She was about to speak. Maybe a joke, maybe a proposal. Or a direct invitation to delayed sin.

  But another voice came first.

  Rough and terribly familiar.

  “Good morning.”

  Dot froze. Her stomach folded into an impossible knot. No… no, no, no, no, not now—fuck. Her hand dropped uselessly to her side as she turned slowly, like someone who knew they were about to meet their judgment at the door.

  Nyra stood directly in front of the elevator. Despite the unmistakable look of someone who had just woken up, her sleek bob was perfectly brushed, eyebrow jewelry in place, makeup as heavy as ever.

  But her eyes…

  Nyra knew.

  Or at the very least, she suspected—with relish—what had been simmering inside that elevator.

  Dot didn’t think.

  She acted on pure social survival instinct.

  In one smooth motion, she extended the empty cup she was still holding by the handle straight toward Nyra, as if that were the most normal thing in the world.

  “Here,” she said, in an absurdly casual tone for someone internally on fire.

  Nyra took it automatically and before she could comment on anything, Dot stepped out of the elevator in two quick strides.

  “I-I’m going to change and I’ll be right back down!” she called over her shoulder, her voice rushed, embarrassed, and internally halfway murdered.

  The elevator doors closed.

  Dot turned and stood there, frozen, staring at her own distorted reflection in the metal, as if she could see through it. As if Ghost’s gaze were still branded into her skin.

  For a moment, she had seen his eyes.

  And that look of his…it wasn’t just desire. It was a silent confirmation of something her body already knew, now burning like a truth with no way back.

  If there had been any room left for doubt…now there wasn’t anymore. Ghost was, without question, the man from that intense night. The same touch. The same fire.

  Only now, magnified tenfold.

  His gaze pulsed like a bomb, loaded with raw, dangerous, unfiltered eroticism that hit Dot like a punch straight to the center of her soul.

  She reeled inwardly from the impact alone, trembling, breathless, her entire body throbbing as if she’d been pierced by something too intense to fully process.

  She rested her forehead against the elevator door that now separated her from him and closed her eyes, trying to cool her overheated body against the cold metal. She let out a short, disbelieving laugh as she exhaled.

  “I am not psychologically equipped for this…” she murmured to the empty corridor, her voice hoarse and utterly undone.

  Then, like someone acknowledging her own imminent ruin, she spun on her heels and headed for her room at a quick but unsteady pace, as if running from her own mind were possible.

  She shoved the door shut behind her and leaned against it like she’d just escaped a fire. Her heart was still racing, her skin still buzzing. She pulled her hoodie up over her nose, allowing herself to breathe him in. His scent still lingered—deliciously—woven not just into the fabric, but into her sensory memory.

  She let out a muffled laugh, covering her face with both hands. It was hard not to teeter into hysteria after the absurd chain of events that morning.

  Dot let herself fall onto the bed, sprawled out, a ridiculous smile on her face. She didn’t even kick off her boots. Didn’t care that the hoodie rode up awkwardly.

  She was a walking mess…and she felt radiant.

  When her communicator vibrated, it took a moment for her brain to catch up and another when she read the message, her breath hitching.

  [Private Message Received]

  “Were you really running away, or did you just need something to lean on so you wouldn’t fall?”

  — G

  Dot let out a near-hysterical laugh, her face sinking into her hands. Of course he’d noticed. And of course he knew exactly what he’d caused.

  “That bastard doesn’t miss a thing…” she muttered between stifled laughs.

  And of course…it was bait.

  A wicked, deliciously calculated piece of bait.

  She rolled across the bed, fingers hovering over the screen, then hesitated. For a moment, she considered not replying. Maybe it would be better to keep some kind of composure. For one brief second, she thought about typing something that sounded less exposed than she very obviously was.

  She typed. Deleted. Sighed.

  And then, with a crooked smile tugging at her lips, she wrote:

  “You get to me with a look. Imagine the damage with time.”

