Perspective: Chief Roman
The footage froze on the wall-sized holo-screen — Leila Danvers' final words hanging in the silence like a verdict. "The Maker's echoes are not done with us yet."
Chief Roman Ekwueme leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The shadows of the conference room stretched long across the floor, broken only by the cold blue glow of the paused broadcast. Outside, the city slept, but his mind never did.
Around the table sat five dark silhouettes — the Council of Shadows. Their voices bled through encrypted channels, distorted by static and secrecy.
"She's a liability," said one — the gravel-voiced magnate from the Eurasian Bloc. "The public was never supposed to know of the second relic."
"Her broadcast reached twelve nations in under an hour," hissed another. "We've spent decades crafting plausible deniability — and now one journalist undoes it all."
Roman said nothing. He watched Leila's face frozen on the screen — the fire in her eyes, the raw conviction. There was something about her tone, something he recognized — the kind of courage that once burned in men before ambition devoured them. He exhaled softly.
"She's useful," he finally said.
"Useful?" scoffed the third voice — the woman known only as The Baroness. "She's a contagion. You know the orders. Clean it."
Roman turned his head slightly, his expression calm but his voice edged with quiet authority. "And what happens after that? Another voice rises. Another face. You kill one journalist, and ten more will dig into her grave for truth."
The first voice snapped, "You speak as though the truth still matters."
Roman smiled faintly. "It always matters. Even lies need truth to disguise themselves."
A low, collective murmur rippled through the council feed. They weren't used to defiance, especially from him. But Roman had long since learned that true power was not in violence — it was in ownership.
He pressed a button. The holographic map of corporate holdings flickered into existence above the table. Dozens of interlocking lines connected media networks, political donors, and shell corporations. At the center, glowing softly, was Global News Network.
"Gentlemen," Roman said, "if we silence her, we lose control of the narrative. But if we own her… we control the voice itself."
The Baroness leaned forward in her dim silhouette. "You mean to buy the network?"
"I already began the process," Roman replied, voice steady. "A holding group under Aeternum Global has been acquiring shares for months. By dawn, I'll have majority control."
"Why wasn't the council informed?" one of them barked.
"Because I don't report strategy to those who can't see past bloodshed," Roman said smoothly. "You asked me to contain the damage. I'm doing exactly that — with precision, not carnage."
A pause. Then the gravel-voiced magnate growled, "You're playing a dangerous game, Chief."
Roman's lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. "That's the only kind worth playing."
He ended the transmission.
The room fell silent, save for the faint hum of the city below. He stood and crossed to the panoramic window overlooking the capital — towers like veins of light, the hum of drones slicing through the midnight air. He could almost hear the world shifting beneath him, as if some invisible tide were pulling civilization toward a precipice.
"Sir," came a voice from the door. His aide, Maro, stepped in, tablet in hand. "The purchase order's complete. Aeternum now holds sixty-one percent of GNN's stock."
Roman nodded slowly. "Good. Leave their leadership intact. Let them believe nothing's changed."
"And Miss Danvers?" Maro asked carefully.
Roman turned back to the window, watching distant flashes of lightning over the Atlantic horizon. "Invite her to dinner."
Maro blinked. "Dinner, sir?"
"Yes. Somewhere discreet. Tell her I admire her courage — and that I have a story she'll want to hear."
The aide hesitated. "The council won't like this."
Roman chuckled softly. "The council is full of ghosts clinging to relevance. Let them gnash their teeth in the dark. I prefer to deal with the living."
He dismissed the aide with a wave, then sat again at his desk. For a moment, he allowed himself a quiet breath, letting the tension drain from his shoulders.
The relic under the Atlantic — that was the real danger. Leila's broadcast had only accelerated the clock. Now every intelligence network, every military, every faith-driven militia would start searching. And somewhere among them, Chancellor Voss was surely watching, plotting his next move.
Roman tapped his comm-link. "Secure line to the expedition team. Tell them we proceed under Operation Siren. No transmissions. No survivors outside command clearance."
He ended the call, then reached into the drawer of his desk. Inside lay a simple silver ring etched with geometric sigils — a gift from the Maker's Acolyte, years ago. He turned it in his hand thoughtfully, feeling its faint warmth against his skin. Power was a strange thing — intoxicating, corrosive. He had seen men die for it, and others reborn.
He wasn't sure which kind he'd become yet.
A soft chime drew his attention. His personal terminal flashed with a message — encrypted, unsigned.
> "Your restraint is admirable. But you cannot control what is awakening. The sea remembers. — V."
Roman's gaze hardened. "Voss," he muttered.
He deleted the message, but the unease remained. The dictator-turned-"god" had begun to play his next hand.
Roman glanced once more at the paused image of Leila on the holo-screen — the woman who had, perhaps unknowingly, set a chain of events that no army could contain.
"Let's see what you're really after, Miss Danvers," he murmured.
He stood, straightened his uniform, and walked toward the balcony. The night air was cool, heavy with the scent of rain. Far across the ocean, thunder rumbled — deep, resonant, almost like the heartbeat of something ancient stirring beneath the waves.
Roman looked eastward, toward the unseen trench, and whispered to the wind:
> "If the Maker is returning… then let him find me ready."
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