The Capital did not mourn the fall of Caspian Vane; it threw a party.
Under the violet glow of the city's atmospheric shields, the Ministry of Finance was transformed into a fortress of glass and light. The Emergency Gala was a spectacle of forced normalcy—a sea of silk gowns, polished medals, and vintage champagne intended to mask the scent of the burning shipyard that still hung faintly in the air. Julian Thorne had invited the city's elite to witness his ascension, but more importantly, he had gathered them to prove that the "Iron Hand" was truly broken.
Two miles away, in a cramped, oil-stained garage on the edge of the industrial district, Caspian Vane stared into a cracked mirror. He didn't see a Commander. He saw a stranger.
His signature military buzz-cut was hidden beneath a dark, stylish wig, and his sharp, angular features had been softened by prosthetic dermal layers Linnea had applied with surgical precision. He wore the charcoal suit of a mid-level trade delegate, his broad shoulders hunched to disguise his combat-ready posture.
"The contact lenses will itch," Linnea warned, her voice muffled as she pulled a sleek, silver evening gown over her tactical bodysuit. The dress was a masterpiece of deception—spun from nanofiber that could deflect a low-caliber round, with hidden sheaths for throwing knives along the inner thigh. "But they'll bypass the biometric scanners at the gate. As far as the Ministry's AI is concerned, you are Adrian Volkov, a diplomat from the Southern Isles."
Caspian turned, his gaze sweeping over her. Linnea was breathtaking. Her hair was swept up in an elegant, chaotic crown, and her eyes—now a striking, artificial amber—glowed with a predatory light. The silver dress clung to her like liquid moonlight, hiding the lethal intent of the woman beneath.
"And you?" Caspian asked, his voice low.
"The diplomat's bored wife," she said, a sharp, cold smile touching her lips. "The one who disappears into the powder room and never comes back."
She handed him a small, silver cigarette case. Inside weren't cigarettes, but a series of localized EMP bursts and a master-key decrypter. "We have forty minutes from the moment we enter the ballroom. If the heartbeat sensor in the Vault doesn't detect the Commander's specific pulse by then, the entire building enters a hard lockdown. Julian will have us trapped in a steel box."
Caspian took the case, his fingers brushing hers. The heat between them was a stark contrast to the cold mission ahead. "Then we don't waste time dancing."
The entrance to the Ministry was a gauntlet of Enforcers and high-frequency scanners. Julian had spared no expense in security. As Caspian and Linnea stepped out of a nondescript black sedan, the air hummed with the sound of drones circling overhead like vultures.
Caspian felt the familiar surge of adrenaline—the "combat high" he had lived for. He reached out, offering his arm to Linnea. She took it, her touch steady, her presence an anchor. As they passed through the first scanner, a blue light swept over them.
SCANNING… VOLKOV, ADRIAN. CLEAR.
SCANNING… VOLKOV, ELARA. CLEAR.
They stepped into the ballroom, a cavernous space of white marble and gold leaf. A string quartet played a hauntingly familiar Federation anthem, the music competing with the shallow, nervous laughter of the guests. At the far end of the room, on a raised dais, Julian Thorne stood in conversation with the Minister of Finance. He looked like a king in waiting, his eyes constantly scanning the crowd.
"He's looking for us," Linnea whispered, her lips close to Caspian's ear as they moved toward the center of the floor. "He knows your gait, Caspian. Keep your strides short. Don't look at the guards."
"I see the access point," Caspian murmured, nodding toward a service door guarded by two Enforcers near the champagne fountain. "The elevator leads directly to the sub-levels. But the biometric pad is behind a glass partition."
"I'll handle the distraction," Linnea said. She stepped away from him, her movement fluid and eye-catching. She walked toward a group of high-ranking officers, her laughter ringing out—a bright, brittle sound that drew eyes from across the room.
As she charmed the officers, her hand moved with the speed of a strike. She "accidentally" bumped into a waiter, sending a tray of crystal flutes shattering onto the marble floor. In the ensuing chaos—the crash of glass, the startled shouts, the rush of servants—Linnea dropped a small, bead-like device into the cooling vent of the primary security console.
Pop.
A thick, white fog began to hiss from the vents—a non-toxic "fire suppressant" triggered by her device. The guests panicked, the refined atmosphere dissolving into a scramble for the exits.
"Security malfunction! Please proceed to the terrace!" an automated voice boomed.
In the confusion, Caspian moved. He slipped through the service door, his movements a blur of suppressed violence. He neutralized the two guards with a series of silent, precision strikes to the neck before they could even draw their batons.
Linnea appeared at his side seconds later, her silver dress torn at the hem to allow for a full range of motion. She slammed the cigarette case against the biometric pad.
"Thirty-eight minutes," she panted, the elevator doors hissing open.
The descent was a drop into the dark. As the elevator bypassed the public floors and plunged into the subterranean levels, the music faded, replaced by the deep, industrial throb of the Vault's cooling systems.
The doors opened to a hallway of reinforced steel and red laser grids. This was the heart of the Federation's greed.
"The server is at the end of the hall," Linnea said, pulling a pair of high-tech goggles from her garter. "But the floor is pressure-sensitive. If we don't sync our footsteps to the vibration of the cooling fans, the turrets in the ceiling will turn us into lace."
Caspian looked at the long, lethal stretch of the hallway. He felt the weight of the silver key around Linnea's neck and the pulse of the man he used to be. He reached for her hand, his grip crushing.
"Together," he said.
"Together," she echoed.
They stepped onto the floor, a perfectly synchronized dance of death in the dark. Every step was a gamble, every breath a calculation. Behind them, the elevator chime echoed—a signal that someone above had realized the "malfunction" was no accident.
Julian was coming. And this time, he wasn't bringing a report; he was bringing an army.