  A quiet laugh slipped out as she realized this was the first time she’d ever replied.

  Until now, whenever his messages popped up, the only thing she truly wanted to know was where the hell he was watching her from. Always acting like some enigmatic stalker, appearing with messages out of nowhere, drenched in metaphors, layered with unspoken meaning.

  And now?

  Now she was texting him, trying to sound cool, trying not to show just how embarrassingly gone she was for him. Which was basically impossible, considering everything they’d almost done…and everything they actually had done on that disastrous day at the bar.

  She covered her face with both hands and rolled from side to side on the bed, letting out a loud groan, something between a half-moan and a half-desperate laugh.

  “Me. A grown woman… texting her crush,” she muttered, still laughing and groaning. “What the hell is happening to me?”

  She suddenly rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, fingers drumming idly against her stomach as her expression tightened with the realization.

  “…Did I really just call him that? Crush?”

  She groaned louder and covered her face again, heat flooding her cheeks.

  Yeah, she was fucked.

  Utterly fucked.

  And Ghost knew it.

  Still muttering to herself, she jumped up and started undressing. The boots were kicked off carelessly, the jacket tossed onto the chair along with her bra. She was about to pull off her underwear when she froze. For a split second, she remembered exactly how Ghost had solved that particular problem with just two fingers.

  A shiver ran down her spine.

  “Focus, Dot. Focus…!” she said, giving herself two light taps on the face. “Shower. Regain some dignity. Pretend I still have a shred of sanity.”

  She turned on the water and grabbed a towel. She was fully confident she could recover at least some control over her dignity, when another notification blinked on the communicator.

  [Private Message Received]

  “With time…?

  If I have time, you won’t be walking after.”

  — G

  She froze.

  There she stood, naked, the towel forgotten in her hand, eyes locked on the screen as her brain struggled to process the sheer audacity of that man. Her chest rose in an uneven breath, her body reacted before her mind could catch up. It felt as if he were there again, behind her, murmuring against her neck, fingers at her waist, warm lips brushing her skin.

  She bit her lip. Her skin burned. The stupid smile returned, followed by another nervous laugh.

  “I’m so fucking fucked…”she murmured, defeated.

  The shower was brief. Just enough to restore some sanity. A little. Steam still lingered in the air afterward, as if the heat hadn’t managed to cool anything at all, neither body nor mind. She dressed, left her damp hair loose, and took a deep breath.

  She was ridiculously nervous. The kind of teenage anxiety that made her glance sideways at the communicator, torn between replying and feeding the tension or holding herself back. She started chewing on her finger before catching herself, clicking her tongue.

  “For God’s sake, Dot…” she muttered, laughing to herself. “You’re almost thirty and acting like you’re fifteen.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed, tightening the laces on her boots, when she noticed a light blinking on the communicator.

  A new notification.

  Her heart did that stupid, automatic leap in her chest. She started wondering what else he might have written, then froze instantly. It wasn’t from Ghost.

  [Private Message Received]

  “New assignment. Request for shelter and containment. Nyx.”

  — W

  The juvenile anxiety evaporated in seconds.

  Dot blinked, confused. Then went pale, caught between shock and disbelief. Nyx? My Nyx? The AI chatter?

  It took her a moment to process. She’d worked with Nyx for years. They’d never met in person, but the partnership had lasted a long time.

  She just hadn’t planned on meeting her favorite hacker like this.

  ? ? ?

  The Σ symbol caught the corridor light on Zion’s top floor, gleaming against the black door.

  Walkyria stopped before it, spine straight.

  She let out a quiet, resigned breath before stepping inside and settling into one of the armchairs. Nyx’s message still echoed in her mind, unexpected, even for her.

  She knew her agent. Knew that Nyx, being exactly who she was, would dig deeper than she should. And, in part, that was precisely why Walkyria had brought her into her group. She valued the skill, the insistence on pushing past limits, the sharp instinct to go beyond what was asked.

