressed with subtle, terrifying intent, enough to remind him of its presence, not to kill yet.
Her lips curved in that terrifyingly calm smile. The world beyond the washroom vanished; only the scent of her gunpowder, spice, and faint florals filled the air. Her body hummed with contained power.
Outside, Adrian stood frozen just beyond the door, pulse hammering in his throat.
She could kill him in a heartbeat. And I'd watch. And I wouldn't even blink.
The realization didn't horrify him as much as it should have.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Then, almost imperceptibly, she eased the pressure. The knife pulled back slightly, but her gaze never wavered. Cedric sagged, trembling, realizing he had just survived her silent judgment.
Her knee released, and she stepped back, a ghost in motion, leaving Cedric pale and gasping. The mirror reflected nothing but her composed silhouette and the faint glimmer of scars along her arms, the hidden map of past battles she carried with effortless menace.
19:30 PM | Auction Hall
Throughout the night, Aveline and Adrian played their parts. Hands brushed, elbows touched, whispered exchanges crafted to look like affection. Stolen glances that almost felt too real.
Adrian's mind buzzed. She's everywhere. In control. My instincts scream at me to stay away, but I can't. Somehow I trust her calculated chaos more than I trust calm.
The auctioneer raised the gavel, voice booming across the hall.
"Lot one—Vx1.089 prototype access. Bidding begins at five hundred thousand."
Aveline's hand rested lightly on Adrian's knee beneath the table. To anyone watching, it looked affectionate. Possessive, even.
But her grip tightened—just slightly. A reminder. Stay in character. Don't fuck this up.
The gavel came down with a sharp, echoing
BANG!
The crowd hushed.
Aveline smiled.
The game had just begun.
Content Disclaimer:
The bathroom scene in this chapter is a fictional depiction created for dramatic and emotional effect. Please don't attempt to recreate or imitate anything portrayed here in real life it's meant to explore the characters' psyche and tension, not promote risky or unsafe behavior. Remember: Aveline is a trained, fictional character in a controlled narrative,not a real-world example to follow.
Stay safe, and enjoy the story responsibly.