Location: Fenwick District — Ashwick Corridors — Andreas Ferrano's Private Suite — Day
The building rose from the chaos of the Ashwick Corridors like a monument to silence.
It was not the tallest structure in the district. Not the newest. Not the most decorated. But it was the most private. Its facade was dark stone, polished to a dull sheen, its windows tinted so heavily that even the afternoon sun could not penetrate. The entrance was a single steel door, unmarked, with a keypad that changed its code every hour.
Inside, the elevator was paneled in dark wood. The carpet was thick, burgundy, muffling footsteps. The walls were hung with paintings—landscapes, mostly, mountains and rivers and skies that had never existed.
The top floor belonged to Andreas Ferrano.
His suite was at the end of the hall. Double doors, oak, with brass handles that had been polished by a thousand nervous palms. Beyond them, a living room larger than most apartments. A kitchen that had never been used. A bedroom that saw less sleep than it should.
Andreas sat at his desk.
The desk was massive—dark wood, carved with patterns that might have been vines or the veins of some ancient creature. Papers covered its surface. Reports. Ledgers. Photographs of faces he didn't recognize.
He wasn't reading any of them.
His fingers pressed against his temples. His elbows rested on the desk. His eyes were open, but they weren't looking at the papers. They were looking at something else. Something that wasn't there.
Zhang Han, he thought. The way he moved. The way his suit glowed. The lines of light tracing across his body like veins. Like he wasn't wearing armor. Like he was the armor.
And Madam Lynne. The way she struck. The way the air around her seemed to tear.
Are they even human?
His thumb moved to his mouth. His nail pressed against his teeth.
Zhang Han's aethernova suit. What if it's not a suit? What if it's his body? What if he's some kind of synthetic—a robot sent here to replace the top players in the country? Like those secret invasion movies where the aliens wear human skin.
And Madam Lynne. The opposite. A rival alien. Predator and prey. Cyborg and monster. Both of them pretending to be human while the rest of us are just puppets in their game.
His teeth bit down on his nail.
A piece of it broke off. He didn't notice.
His foot tapped against the floor—tap, tap, tap—a rhythm with no beginning and no end. His shoulders were hunched. His spine curved. His whole body seemed to be folding in on itself, trying to become smaller, trying to become invisible.
If they can do that—if they can fight like that—what chance do any of us have?
What chance do I have?
He shivered.
Not from cold. From something else.
---
Two figures sat on the couch across the room.
Alma was a woman in her forties, her dark hair braided and tied with a red ribbon. Her dress was simple—black, modest, the kind of dress a wealthy widow might wear to a funeral. Her hands were folded in her lap. Her expression was the face of someone who had seen too much and was tired of pretending she hadn't.
Arturo sat beside her. His hair was short, graying at the temples. His suit was expensive—charcoal gray, tailored to hide the paunch that had begun to form around his midsection. His fingers were interlaced. His thumbs tapped against each other.
They were talking.
Andreas didn't hear them.
"Have you heard the whispers?" Alma asked.
"Which ones?"
"The ones about Frederick Morrecca. About his accomplice."
Arturo's thumbs stopped tapping.
"The old man is dead. Whatever accomplice he had is probably dead too. Or in hiding."
"That's not what they're saying in the corridors."
"What are they saying?"
Alma leaned forward.
"They're saying Frederick wasn't working alone. That someone else was funding him. Someone with deep pockets. Someone who wanted to destabilize the other turf factions."
"That's insane. The other factions don't have the resources. They don't have the—"
"They're saying it couldn't be the other factions. Because all of them have questionable histories. Dirty paths. Skeletons that don't stay buried."
Arturo's jaw tightened.
"That's racist," he said.
"What?"
"You heard me. That's racist. Who doesn't have dirt in this business? No one in this entire operation is a saint. Not me. Not you. Not Andreas."
He gestured at their boss, still sitting at his desk, still biting his nail, still staring at nothing.
"Calling it bullshit is being generous. It's selective outrage. They want a scapegoat, so they're inventing one."
Alma's expression didn't change.
"She even said perhaps Andreas was the accomplice."
Arturo's hand slammed against the table.
The sound was loud—a crack that echoed off the walls.
Alma flinched. Her eyes darted to Andreas, then back to Arturo.
Andreas didn't move.
His foot kept tapping. His teeth kept biting. His eyes kept staring.
"Where did you hear that?" Arturo's voice was low.
"From the Russian fugitives. The ones who run the escort services near the Long Walk."
"And you believe them?"
"I don't know what to believe anymore."
Arturo wiped his forehead.
Sweat. His hand came away wet.
"Boss," he said.
He snapped his fingers.
"Boss."
Another snap.
"Boss!"
Andreas blinked.
His head turned. His eyes found Arturo's.
"What?"
"Are you alright? You've been staring at that wall for an hour."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're—"
"I said I'm fine."
Andreas turned back to the wall.
His foot started tapping again.
---
The door to the suite was oak. Heavy. Polished. Its brass handle was cool beneath Ba's palm—the only cool thing about his body right now. His other hand was still in the grip of the brat. The one who called himself D9. The one who had crushed his finger, his wrist, his dignity.