  Sometimes, though, she regretted not having drawn firmer boundaries.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The outcome should have been predictable. Nyx had touched what she shouldn’t have—information tied to the Shrouded, buried documents pointing to experiments under the direct control of Cipher, current Conduit of Sigil.

  And the response from the High Society, predictably, had been swift: a clear attempt to erase one of her best agents.

  Walkyria hadn’t hesitated.

  She would place Nyx under Vault protection. She knew she couldn’t offer the level of safety the Vault could. And knowing that Nyx and Dot functioned as few pairs ever did, she also knew—by experience—how valuable that bond was.

  What she hadn’t accounted for, and what felt like a cruel joke, was the Universe drawing a path where, despite different roads, both would be pushed toward the same gravitational center: Cipher.

  At the same time, she knew that together they were stronger. Smarter. More dangerous.

  It was, objectively, the best possible scenario.

  Except for one detail: she would have to ask him.

  Grey.

  Just thinking his name left a bitter taste on her tongue. But between pride and the survival of her agents, the choice was obvious. Line Consortium was still small within the Order, a relatively new group, but it was growing. It had begun quietly, with few names, and Dot and Nyx stood out as its central pillars.

  She had lost Dot, even if only temporarily.

  She couldn’t afford to lose Nyx as well…even if it meant asking Grey for another favor.

  The subtle sound of the door opening cut through her thoughts.

  Grey entered as he always did: wrapped in that flawless, silent elegance, carrying the insolent air that blended charm, threat, and control.

  Walkyria hated that.

  Hated it and loved it, almost with the same intensity.

  Her eyes followed him as he approached, his steps measured, posture precise, the posture of someone fully aware of the impact he had on a room. The pale Vault mask, sculpted to perfection, did nothing to hide from Walkyria what he was likely doing beneath it.

  Smiling.

  And she knew that smile far too well, an intimacy not exactly public knowledge, something caught between mockery and irony.

  And he knew she despised asking for favors…and there she was, about to ask for another.

  Grey sat down with the controlled slowness of a king before his throne. His broad hands rested with practiced indifference on the armrests as he crossed one leg over the other. The posture was relaxed, almost lazy, yet it carried the unmistakable presence of someone who never truly relinquished control.

  “Second time, Walkyria.” he drawled, his voice hovering between mockery and irony. “Where’s the reciprocity?”

  She removed her mask with slow, deliberate movements. Her face, as always, was composed, but he knew her far too well not to notice. The slight intake of breath, the way her gaze avoided his for fractions of a second…

  A tell. Barely there. But enough.

  “I need shelter and containment for my agent, Grey.” she said, dry and direct. “Nyx.”

  He took a moment to process that. Then one eyebrow arched.

  "…the Shrouded?"

  Walkyria couldn’t suppress the half-smile. It was always like this. Grey seemed to poison himself every time he pronounced that word. Her word.

  Her race.

  She drew in a breath, reining herself in.

  “Yes, Grey. The Shrouded.”

  He exhaled, bored, almost cynical. With the calm of a sated predator, he removed his own mask and set it down with surgical precision on the small table between them. He picked up the wine glass already waiting there, swirling the liquid with near-ceremonial slowness. He watched the deep red catch the low light before speaking:

  “Tell me. Am I doing something wrong… or has the Vault turned into an orphanage for broken causes?”

  Walkyria let out a low, amused laugh.

  “No, Duke.” his eyebrow lifted at the nickname, more because of the absence of her usual sarcasm than the word itself. “My… Shrouded, in case you’ve forgotten, is the one who stole the Eidolon documents. The same ones you requisitioned years ago.”

  His movement froze for a fraction of a second. Then the same eyebrow rose higher and this time, genuinely interested.

  "…Nyte?"

  She merely held the smile, satisfied.

  At least he remembered.

