Rain streaked across the Virelia skyline, turning neon lights into smeared veins of red, blue, and gold. Above the city, in a skyscraper that pierced the clouds, the Obsidian House loomed like a predator—silent, patient, waiting for the wrong move.
Elaris stepped out of the lift. The floor beneath her heels glinted like liquid black metal. Her braid was tight, jacket armored subtly beneath tactical layers. Every step echoed precision. She wasn't here to impress anyone. She was here to win.
At the far end of the table, Kael leaned casually, almost bored. But the steel in his eyes betrayed him—sharp, calculating, warning her silently: stay sharp.
The room smelled of ozone, polished metal, and faint leather. Holographic projections hovered above the obsidian table—charts, numbers, maps, alive with shifting data. The predator was ready.
The door slid open, smooth as silk, and a man entered. Tall, mid-forties, the kind of presence that made air itself obey him. Confidence carved into his features. He smiled—warm, but with the weight of someone who could buy life and sell it back twice over.
"Ah… the prodigies of Virelia," he said, voice smooth, dangerous. "I've been looking forward to this."
Elaris felt the subtle gauge of her pulse—three seconds, maximum scrutiny. He measured strength, hesitation, risk. Kael's gaze flickered toward her, almost imperceptibly. Don't bite, his eyes warned.
"Your initiative is… fascinating," the man continued, projecting praise like a shield. But his questions cut sharper than knives disguised in silk.
"How many assets do you control outside Sector 5?""How many of your people would die if this went wrong?"
Elaris's eyes narrowed. Every word was a trap. A test. She didn't flinch. Not yet.
Kael leaned closer, voice low, a whisper meant only for her ears."He's fishing. Don't bite."
She passed a datapad to him. Their fingers brushed for the briefest moment—a spark beneath cold light. Neither looked up, but both felt it.
The predator's gaze followed, calculating, silent. A holo-file slid onto the table. The projection flickered: a surveillance image.
Her brother. Alive.
Elaris froze. Just a fraction of a second—but enough. He saw it.
"Family is… a delicate investment, Miss Veyra," the investor said, voice casual, almost amused. "Handle it well, and you get returns. Mishandle it, and—" He snapped a thin stem between his fingers.
The weight of choice pressed down like iron. Accept the mission—risk death in the Crimson Coast. Refuse—lose the only lead on her brother. Her chest tightened.
Kael's jaw tensed. The Crimson Coast wasn't a city. It was a nest of hornets, and he knew it. "We play it my way," he said, soft but certain. "Or we don't play at all."
The investor stood, adjusting cufflinks like a king concluding a decree. "Virelia isn't the only city where wings burn. See you in the Crimson Coast… if you survive the week."
The door shut. Silence swallowed the room. Rain hissed against the glass. Neon reflected in fractured shards across the floor. Elaris's reflection stared back at her, fractured, determined, afraid, calculating.
Kael stepped closer. Shadow merging with shadow. "Whatever this game is," he murmured, "we play it together—or not at all."
Elaris didn't answer. But the fire in her eyes said everything. The choice wasn't just about survival. It was about control, trust, and the cost of wings burned too early.
And somewhere high above, the storm swirled. Outside, Virelia waited. Alive. Dangerous. Unforgiving.
Because in this city, power wasn't given—it was taken. And Elaris Veyra was about to learn just how deep the predator's trap went.
Brother alive. Mission deadly. Choices lethal. Who survives the week?