The clothes felt different in motion.
Like every step had been pre-measured by a hand that wasn't mine.
I descended the short flight of stairs into the foyer — a wide, immaculate space framed by matte stone columns and a minimalist chandelier that scattered geometric shadows across polished stone.
A place designed for waiting.
A place where people stood until Sylus decided their existence mattered again.
22:26.
Early. Good. He'd expect that.
I positioned myself by the glass entryway, blazer buttoned, spine straight, arms loosely crossed.
Waiting.
The soft hum of the house shifted — footsteps, precise and even.
Sylus appeared at the top of the stairs.
Dark suit. No tie. Coat sharp enough to cut the air around him.
A man who didn't need decoration to command a room — or dismantle one.
His gaze swept over me once.
A calculation. A nod.
"Let's go."
He passed; I followed without thought, moving into orbit the way gravity intended.
Cool night air swept in as he opened the door — engines, faint horns, the pulse of nightlife beginning to bloom.
At the bottom of the steps waited a car that definitely wasn't Onychinus standard issue:
An Aston Martin DBS Superleggera.
Glossy black. Predatory lines.
A machine that murmured violence and old money instead of shouting wealth.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Because I liked cars.
I liked this car.
And I refused to give Sylus the satisfaction of noticing that.
If he did, he didn't show it.
The doors unlocked with a muted click. He went to his side; I went to mine. I slid into the seat, ignoring the small thrill lighting up my spine.
The engine purred to life — low, resonant, indecently smooth.
"Try not to enjoy the car too loudly," he murmured.
I turned to the window so he wouldn't see my pulse flutter like an idiot.
The drive was silent.
Good.
Silence let me keep control.
I anchored myself the only way I knew how before high-stakes situations:
Details.
Leather cool under my fingertips.
The faint vibration through the floor.
Seatbelt pressure calibrated across my ribs.
A scent of cedar, metal, and expense.
Not distraction.
Discipline.
The present was safer than all the futures waiting to go wrong.
Sylus drove like precision made human — one hand on the wheel, posture relaxed but exact. Every turn smooth. Every pace deliberate.
Of course he drove like this.
Out of the corner of my eye, a shift — his attention flicking toward me.
"When we arrive," he said, "wait for me to open your door."
No explanation needed.
Optics.
Positioning.
Control of the narrative before we even stepped inside.
"And when we walk in, you walk beside me."
Not behind.
Beside.
I nodded. "Understood."
Streetlights thinned. Buildings sharpened. Night pulled tight around us.
We approached an unmarked building guarded by a single valet — elegant, discreet, meant for people who played dangerous games behind thick walls.
Sylus parked.
Didn't move.
"When you walk in with me," he said quietly, "they will look at you first."
My breath hitched.
"Use that. Let them underestimate you. Let them give you the wrong role."
A beat.
"And when the moment shifts… make them regret it."
His door opened. Cold air rushed in.
I waited, exactly as instructed, until he rounded the car and opened mine.
We walked in side by side, steps synchronized without effort.
Inside, the lobby glowed with marble and warm light — understated power.
The elevator doors closed behind us. Silence gathered.
When they opened again, it wasn't to a hallway.
It was the room.
Dark wood. Amber lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city behind a single poker table set at the center like an altar.
Four men were already seated.
Two unmistakable:
The buyer — silver hair, straight-backed, calm as a blade sheathed in velvet authority.
The rival seller — older, heavy-set, confidence radiating from him like heat.
Men who didn't need to raise their voices to dominate a room.
Every head turned as Sylus and I stepped out.
Every sound died.
We crossed the space in matched stride. The air shifted to accommodate us.
The buyer rose first — respect, or strategy.
"Mr. Sylus," he greeted. "Thank you for joining us."
"Efficiency requires cooperation," Sylus replied.
The buyer's gaze moved to me — cataloguing, measuring, curious.
"And your second," he said. "A surprising choice."
"She is exactly who should be at this table," Sylus said.
Before the buyer could respond, the competing seller rose.
"Mr. Sylus," he drawled. "You actually came."
His gaze flicked to me —
—and instantly away.
Dismissed.
Decoration.
Something Sylus had brought along to look pretty in the chair beside him.
Perfect.
"You brought a second who won't slow you down, I hope?" he added.
"Why would I, Mr. Kovi?" Sylus said, voice like cold steel laid flat on velvet.
The buyer reclaimed the room. "Take your seats."
I took my place between Sylus and the buyer; Sylus pulled my chair out as part of the choreography. No courtesies. Just precision.
Cards were dealt.
I didn't fidget.
Didn't scan the room.
Didn't lower my gaze.
I picked a point behind whoever spoke and held it.
Eye contact only when earned.
And they noticed.
The game moved — chips tapping, cards sliding, tension thickening.
Beneath it all, something quieter layered itself over the table:
the soft thrum of systems idling, security feeds looping, signals talking to one another when they thought no one was listening.
I let it wash past me.
Didn't grab at it.
Just… listened.
Final round of bets.
Sylus rolled a chip between his fingers like he was calibrating the air.
"What if," he said lightly, "I want to raise the stakes?"
Kovi smiled — all teeth, no warmth.
"The key to playing cards is knowing when to quit."
"I prefer to put everything on the line."
Sylus flicked the chip into the pot.
Then pushed his entire stack forward.
"All in."
Something in the room tightened.