  Back when her agent didn’t even belong to Line, when she was just another freelancer within the Order, Nyx had been known in the networks as Nyte.

  Walkyria Walkyria had full access to Nyx’s service history from that time; some files she knew he would rather see erased from existence. But there were others that would make any Conduit proud.

  And Nyx had many, many reasons to make Walkyria proud.

  The Eidolon data—Eidolon being one of the Order’s oldest and most enigmatic Groups—was one of them. Though Walkyria treated that particular achievement less as a badge of honor and more as leverage to be played… exactly as she was doing now.

  Grey leaned back further, adopting the posture of someone who was, finally, interested in the game. A half-smile spread beneath his face, far from kind.

  “…and I should accept your request because…?”

  “…Because otherwise, I’ll place her under Eidolon’s protection.”

  His smile vanished.

  For a brief instant, Grey’s amber eyes flared, almost imperceptibly.

  But Walkyria saw it.

  She leaned forward with the ease of a rehearsed gesture, letting the neckline frame the provocation. She took the glass from the table and reclined back into her chair with elegant languor, crossing her legs as she took a slow sip of wine, savoring the impact far more than the drink itself.

  Games with Grey required staying two steps ahead, always. And Walkyria knew exactly where she was stepping. She knew about the buried feelings, about the volatile history between Grey and Eidolon’s Conduit, Kane.

  Years ago, the three of them had been part of an elite cell: her, Grey, and Kane. Two unstable, clashing Ascendant agents and one Shrouded agent who ultimately became the mediator during crises.

  Walkyria had spent their final months together separating and containing their conflicts. Now, years after the dissolution of the Court—the group they once belonged to—each had gone their own way, leading their own factions. The tension remained. Quieter. Sharper.

  Grey made a point of reminding her, with barely concealed disdain, how toxic he considered her continued connection to Kane…but Walkyria had stopped caring what Grey thought a long time ago.

  She needed support, and for all his flaws, Grey had always protected her when it mattered. At a cost, of course. But it was a predictable cost.

  Kane, on the other hand…

  The friendship had always been fragile. But trust, forged under extreme pressure, had endured. She knew she wouldn’t have much trouble convincing Kane to protect her agent, especially given the debt between them. Still, she had her reservations, fueled by the whispers she’d been hearing about him lately.

  The fact remained: Nyx’s life was at stake.

  And if Grey refused…Walkyria wouldn’t hesitate to activate that Conduit.

  Grey still didn’t speak. His gaze drifted between the wine, the table, and her—calculating. Weighing variables. Turning each possibility over in his razor-edged mind.

  Before his reasoning could settle, Walkyria set her glass down, the soft click of crystal cutting through the quiet.

  Her eyes met his. Steady.

  “So?” she asked. “Will you take Nyx… or should I notify the Marquis?”

  She smiled—slow. Deliberate. Cruel. She knew he despised it when she still used that title for Kane, even years after the Court had collapsed. The faint crease forming between Grey’s brows told her she had aimed well.

  She didn’t ease off.

  “You know he’ll accept. You do, don’t you?”

  Grey held her gaze for several seconds. Long enough to resemble a duel. Brief enough that neither claimed victory. Then his expression smoothed, composure sliding back into place as though it had never wavered.

  “You outdo yourself more each day, Walkyria.”

  He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the armrests, glass still in hand.

  “First, a Shrouded steals classified information from me. Then that same Shrouded falls under your protection. And now you threaten to hand her over to that Eidolon aberration.”

  The tone carried his usual dry wit, but Walkyria caught the strain beneath it—compressed between pauses that lasted a fraction too long.

  Grey leaned back again, lifting his glass in a lazy gesture, as though toasting his own defeat.

  “Bravo.”

  He drank. Red slid along the crystal.

  “Of course I’ll take her,” he murmured, studying the wine as if it were the most compelling thing in the room. “If only to keep that lunatic from getting his hands on her.”

