I moved through the crowd like a ghost—close enough to Elara to protect her, but far enough to slip between bodies without drawing eyes. The hum of the hall washed over me, layered atop the pulse of Protocores, the drone of whispered deals, the scent of expensive perfume.
And beneath all of it—the signal.
That thin, electric tremor I'd felt before.
It brushed the back of my senses again, light as a fingertip on glass.
Not random.
Not accidental.
I flicked my gaze to Elara. She was still speaking with the servers, posture impeccable, letting staff scramble to obey her absurd "I'll take everything" command. She didn't need me—not for the moment.
Good.
Because whatever was hunting me—
I needed to hunt it back.
I slipped sideways through the crowd. No one noticed. They rarely do when someone moves with intention and stillness at the same time. Every step measured. My breath slowed. The noise of the hall thinned into layers I could separate, analyze, ignore.
The signal pulsed again.
A thread of current pulled taut across the air.
Clean. Precise. Too intentional to be noise.
This was a person.
And they were good.
Better than good.
Controlled in a way I hadn't encountered since arriving here.
I drifted past a champagne tower, past bidders whispering about the heiress, past a security guard doing a poor job pretending he wasn't intimidated by me. The signal shifted when I shifted—
Like it felt me following.
Like it was leading me.
I kept Elara in the corner of my vision. Every few seconds she looked up—just enough to catch my eye. I answered with the faintest nod. I wasn't abandoning her.
But whatever this was—it threatened a part of the story no one had ever seen.
The signal tightened.
A direction.
A pull.
I pivoted.
There—
Near the back of the hall, beside a column wrapped in gold lattice, stood a man.
Tall. Straight-backed. Unbothered.
His back turned to me.
Yet the electric tremor radiated from him in soft threads—static dancing off fabric, a live wire humming behind a wall. Around his cuffs, the faintest shimmer of something charged flickered in and out of sight.
My breath caught.
I knew this moment.
In the game, an unnamed bidder approached the heroine here.
Annoying. Insistent.
Interested in the brooch she wore.
A scripted nuisance.
But here—this was wrong.
The man felt… significant.
Too sharp. Too controlled. Too aware.
The signal pulsed again—sharp.
Teasing.
He knew I was watching.
He knew I was tracking him.
He didn't turn, but the air bent around his awareness like he had a hand wrapped around the entire building.
And suddenly—he walked toward Elara.
My pulse sharpened. I followed immediately.
He moved through the crowd like it parted for him.
Not out of fear—out of instinctive recognition. The kind people feel when a predator enters a room and they can't name the species.
Elara looked up just as he reached her. Her heiress mask remained flawless, but her shoulders tightened.
He spoke softly, his words swallowed by the hum of the auction floor.
But his intention drifted toward me like static carried on a breeze: Interest. Calculation. Amusement.
He gestured to the brooch at her collarbone—the crow-shaped crest Sylus had given her. Her pass through Onychinus.
In canon, Sylus intervened immediately.
But the man didn't leave.
He leaned closer. Smiling with perfect politeness. Electricity brushing the air in faint pulses.
Elara made quick eye contact with me.
A silent command: Now.
I moved.
But the moment my foot shifted—
Sylus arrived.
His presence cut through the crowd like a cold blade. He stepped behind Elara, an arm sliding around her waist in a gesture both protective and territorial.
Perfect choreography.
This was the moment the man should leave.
He didn't.
Instead—he turned.
And looked directly at me.
The electric hum tightened—focusing like a spotlight.
He lifted two fingers in a gesture—polite, mocking, unmistakably provocative.
Then he spoke.
I couldn't hear the words.
But the intention hit me like a spark: Recognition. Challenge.
Elara's eyes widened—fury, immediate and sharp.
She stepped forward as if to strike him.
Sylus's hand closed around her arm.
His intention radiated outward—sharp command, cold authority.
Whatever he said, it severed the tension cleanly.
The man inclined his head and withdrew.
But he didn't break eye contact.
Not once.
Not until the very last moment.
I locked onto his signal, jaw tight, muscles coiling, my mind narrowing to a single point:
Trace him. Understand him. Don't lose him.
He slipped into the crowd.
The signal pulsed—
Then vanished.
Not hidden. Not masked.
Gone. Erased.
My breath hitched.
He'd shut himself off deliberately.
Let me feel him.
Let me follow.
Let me find him.
Every second had been his choice.
