Sinveer's Office | Evening
The office door exploded inward, the wood of the frame groaning under the brutal force.
Marek stood silhouetted against the harsh hallway light for a heartbeat, a storm cloud given human form.
He didn't ask for entry, didn't offer a semblance of respect for the space between us. He was beyond pleasantries, beyond protocol.
He hurled a thick manila file onto the mahogany expanse of my desk. The thud was sickening, a wet, heavy sound that resonated in the sudden silence.
A dark stain bloomed instantly beneath it, tendrils of red creeping across the polished surface like a malevolent vine. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, sharp and accusatory.
"That's Juno," Marek spat, his voice raw with fury. "Or what's left of him they could stitch together enough to identify."
I didn't flinch. Didn't speak. My gaze remained fixed on the spreading crimson, a morbid fascination holding me captive. It was a stark, undeniable testament to a violence that was becoming increasingly familiar.
"You gonna just stare at it, boss?"
Marek demanded, his knuckles white where his fists were clenched at his sides.
"Or are we all going to keep playing blind and deaf? Pretend like this is just bad luck, a random spill of blood on our doorstep?"
My jaw tightened, the muscle ticking involuntarily. The charade was wearing thin, the carefully constructed wall of denial crumbling under the weight of each new atrocity.
"Two couriers vanished last week," Marek continued, his voice rising.
"Vanished. Not hit, not robbed. Gone. And a transport manifest ripped to shreds, found miles from where it should've been. Now Juno … carved up like some goddamn offering. And Vico? Still a ghost. You honestly think these are just rival crews flexing? Street punks getting lucky?"
He took a step closer, his shadow falling over the bloody file.
"Someone isn't just taking pieces, Sinveer. They're dissecting us. Methodically. They're carving a message into our underbelly, a message written in our own blood. And don't tell me you haven't deciphered it yet."
My gaze finally lifted, meeting his furious stare. Mine was steady, a carefully constructed mask of ice. But beneath the surface, a tremor ran deep. Too deep.
"She's not that clean," Marek bit out, his eyes narrowed, piercing. "Don't insult my intelligence. You think I'm blind? Deaf? I see the way your hand hesitates when you sign off on her reports. I hear the silence that falls when her name is mentioned. And Goddamn it, Sinveer, I see the way you look at her."
He stabbed a finger towards the file, the movement jerky with barely contained rage.
"Leaked intel. Internal camera feeds wiped clean. Loyal guards turning up with throats slit in alleys no one frequents. High-value suppliers suddenly going silent. You want me to spell it out for you? You don't look at something like that – that kind of meticulous destruction – unless it's a threat you intend to neutralize … or something you're tragically, dangerously obsessed with breaking."
He closed the distance between us, his voice dropping to a low, guttural growl that vibrated with a lethal seriousness.
"She's bleeding your empire dry, piece by agonizing piece, from the inside out. And you're standing there, watching her do it, caught in some twisted game of cat and mouse where you're too blind or too arrogant to see you're the one being hunted."
Silence descended again, heavier now, thick with unspoken accusations and the stench of betrayal. The distant hum of the city, usually a comforting constant, now sounded like a mocking whisper through the pristine glass.
"You want to fuck her?" Marek's voice was laced with a bitter contempt. "Fine. Go ahead. Risk it all for a pretty face and a whisper in your ear. But when your house starts rotting from the foundation up, when there's nothing left but dust and echoes of what you once controlled, don't act surprised if there's no crown left to wear. No one left to kneel."
I didn't offer a defense. Couldn't. Not because his accusations were unfounded, but because the venom in
his words mirrored the gnawing suspicion that had taken root in my own gut. Every brutal detail he laid bare was a shadow I had already glimpsed in the corners of my mind, a truth I had desperately tried to ignore.
Marek's gaze lingered on mine for a final, damning moment, then he turned sharply, the movement stiff with disgust.
"Clean this up, Sinveer," he snarled, his hand already on the door handle. "Deal with it. Or so help me, I will."
The door slammed shut with the force of a gunshot, the sound echoing the violent tremor that ran through me. I was left alone, the silence amplifying the frantic beat of my own heart.
My gaze dropped back to the desk, to the bloody file. The red stain continued to spread, a stark, horrifying truth seeping into the very fabric of my carefully constructed world.