"They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show."
— William Shakespeare, Sonnet 94
But what of watching the powerless
Wield keys they didn't earn,
Open doors they don't understand,
And light fires they cannot see—
While those who built the machine
Must choose: intervene, or let it burn?
Now, her fingerprints were all over this intrusion—untrained, reckless, and driven by emotion.
Lizzy hadn't rewritten a single line of code, hadn't hacked in or broken anything—no, what she did was worse.
She used a key she didn't earn to open doors she didn't understand.
She dug through layers she had no business touching—like flipping through an old drawer of their father's, thinking it held nothing more than memories.
But this wasn't sentiment. This was ignition, and she had no idea what she'd just lit.
Isabella sat at the console, shadows crossing her face like old scars. She stared at the name blinking on the screen and almost laughed at the absurdity.
Was this the girl who couldn't explain a basic system call? Who thought access equaled comprehension? Who didn't even realize some files weren't locked to keep people out, but to keep the system from tearing itself apart?
GDI wasn't a photo album to be casually thumbed through. It wasn't a legacy to be browsed through on a whim. It was structured. Balanced. Tension held in place by choices made in silence.
Someone like Lizzy—filled with nostalgia and guided by her instincts—would never intentionally harm it. Instead, she might unknowingly cause its downfall simply because she doesn't realize the impact of her actions.
Isabella thought of the sentence Anna had said, quiet and unforgettable:
"Power isn't about what you can do. It's what you choose not to."
Lizzy never understood that. She acted, then justified. She opened what was sealed, not because it was time, but because she felt like it should be.
Anna would have buried it deeper.
Anna would have used it as leverage, not revelation.
Anna would have protected the empire, not questioned its foundations.
But Anna was dead.
And Lizzy was about to make choices that Anna never would have made.
A cold laugh escaped Isabella's lips.
"You're back?" she muttered. "Good. Let's see how long you last. You think you're claiming a legacy—when all you've done is start cutting wires on a live bomb."
Isabella didn't ask for details. She didn't need to. If Lizzy had seen what she suspected, then this wasn't just a breach—it was a signal.
Lizzy, impulsive as ever, would go straight to the one person she thought still owed her the truth.
Nicholas.
Isabella opened a communication channel. A single encrypted line to Nicholas's terminal.
The message was brief:
"She's found Anna's archive. She'll come to you next. Tell her what she needs to know—but make sure she understands: Anna knew, and Anna chose silence. That was wisdom, not cowardice. Let's see if Lizzy is wise enough to do the same."
She didn't wait for a reply.
Miles away, under the quiet hum of the upper finance tier, Nicholas DeVille was about to have a visitor.
And Isabella... Isabella would wait. Watch. Let Lizzy stumble toward a truth that might destroy her.
Let her learn what Anna had understood: some truths are more dangerous than lies.
[Meanwhile: Nicholas's Office]
The chamber felt cold, despite the temperature. Glass walls breathed with data projections—real-time asset heatmaps, volatility curves, redacted account flows. None of it ornamental. This was a room for people who believed numbers said more than words.
Nicholas stood alone, running an audit across old accounts linked to a dormant defense project. Nicholas worked late into the night, fingers moving methodically over the translucent interface as streams of financial data flickered before him.
The same anomaly that had nagged him for weeks was still there—a subtle but persistent irregularity buried deep within GDI's shadow accounts. He wasn't sure what it meant yet, but it refused to be ignored.
His terminal chimed. Isabella's message appeared:
"She's found Anna's archive. She'll come to you next. Tell her what she needs to know—but make sure she understands: Anna knew, and Anna chose silence. That was wisdom, not cowardice. Let's see if Lizzy is wise enough to do the same."
Nicholas read it twice, then deleted it.
So. The moment had finally arrived.
He'd wondered when Lizzy would start asking the right questions. When she'd stop playing at being CEO and start actually looking at what she'd inherited.
Apparently, tonight was the night.
He saved his work, closed the financial files, and pulled up a different set of data. Anna's research. The documentation she'd compiled before she died.
Not to expose. To understand.
To know exactly what foundation she was building on, even if that foundation was... complex.
If Lizzy wanted truth, he'd give it to her.
But he'd also give her what Anna had understood: truth without wisdom was just destruction wearing a moral costume.
He didn't hear Lizzy until she was already inside.
"You still work late," she said.
He glanced over, only mildly surprised. "Habit."
She took another step in, gaze flicking over the data. "Or hiding."
That made him pause.
"You always were good at assuming," he replied.
"I found something," Lizzy said, her voice tight. She clenched her fists at her sides. "Something I don't think I was meant to see."
Nicolas set his tablet aside, eyes never leaving her.
"I'm listening."
Lizzy stepped closer, her voice dropping.
"It was buried in Anna's archive. Research notes. Correspondence with Father. Files she called 'Foundations.'"
She paused, searching his face for reaction.
"Documentation of where CrystalSight really came from. Who actually built it. Names that don't appear in any official history."
She took a breath.
"Tell me Anna didn't know. Tell me she never saw this. Tell me—"
"She knew," Nicholas cut her off, his voice flat. "Of course she knew."
Silence.
"Then why—"
"Why didn't she expose it?" Nicholas finished. "Why didn't she burn down Father's empire and salt the earth?"
He gestured to a chair.
"Sit down, Lizzy. Because this is going to take a while."