And every second, he'd been in control.
When I finally tore my gaze back to Elara and Sylus, they were both watching me.
Sylus murmured something to her.
Elara nodded, still staring at me.
She looked like she was mouthing sorry.
I glanced at her hand.
A subtle signal: Danger. Stay put.
I straightened, set my hands behind my back, and nodded—reassuring her I was fine.
They turned and moved toward the dance floor.
I stayed where I was.
But the space the man had occupied still buzzed like a phantom wire.
Sylus led Elara toward the center of the ballroom, weaving through the crowd as though the place belonged to him. People moved without realizing they moved. Space opened where there hadn't been space.
Elara walked beside him, poised and sharp in silk and jewels.
I remained at the periphery, exactly where a retainer should be—half-shadow, half-sentry.
But when their feet touched the dance floor, the atmosphere shifted. Chandeliers dimmed by a fraction. Music swelled. Attention pivoted toward them like metal drawn to a magnet.
Sylus extended a hand.
Elara placed hers in his.
And then they danced.
Flawless.
Effortless.
A practiced illusion of intimacy neither meant but both wielded.
His hand at her waist.
Her form aligned with his.
He moved like a threat.
She moved like someone who refused to be devoured.
I swallowed hard.
Because I knew this scene.
In the game—this dance ended in an explosion.
A clean, calculated detonation to shatter the room, flush out rivals, force the heroine into the next arc.
I watched them in the gilded center of the ballroom and thought: Is he still going to do it? Is this where everything turns to fire?
I couldn't ask.
I couldn't warn Elara.
I couldn't break the façade.
So instead—I prepared.
My pulse slowed. My awareness expanded. I cast my senses outward like a net—mapping currents, signals, vibrations. The building's structural hum. The lights' frequency. The Protocore vault beneath the floor.
Nothing volatile.
Nothing explosive—yet.
Yet was the problem.
While the heiress danced with a monster in disguise, I scanned the hall.
Every face.
Every angle.
Every deviation in movement.
And I saw them.
Rivals.
Three of them, spread wide, hiding their intent behind champagne glasses and polite smiles.
Their tells were subtle—unless you knew exactly what to look for.
One on the balcony railing, eyes fixed on the exits.
One weaving through the crowd with empty hands but a fighter's gait—meaning he'd stashed weapons.
And one closest to Sylus—a woman in emerald silk, half-hidden behind a lace fan, pulse steady, stance grounded, intention sharp as broken glass.
Not now. Not yet. Wait.
They weren't here to buy Protocores.
They weren't here for Elara.
They were here for Sylus.
A cold knot tightened in my gut.
The canon explosion hadn't been spectacle.
It had been a response.
A counterattack.
So now—would he still blow the ballroom?
Or had the threat evolved?
Elara's eyes flicked toward me—a tiny check-in.
I tilted my chin the slightest degree.
Not reassurance. Warning.
Her brows tightened—just for a moment before she buried the reaction beneath her heiress mask.
Sylus noticed everything.
He dipped Elara into a smooth turn—an unnecessary flourish—and when she rose, he leaned in to whisper something at her ear.
Her spine stiffened.
Then his gaze lifted—
And locked onto mine.
Cold. Knowing. Certain.
The intention hit me like static snapping against skin: Brace yourself.
My pulse stumbled.
He was still going to do it.
And Elara was in his arms.
Which meant she'd survive. He'd make sure of it.
…but me?
I shifted my stance, mapping structural beams, blast paths, cover points.
No shield. No hand to pull me safe. No scripted rescue.
When the blast came—
I would be on my own.
I slid one foot back, angling toward the nearest reinforced column.
Survivable—if I moved fast.
My fingers curled behind my back.
My breath steadied.
Every muscle aligned.
I wasn't panicking.
I was calculating.
Ready. Waiting.
The orchestra swelled—bright, glittering, too perfect, too final.
The moment before the lights blew out, before the floor shook, before the world split open.
The moment when everything changed.
Except now—there was someone else in the room.
Someone who wasn't supposed to exist.
Someone whose survival wasn't written.
I exhaled once, steady and sure, locking onto Sylus and Elara in the center of the ballroom.
If he blows the place now… I'll have a half-second window.
Run. Cover. Survive.
I set my jaw.
I was ready.
Because whether this world wanted it or not—
I wasn't going to die in a scripted explosion.
Not here.
Not tonight.