The scent of scorched metal bled through the feed before the image came into focus. Aldrin stood alone in the command room, twin rows of monitors humming quietly, dimly lighting his face as the city slumbered far below.
Warehouse 12-A. Outskirts. An off-the-record facility—one of theirs.
Gone.
The footage flickered with static. Sparks. Then a pulse of light—and fire erupted from the structure's east wing like it had been kissed by the sun.
Marek's voice crackled through the private commline. "You're looking at the fire again."
"It was meant to be a clean handoff," Aldrin said, fingers pressed together in front of his lips.
Marek sighed. "It was. Until someone else arrived."
The footage confirmed it—just before the blast, a blur passed the camera. Not one of theirs. Not even from the local syndicates. Whoever it was, they moved like shadow given shape. Purposeful. Predatory.
A mimic.
"I've seen that gait before," Aldrin muttered.
"A ghost?" Marek asked.
"No," Aldrin whispered. "Something worse. Something pretending to be one of mine."
The mimic had worn his face.
The recording slowed—frame by frame. In one frozen still, the intruder stood amid the flame, silhouetted against falling ash.
Aldrin's eyes narrowed.
They'd burned down a deal that had taken two years of delicate handoffs, false IDs, third-party logistics. All to unravel his supply to the Eastern Rim. This wasn't a random act. It was a declaration.
"You think this is tied to the girl?" Marek asked through the static.
"She's a spark, not a flame," Aldrin said. "This came from something deeper."
"You think it's her?"
Aldrin was silent.
Not Iris.
Her.
The Scarlett Queen.
No. This wasn't her style. She played slow. She didn't burn bridges; she outlived them.
"This... is something new," Aldrin said finally. "But it wants me looking in the wrong direction."
He stood, letting the footage play once more. A dance of destruction, elegant in its carnage.
"I want it found."
Marek didn't argue. "Already on it."
"And Marek?"
"Yeah?"
"Whoever wore my face... make sure when we find them, they remember exactly who I am."
Elsewhere...
Deep in the underground courts beneath the city, somewhere between the ink-drenched records and broken promises of old trade oaths, a figure traced a finger along a silver-plated map.
The mimic revenant had done its job. Sloppier than expected, but effective enough.
The flames had drawn his gaze.
Now it was time to scatter the pieces again.
A voice echoed from the shadows behind the mapkeeper.
"She'll move when he does. They always did mirror each other."
The figure didn't look up.
"Good," they said softly. "Let the Shadow's wake. Let them remember why the sky once burned."
Marek's expertise wasn't just in managing deals or strategic oversight. No, his real skill lay in something far more elemental: the execution. The hand that dealt with the messy, the unspoken, the parts of business too ugly to see. Aldrin knew this, and that's why he trusted Marek with his most difficult tasks.
Even as the data feed ended and the warehouse burned away in the digital ether, Marek was already moving.
He didn't waste time on doubt. He had no room for hesitation.
The city's underbelly was a maze, but Marek had built it with his own hands over years of silent power—every backdoor, every unmarked alley, every crooked smile. He had the contacts, the informants, the movers and shakers, but more than that, he had the willingness to push past anything that stood between Aldrin and his empire.
The call came through less than thirty minutes later.
A thin, shaky voice filled the line, one that had spoken more lies than truth in its lifetime.
Marek, it's done. I told you everything I could find, but... he's—he's moving fast. The mimic isn't just a ghost—there's something bigger behind him.
Marek's cold laugh echoed in the sterile environment of the secure office. "How cute. Now, what are we really talking about here?"
The voice hesitated, then stammered, "There's a chain of deals, all running parallel to yours. They're pulling at every thread. Not just your supply routes. There's... there's a whisper about Aldrin's other project. The one no one talks about."
Marek's posture stiffened. His fingers tapped the edge of his tablet. "You're telling me someone's moving on the foundation?"
"I... I think so. But you know who pulls the strings here. A ghost, a lady in white? She's—"
Before the informant could finish, a sharp click rang in the air as Marek ended the call. His instincts were too sharp to let the conversation linger.
Marek moved swiftly, his steps echoing against the walls of the room. A glance at the camera feeds confirmed no one would be interrupting him. Time was against them now.
A few hours later, Marek stood in the unlit backroom of a rundown bar, the kind you only found after passing through a dozen darkened alleyways, tucked into the forgotten corners of the city. He'd traded his suit for a tactical jacket—sleek, dark, fitted. His hand rested casually on the hilt of a gun holstered beneath the leather.
The man across from him shifted nervously. A low-level contact, someone who owed Aldrin a favor from long ago. One of those faces you don't remember, until you do.
"You know what I want," Marek said, his voice a low murmur, tinged with both authority and menace.
The contact nodded quickly, eyes darting around.
"I have the name you're looking for. The man who wore his face. The one who's been hunting your boss's deals." The man swallowed, his hands shaking. "But I can't give it to you for free. This is—this is bigger than any of us."
Marek leaned forward, his expression impassive. "You're not in a position to negotiate. Either you give me the name, or I walk."
The man stiffened, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Finally, he blurted, "It's a private group. They're called The Eclipse. They're not just freelancers—they've been contracted. The mimic is one of them. There's a whole network under the radar."
"The Eclipse?" Marek repeated, his voice low, testing the name.
"Yeah," the man continued, desperation growing. "They've been hired by someone bigger. Someone with enough money to go against Aldrin. It's personal for them. I don't know why, but the longer you wait, the more dangerous they become. You should've done something sooner, Marek. The game's already in play. They're already—"
Marek's hand shot out, grabbing the man by the collar, lifting him slightly off the ground.
