(Julian's POV)
Julian Valemont was not reading the project schematics on his desk. He was staring, rigid and unblinking, out the library window—the same window that faced the garden perimeter. For the last week, he had viewed the Protective Security Detail (PSD) as a humiliating cage. Now, he viewed them as an enigma.
He had expected Vance's men to be sloppy, to treat the detail as a boring assignment. Instead, he observed perfection: the same angle of stance, the same slow, measured patrols, the same non-existent flicker in their vigilance. They were not guarding him against a leak; they were waiting for a precise, lethal event. This flawless preparation, this absolute lack of human error, was what finally made him suspicious. The PSD was not merely deployed; they were primed.
Julian looked down at his desk. Anya should have been back an hour ago. He had a debt to pay and a lethal insult to absorb, yet the woman who held the answer to both was delayed. He tapped his pen once, a sound like a single drop of acid hitting glass, and turned back to the window, unable to settle.
(Anya's POV)
Anya sank back into the plush leather seat of the taxi. The vehicle felt heavy and slow after the frantic chaos of the Red-Light Area. The mission had failed, at least by Julian's transactional standards, and yet, she felt strangely energized. Selene D'Argent had replaced a simple debt with a magnificent, impossible challenge.
As the taxi crossed the final bridge leading into the high-security district, Anya's hands, resting on her knees, began to sweat slightly. She was not a superstitious woman; she dealt only in data streams and verifiable facts. But as the manicured streets of the state district passed her by, she felt an overwhelming sense of focus radiating from the city around her.
The air felt thin, the silence too complete, the light too sharp. She felt like a lone figure standing in the center of an enormous stage, and the audience—the thousands of unseen variables—was holding its breath, waiting for the curtain to drop. The city feels more aware today, she thought, a cold, instinctive feeling of dread settling in her abdomen. Something big is going to happen.
(Vance's POV)
Superintendent Vance was in the police vehicle parked not far from the Valemont estate, but at a place where he couldn't be directly seen. Vance was anxious, his heartbeat was fast, but he couldn't be in the basement; he needed to be on the ground.
"All teams, status report," Vance whispered into the boom mic, his voice ragged with tension.
"Delta-1 confirms primary position secured, sir. Substation roofline clear."
"Echo-2 confirms counter-snipers in position, Sir. We have the water tower covered."
Vance watched the main drive. The PSD agents, dressed in black tactical gear, were moving with the silent, fluid precision he had commanded, covering every angle. The only variable was the speed of the assassin.
"Kael, confirm ETA on Valemont's personal strategist. She needs to be inside."
"One minute, sir," Kael's voice came back, high-pitched with adrenaline.
Vance closed his eyes, then opened them. "This is it. The window is closing. If that round leaves the barrel, the entire perimeter goes hot. We've got to stop it."
(Julian's POV)
Julian heard the heavy, muffled crunch of the taxi pulling up to the main door. He walked swiftly to the window overlooking the courtyard. He watched Anya step out of the vehicle, her gray suit a dull, muted contrast to the evening light. She moved with her usual controlled efficiency, dismissing the PSD escort with a nod and walking toward the house.
He moved to the library door just as she reached it. He had a thousand questions about Selene, but seeing Anya alive and safe brought a strange, sharp relief. He waited as she inserted her keycard, opened the heavy oak door, and stepped into the library.
"Anya, what did she—"
Julian's words died in his throat. His eyes, fixed on his strategist, suddenly snapped wide in unadulterated, primal horror. He wasn't looking at Anya; he was looking past her.
Anya, startled by the guttural choke in his voice, frowned and turned, following his terrified gaze. She noticed the large, almost perfect circular hole in the thick, multi-layered glass of the panoramic window directly behind Julian's usual working position.
"Sir," she asked, her voice shaking slightly, "Why is the window broken?"
Before he could answer, a warm, slick sensation rushed over her legs. She glanced down. Her legs were instantly stained crimson. It wasn't water.
It was blood.
Anya's mind, trained to process data, lagged for one agonizing second as her body disconnected from the event. She registered the searing, delayed pain in her lower abdomen, felt the profound, debilitating weakness, and saw the spreading stain on her own suit before the world tilted violently.
Julian screamed her name. Anya's knees buckled, and she collapsed, dropping the datapad as she fell unconscious onto the priceless Persian rug.