The plan was as disgusting as the organization they were trying to dismantle. To get into the Bank of the Eternal Sun, they couldn't just blow the doors; the security was biometric, tied to the heartbeats of the "Holy" council. They needed a trojan horse.
"They want the Architect's daughter," Dante said, his voice like grinding stones as he looked at Elara in the dim light of the bunker. "So, we give her to them. But we give them the version they expect—a broken, submissive asset."
Elara looked at her reflection in a cracked mirror. To play the part, she had to shed every remaining layer of her former self. Dante had sourced a "cleansing" outfit from a black-market contact—a gown of translucent white silk that left nothing to the imagination. It was designed by The Circle for their high-end auctions. The fabric was so thin it felt like a second skin, clinging to the curves of her hips and the heavy, swaying weight of her breasts.
As she moved, the lack of support caused her breasts to jiggle and bounce with every step, the dark circles of her nipples clearly visible through the gauzy material. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and dangerously erotic.
"You look like a sacrifice," Dante whispered, stepping behind her. His hands, rough and calloused, slid over her bare shoulders, his thumbs raking over the sensitive skin of her collarbone. He watched her in the mirror, his gaze dark with a mixture of hunger and protective fury. "The guards at the service entrance are Stage 2 scum—perverts who were kicked out of the military or the police for being too brutal. They'll be looking at your body, not your hands."
"And while they're looking?" Elara asked, her voice trembling.
"While they're distracted by the 'holy asset' I'm delivering, I'll be the one in the shadows. I'll be the ghost in the machine."
The bank was a monolith of white marble and gold leaf in the center of the financial district. Outwardly, it was a pillar of philanthropy; inwardly, it was a fortress of sin.
Dante, dressed as a high-ranking "Holy" courier in a white hooded robe, led Elara through the rain-slicked back alley to the private entrance. He held a thick iron chain that was looped loosely around Elara's wrists—not enough to hurt, but enough to sell the image of a captive.
They reached the heavy steel doors. Two guards stood there, their eyes immediately landing on Elara. They were exactly as Dante described—thick-necked men with predatory grins and eyes that didn't just look; they feasted.
"New delivery for the Vault," Dante said, his voice muffled by the hood.
The taller guard, a man with a jagged scar across his lip, stepped forward. He didn't look at Dante's credentials. He looked at Elara's chest. As she shivered in the cold night air, her breasts heaved, the soft mounds jiggling beneath the white silk.
"The Architect's brat," the guard rasped, his hand reaching out to touch the curve of her breast. "I heard she was a prize. The Zenith said we could 'inspect' the merchandise before it goes below."
Elara felt a wave of nausea, her pussy throbbing with a terrified, frantic heat. She remembered Dante's instructions: Don't pull away. Make them want you.
She forced herself to stay still as the guard's rough fingers pinched her nipple through the silk. She let out a soft, staged whimper, her head falling back to expose the line of her throat.
"She's a bit jumpy, isn't she?" the second guard laughed, stepping closer to run a hand over her hip. "I like them jumpy. Makes the 'cleansing' more fun."
While the guards were lost in their disgusting display of entitlement, their hands busy exploring the curves of Elara's body, Dante moved.
It happened in a blur of white silk and cold steel.
Dante's hands came out from his sleeves, a garrote wire in one and a silenced pistol in the other. Before the first guard could even scream, the wire was around his throat, choking the life out of his perverted laughter. Thwip. Thwip. Two rounds caught the second guard in the chest, dropping him instantly.
Dante didn't let the first guard fall; he eased him to the ground, his eyes burning with a primal rage as he looked at the red marks the man had left on Elara's breast.
"If we weren't on a clock," Dante hissed, "I'd spend an hour stripping the skin off him for touching you."
He grabbed the guard's keycard and pulled Elara inside, the heavy doors hissing shut behind them. They were in the service corridor—the "Foundation" her father had spoken of.
"The vault is three levels down," Elara whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard it made her breasts jiggle under the thin gown. "The gas lines... they run parallel to the structural pillars. If we override the pressure, the pillars will buckle under the weight of the marble above."
They moved through the corridors, dodging security cameras that Dante disabled with a handheld jammer. The deeper they went, the more "disgusting" the reality of the bank became. They passed rooms with glass walls where "Assets" were being processed like currency, their identities erased by the "Holy" bureaucrats.
They reached the final door—the entrance to the Central Vault.
"This is it," Elara said, her hand hovering over the pressure plate. "Once I open this, the Zenith will know. We'll have five minutes before the Enforcers arrive."
Dante checked his weapon and looked at her. He reached out, his hand cupping the nape of her neck, pulling her into a hard, desperate kiss. "Five minutes is all I need to set the charges. You focus on the gas. I'll focus on the blood."
As the door slid open, revealing a room filled with gold bars and digital ledgers of human suffering, a voice echoed from the intercom.
"The Little Bird has finally come home to her cage."
The lights in the vault turned blood-red.