Ba's face was pale. His eyes were wet. His breath came in short, ragged gasps.
"Please," he whispered. "Please, just let me knock. I'll knock. I'll tell them you're here. Just let go."
Elijah's grip tightened.
"Knock."
Ba knocked.
The sound was soft—a timid rap that barely carried through the wood.
No response.
Ba knocked again. Louder.
"Who is it?"
Arturo's voice. Impatient.
"It's me, Ba," he said. "There's a... there's someone here. He says he's—"
"It's D9," Elijah said.
His voice was soft. High. Sweet.
"Diego de la Torre. I'm here to see my cousin."
Silence.
Then Alma's voice, polite but edged with annoyance.
"Ba, do we appear to be some kind of playground? A place where anyone can wander in and interrupt important meetings?"
Ba's face went pale.
"No, no—of course not—I didn't mean—I was just—"
"Then why," Alma continued, "did you interrupt us in the middle of an important meeting to report the arrival of some nobody?"
"He's not a nobody—he says he's—"
"What do you call that?"
Ba's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
The other staff members—the ones who had followed Ba and Elijah up the stairs—shifted uncomfortably. Their eyes darted from Ba to Elijah to the door and back again.
Elijah's expression didn't change.
His voice—still soft, still high, still sweet—cut through the silence.
"Miss Alma," he said. "I apologize for coming unbeknownst to all of you. I didn't mean to interrupt. I just need a moment of the boss's time."
Arturo's voice came through the door.
"Hey. Before you keep flapping your gums—how old are you, brat?"
"I'm twenty-four, sir."
"Twenty-four?"
Arturo's voice rose.
"Twenty-four years old, and you sound like... like... what's that character? The little purple one? The one who waddles and says 'eh-oh'?"
"Tinky Winky?" someone whispered.
"No, not Tinky Winky. The other one. The yellow one. The one with the—"
"La-La?"
"Yes! La-La! He sounds like La-La!"
The staff erupted.
Laughter—loud, unrestrained, the kind of laughter that fed on itself and grew. Ba's shoulders shook. The others leaned against walls, wiping tears from their eyes.
Elijah's expression didn't change.
But his grip on Ba's wrist tightened.
Ba's laughter turned into a whimper.
"I'm not here to cause trouble," Elijah said. "I just want to see the boss."
Alma's voice was cold.
"Little brat, I don't know if you're insolent or just indolent. But if I were you, I would start thinking about what you're actually doing right now."
"I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
The door swung open.
Arturo stood in the threshold.
He was taller than Elijah had expected—broad-shouldered, thick-necked, his face flushed with anger. His eyes swept over the group, over Ba, over Elijah, and stopped.
Ba's hand was purple.
His wrist was swollen.
His face was a mask of pain.
And the brat—the little brat with the soft voice—was holding him like he weighed nothing.
Arturo's expression shifted.
His anger didn't disappear. But something else joined it. Confusion.
"What the—"
He looked at Ba. At Elijah. At the grip.
"Is this some kind of hidden camera prank? Where's the camera? Who's messing with me?"
"No one is messing with you," Elijah said.
"Then why does my head of security look like he's about to pass out?"
"Because he tried to hit me."
"You?"
Arturo's eyes moved up and down Elijah's frame. The soft face. The wide eyes. The loose clothes.
"You're telling me that Ba—my head of security—tried to hit you, and you did... this?"
"Yes."
Arturo's hand came up.
His palm was open. His fingers were spread.
"I'm going to—"
"You're going to regret it," Elijah said.
His voice was still soft. Still high. Still sweet.
But something underneath it was cold.
"Oh, yeah? And why is that, wiseguy?"
Elijah's head tilted.
His eyes—wide, brown, innocent—found Andreas, who had finally turned away from the wall and was staring at the commotion with the expression of a man who had just woken from a dream.
"Because," Elijah said, "I'm his distant cousin."
Andreas's finger pointed at his own chest.
"Me?"
"You."
"I don't have a cousin named—"
"Diego de la Torre. Your grandmother's sister's grandson. Catalina de la Torre. She died when you were seven. You attended the funeral. You wore a black suit that was too big for you."
Andreas's mouth closed.
His eyes narrowed.
"Prove it," he said.
Elijah reached into his jacket.
His hand emerged holding a photograph. Worn. Folded. Faded at the edges, as if it had been carried in a wallet for years.
He tossed it to Arturo.
Arturo caught it. His eyes scanned the image. His expression shifted—from anger to confusion to something that looked almost like disbelief.
"Boss," he said. "You should see this."
He handed the photograph to Andreas.
Andreas took it.
His eyes moved across the image. A family gathering. Dozens of faces, young and old, standing in front of a house that had been white once. In the corner, a young boy in an oversized black suit. And beside him, a teenager with a soft face and wide eyes.
Diego, Andreas thought. That's Diego.
But I don't remember him.
And I don't remember this photograph.
He looked up.
His eyes met Elijah's.
"Diego de la Torre," he said.
"Yes."
"My cousin."
"Distant. Very distant. But yes."
Andreas stared.
Elijah stared back.
The room was silent.
---