The air in the small apartment was heavy with the smell of roasted chicken. In the living room, seven-year-old Clara bounced on the sofa, waiting impatiently for her mother, Mia.
"Mumma! May I watch TV now?" Clara asked.
Mia agreed with a smile. "Okay, dear, not for long though. Homework soon."
Clara cheered softly and scrambled to grab the remote. She began flipping channels rapidly—cartoons, nature documentaries, a cooking competition—before landing on the main News broadcast.
The screen usually showed a smiling anchor, but now it was dominated by a stark image: a helicopter shot of police roadblocks, flashing blue lights, and the dense, green tree line surrounding the exclusive state district. The emergency banner was flashing violently across the bottom of the screen.
NEWS ANCHOR:
"Breaking news from the capital!" The anchor's usually calm voice was replaced with a sharp tone, recovering from the wince. "We are getting reports from the capital of a gunshot, many civilians testifying the loud unsuppressed wave of sound, as if meant to be heard by everyone!"
Clara jerked slightly, she had never heard anything like this except in movies. The innocent soul was genuinely scared. "Mumma! Mumma! Come here!" She called out Mia with a concerned speech. "Look what the news is saying!" She looked at Mia with unknowing eyes as she rushed towards her.
"Calm down Clara, it's nothing for us to worry about. The police are here to protect us!". It was clear that Mia wasn't confident in her own words, her expression was grimacing. But Clara believed in the false comforting words unquestionably.
The anchor continued speaking in the background, "As we can see the police department doesn't have any answers at the moment. How can we trust them—" Mia turned off the TV. The anchor's unshielded words would only bring Clara more worry.
The leaves of the tress surrounding the Valemont estate wallowed with the breeze silently. The Valemont estate was soon going to be filled with tactical chaos.The scream died in Julian's throat, replaced by a soundless, animal gasp. Anya.
He didn't process the shattered window, the distant crack of the rifle, or the sudden barrage of muffled shouts from the garden. His world narrowed to the woman lying bleeding on the rug, her diplomatic gray suit ruined by the impossible stain.
He fell to his knees beside her, his hands—the hands that controlled billions of credits and state secrets—trembling violently.
"No... no, Anya, you're fine. You're fine," he whispered, the denial desperate and shaky.
He saw the wound—a clean, brutal impact point in her abdomen. The bleeding was terrifyingly fast. He ripped off his expensive silk tie, but his hands stuttered, and the silk slipped through his sweating fingers. He retrieved it, knotting it instinctively to create a pressure bandage, his movements suddenly driven by a desperate, mechanical efficiency.
The PSD and emergency medics burst through the door, having breached the perimeter seconds after the shot. The room immediately became a storm of tactical chaos: medics screaming instructions, and the heavy footfalls of men in Kevlar who were covering the room from the outside world.
Julian ignored them all, focused only on the pale face in his lap. The sight of her utter stillness, the quiet dignity of her unconscious form, was a blow that reached past his pride and struck something raw and unseen by himself. A sharp, burning sensation welled behind his eyes—an emotion he hadn't allowed since his political and capitalistic rise. Tears. Hot, fierce, and humiliating, they tracked paths down his cheek. But his face still didn't flinch.
"Get her stabilized, now!" Julian ordered, his voice cutting through the noise. He held Anya's hand, his gaze fixed on the broken window that was now being sealed off—transforming his fear into a cold, lethal resolve.
Superintendent Vance arrived, his face grim, stepping over the threshold with Kael trailing him. Vance took one look at the Chief Strategist, covered in blood and tears, kneeling over his fallen strategist, and understood the price of their failure.
"Mr. Valemont, get away from her. The medics need room," Vance said, his voice flat with professional control.
Julian didn't look at Vance. He gently laid Anya's head back on the rug and rose, his six-foot frame looming over the Superintendent. The tears were gone, replaced by a terrifying, absolute stillness.
"You failed," Julian whispered, the sound more dangerous than a shout. "You promised containment. You promised security. This ends now." He was speaking about the cage; he was speaking about the terms of their engagement.
Julian's thoughts festered as the medics walked past him towards Anya, rushing her onto a stretcher. He leveled a look of pure, unadulterated contempt at Vance. "Your priority is to secure the scene, contain the public panic, and ensure no media helicopters violate the airspace."
Vance's jaw clenched. "I am already—"
"Your failure is no longer hypothetical," Julian cut in, his voice dangerously low. "It's bleeding on my floor." "You will dedicate all your forces to managing the mess your failure created. I want every major highway sealed and every known exit point blocked."
This was not a request; it was an order, utilizing the sheer political muscle of the Chief Strategist. Vance knew that if he defied the order, the political fallout would crush him. He was forced to play the clean-up crew.
"It will be done," Vance conceded, swallowing his pride, his eyes promising retribution later. He turned to Kael. "Implement Phase Green lockdown. No one leaves the city."
Julian watched Vance turn away—subdued, but not defeated. Julian knew that for a few precious hours, the PSD's focus would be external: chasing shadows and controlling the news. He was no longer actively surveilled; he was now unleashed.
The assassin's bullet had failed its intended purpose, but it had succeeded in freeing Julian Valemont. And chaos always answers when he calls.
Meanwhile, 545 kilometres from the capital, in the storm-ridden coastal city of Mattefect…
"Sir, I have completed the mission I was entrusted with", said Thorne. A low voice pierced through the thick air filled with tension. "How should I believe you? I trusted you with the Cipher, and you just turned out to be useless, Thorne". The voice was dominating, clearly sending a shiver through Thorne's spine.
"But sir—the Red Hand has confirmed the shot". She spoke, her gaze never lifted up—less out of respect but more out of fear. A com vibrated, it wasn't Thorne's. "Master, the shot was—" The words were unclear to Thorne for her to make sense out of them. The mysterious man looked at Thorne with the devil's eyes,"Evelyn Thorne… You have…"