"I'm not asking you to tell me why, I'm asking you to tell me who."
The man, now visibly sweating, choked out the last name. "Dimitrius Renfield. That's who's behind it."
The name landed like a bomb in the quiet of the room. Dimitrius Renfield. The kind of name you didn't say out loud unless you had a death wish. The patriarch of a blood-soaked empire, a shadow king with a penchant for sabotage.
An old rival of the queen.
"Good," Marek said, letting the man slump back down, his grip still firm on the collar. "Now you can die happy."
The body hit the ground with a dull thud, lifeless. Marek stood over it, his face stone-cold. No remorse. No hesitation. His mind was already elsewhere. His next move was clear, and every second spent in this filthy backroom was one Aldrin didn't deserve.
But there was no time to explain it to anyone else. The empire needed him. Aldrin needed him.
Marek's fingers clicked against his phone as he dialed. The line rang once, twice.
It was Aldrin.
"He's out of the game," Marek said before Aldrin could speak. "And I've got a name. It's Renfield. We've got someone poking around in the dark."
There was silence on the other end, then Aldrin's voice, quiet but resonant.
"Good. Make sure you burn his house down before we leave."
"Understood," Marek replied.
As the call ended, Marek stood alone in the dimly lit bar, a quiet determination in his chest. The flame had ignited. The empire was bleeding, but it could still be saved—if they struck fast enough.
But first... they needed to make the other side feel the burn.
The phone call ended with a soft click, but the silence that followed felt like a heavy weight settling over Aldrin. He stood there in the dimly lit office, the skyline of the city before him now a blur, its lights twinkling like distant stars that had lost their way. His fingers tightened around the arm of his chair, the smooth surface beneath his touch offering no comfort. There was no escape from this.
Renfield.
Dimitrius Renfield. The name rolled around in Aldrin's mind like a stone that wouldn't settle. The patriarch of an empire in shadows, someone who'd made his fortune in ways that could never be counted among the legal books. A king of crime—ruthless, calculating, and utterly without mercy. The sort of man who thought power meant destruction.
But it wasn't just Renfield's past that chilled Aldrin. It was the fact that someone with Renfield's reach had turned their eyes on him, on his empire, on everything Aldrin had worked so damn hard to build. No one came after Aldrin without consequence.
His jaw clenched as he turned away from the window. The weight of his crown—it wasn't just the title. It was the burden. Every decision, every move, every sacrifice that had led him here.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. The empire was built from the ground up, brick by brick, forged with blood, sweat, and the silence of those who'd fallen in its wake. Aldrin hadn't risen to the top just to watch it crumble.
The door to his office opened without a sound.
"I don't like the look on your face," Marek said, stepping into the room. His dark eyes were unreadable, his voice calm despite the tension thick in the air. There was no need for pleasantries between them. They both knew what this was.
"Renfield," Aldrin said, his voice low. The name tasted bitter.
Marek's eyes narrowed, the edges of his lips twitching into something akin to a smirk. "You don't need to say it. I already know. He's more than just a shadow. The Mimic's not a coincidence. The Eclipse has been moving in silence, gathering strength."
Aldrin exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he stared at the monitors on his desk. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he didn't touch it. Not yet. He wasn't ready to dive into the digital labyrinth. Not until he could process the bigger picture.
"We need to move faster," Aldrin finally said. "We can't let them get too close. This needs to be dealt with now, before they think we're weak."
Marek leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, considering Aldrin's words. "It's already out there. The Mimic wasn't the only player. There's a network behind it. The Eclipse isn't just a name, Aldrin. They're a faction. They've been getting close to you for a while now. Close enough to make a move, close enough to try and unseat you."
"Then we give them a reason to fear us," Aldrin said, his voice cold, steel threading through the words. "I want Renfield's house burned to the ground. I don't care who he's allied with, or how many of his people are on the streets. It ends now. Marek, you go to ground. I want to know everything. Every asset, every connection, every one of his people who even thinks of stepping out of line. We make it clear this empire isn't something they can play with."
Marek's expression shifted, a trace of respect in his gaze. "Understood. I'll start with his people on the street and move inward. But this isn't just about Renfield. It's about whoever's working with him."
Aldrin's eyes darkened, the weight of the decision heavy in his chest. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, and they weren't the pieces he'd expected. Renfield was just one part of the puzzle. The Eclipse was the catalyst, but the real danger lay in the shadows, in the hidden hands that controlled things from behind the veil.
"I know," Aldrin said, his voice low and measured. "But it's time to make them regret thinking they could get close. I didn't fight this hard to hand it over."
He turned toward the window again, his reflection staring back at him in the glass. The empire he had built wasn't just a collection of power, wealth, and influence. It was a testament to everything he had sacrificed, every wrong he had righted, and every promise he had made to those who followed him.
Aldrin knew this fight was just beginning. And he would see it through to the end—no matter the cost.
Marek stepped forward, placing a hand on Aldrin's shoulder. "I'll take care of it. You focus on keeping things steady. You've got more than just a crown to protect now."
The words hung in the air, unspoken, but understood. It wasn't just about the empire anymore. It was about something far more personal. Something far more dangerous.
As Marek left the room to begin his work, Aldrin stood alone in the dim glow of his office, his mind racing. He had spent so long building this empire, cultivating it from nothing, and now there was someone—no, something—that threatened to undo it all. The Eclipse wasn't a mere threat. It was a storm on the horizon, and Aldrin knew that when the storm came, it wouldn't just be the empire that was at risk. It would be his legacy.