Not just the players —
the feeds stuttered half a beat, a camera reframed, a signal jumped lanes where it didn't need to.
Kovi's fingers twitched—
and under the table:
Click.
A weapon being readied.
My spine went cold.
Sylus didn't react.
Didn't blink.
He looked at me instead.
Not warning.
Not fear.
Curiosity.
"What about you, miss?" Kovi asked. "Not too late to fold."
The room leaned toward me —
waiting to see which way I'd tip it.
I smiled. Slow. Pleasant.
The signals steadied.
The pressure spiked where I wanted it to.
I pushed my small stack forward.
"I'll call."
A breath escaped Sylus — nearly a laugh.
"You're bold for a novice."
"Ignorance is bliss."
Kovi bristled. "Mr. Sylus's guest doesn't know the rules."
"Oh," Sylus murmured, "but she didn't break any. Did she?"
Then colder:
"And if you can't make up your mind, Mr. Kovi… someone else should play."
Silence stretched.
"…I'll call."
Cards hit the table.
One by one.
I placed mine last.
Straight flush.
Tension snapped like a string.
"Impressive," Sylus said — and the approval in his tone was a blade sheathed.
"Beginner's luck," I replied. "Thank you for going easy on me."
Kovi's jaw ticked. Venom gathered behind his eyes.
"Why bring a girl to meddle in our affairs?" he spat.
A shadow shifted behind me.
Kovi's bodyguard.
I didn't think. I moved.
I rose in one clean, explosive motion and drove my heel into the chair, kicking it backward with all my weight.
The legs slammed into his shins with a crack that sounded too sharp, too wet.
He buckled—one knee dipping, balance fracturing.
Good.
I pivoted into him, catching his wrist mid-reach.
His hand was almost on the gun.
Almost.
My other hand clamped around his elbow, fingers digging in hard enough to find tendon.
I dropped my weight and wrenched downward.
The joint nearly snapped.
His body slammed into the floor with a thud that sucked the sound out of the room.
He sucked in a breath to recover—
He never got it.
I was already on him, knee braced beside his ribs, my weight crushing air out of his lungs as he fumbled for the holster.
His panic made him sloppy; my adrenaline made me merciless.
Too slow.
I twisted his wrist against the floor until I felt the grind of bone against carpet, a warning I didn't let him finish hearing. Then—
Crack.
He screamed into the carpet.
I grabbed his collar and slammed his head back down. Once. Hard.
His eyes rolled, unfocused, but he was still stupid enough to reach with his left hand.
Desperation.
Predictable.
I brought my palm down in a brutal arc, striking him across the cheekbone. Bone gave under the impact—
a clean, awful snap that vibrated up my arm.
He choked on a wet sound.
Blood pooled at the corner of his mouth.
He twitched once.
The second strike took the rest out of him.
His body slackened beneath me, the fight dissolving into dead weight. For a heartbeat, the only sound in the room was the slow roll of a poker chip across felt.
I didn't pause.
I reached down, stripped the pistol from his holster, popped the magazine free with a practiced flick of my thumb, and let the bullets scatter across the velvet carpet like spilled jewels.
Then silence.
Heavy.
Absolute.
Electric.
I lifted my gaze.
Sylus was already watching me — elbow propped on the table, chin resting on his hand, fingers hiding a smile that wasn't surprise.
Just… satisfaction.
Like I had confirmed something he already believed.
I looked down again.
A packet of cigarettes had slipped from the guard's jacket. I plucked one free.
Then I stood.
Blood streaked across my blazer sleeve, dark and tacky.
I clicked my tongue.
"I hate blood."
I peeled the blazer off in a single fluid motion.
And the room changed.
Warm light hit my skin, and the ink rose into view like something waking up — black and vermillion waves carving up my arms, koi twisting through storm clouds, knives hidden in the negative space, each line cut with the deliberate violence of tebori.
What had been dismissed as decoration became myth.
A warning story written in flesh.
The shift was instant:
Decoration → threat.
Silence → gravity.
Dismissal → recalculation.
Kovi's face went rigid.
The buyer stared like he was seeing a knife unsheathe itself.
Their gazes followed the tattoos like they were trying to decode a language they didn't realize I spoke fluently.
I let a slow smile bloom — bright, warm, perfectly wrong for the moment.
"Anyone have a light?"
The buyer rose immediately, reverently, and lit my cigarette with a gold lighter.
I gave him a second of eye contact — a deliberate reward.
"Thank you."
Sylus rose behind me with surgical grace.
"Well," he said, calm and amused, "I forgot to mention—she's no ordinary girl."
I turned toward the elevator.
The deep V of the jumpsuit shifted, revealing the blindfolded dragon inked across my shoulder blades — wings unfurled, jaws closed, blindfold tied like a vow.
A symbol meant to be seen only when I decided.
Sylus stepped forward, reclaiming the room one last time.
"Mr. Halden," he said, tone smooth as lacquered steel, "a pleasure doing business."
The buyer—Halden—inclined his head once, composed but newly attentive. "Likewise, Mr. Sylus."
Kovi said nothing.
Perfect.
Sylus reached my side in a single stride.
We walked out as we had walked in — side by side, step for step.
His hand touched the small of my back, warm, steady, powerful.
At the elevator doors, I looked back once.
At the table full of men who had underestimated me.
I winked at Halden.
The doors slid shut.