  His eyes—now steeped in amber—returned to hers. For a moment, something deeper flickered there. Not irony. Something older. A scar, perhaps.

  “You still surprise me, Duchess…” The word stretched, deliberate, edged with a crooked smile. “I still find myself wondering how you went from that clumsy Shrouded with the crooked uniform… to this.”

  A slight gesture indicated the dress. The perfume. The measured coldness. Everything about her now spoke of polish and command—things her younger self hadn’t even known how to imitate.

  His smile deepened, almost to himself.

  “It still intrigues me.”

  She held his gaze, unflinching.

  “You always underestimated what you didn’t understand, Grey.”

  “I never underestimated you,” he replied without hesitation. “I just enjoyed watching you stumble before you learned to walk in heels.”

  A brief laugh escaped her before she could stop it. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thick. Weighted with unsaid things and restrained impulses.

  “You know my protocols,” he said at last, pouring himself more wine. “You’ll have what you asked for. Protection. Training, if you want it.”

  A sharp smile curved his mouth.

  “But you know I’ll expect something in return.”

  Walkyria arched a brow.

  “Oh?” Her smile turned thin. “Where have I heard that before?”

  “For old times’ sake, Duchess.” He leaned in slightly, voice lowered. “Only fair that I collect this particular debt sooner than the last one… wouldn’t you agree?”

  She didn’t answer right away. A faint warmth rose at the memory of that first debt—reckless, complicated, something she would judge very differently now.

  But this was not that time.

  Nyx’s safety stood in the balance. And the price, this time, was one she could pay without illusion.

  She exhaled softly. Grey always liked to linger at the edge.

  And she had never been afraid of heights.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, Duke,” she murmured, a half-smile touching the corner of her mouth. “Though perhaps I won’t be quite as cruel as last time. Perhaps.”

  He leaned back, satisfied.

  “Perhaps?” He rested his chin lightly against his hand. “You’re wounding my expectations, Duchess.”

  She laughed quietly.

  The tension didn’t dissolve. It shifted—gaining texture. Something she had no intention of reviving, yet couldn’t quite extinguish. Despite the games and provocations, he still regarded her as something rare: a Shrouded he could never entirely command.

  A woman who—much to his annoyance—could still unsettle him.

  Grey rotated the glass between his fingers for a few seconds more before draining it and setting it down with unnecessary precision. The soft touch of crystal against wood sealed the negotiation like an unspoken truce.

  Without a word, they returned to their masks.

  Walkyria replaced hers with the same effortless grace she’d removed it. Grey was more theatrical—twirling his into place with deliberate slowness, as if donning a crown.

  He stepped forward. Rose and paused at her side. Extended a hand with that anachronistic gallantry that somehow remained entirely his.

  It wasn’t courtesy, it was a reminder of who he was…of who they had been.

  Walkyria hesitated—just a fraction—then accepted.

  He drew her toward him with irritating precision. Not forceful. Not gentle. Exact. Enough to remind her he still knew her rhythm, even if they’d long since changed the music.

  His eyes met hers beneath the mask, shifting into a pure, burnished gold. Beneath her skin, the faint sigil flared once—warm. Responsive. As if something between them still existed.

  A thread.

  Too thin to sever, too strong to dismiss.

  His hand settled at her waist, pulling her closer, and his voice lowered—measured, surgical.

  “You’ve grown too elegant, Duchess. I almost forget you once spat blood to protect someone who wasn’t worth the effort.”

  She stepped back with the composure of someone who chooses her own tempo. The movement belonged equally to a dancer… or a general.

  “And you’re still excellent at remembering tragedies, Grey…” she said, with the poisoned sweetness only she could deliver. “They may hold no value to you, but I’ve never confused usefulness with worth.”

  He laughed—not fully. Just the echo of one.

  She still knew how to play him at his own game…and that fascinated him more than he would ever confess, though he was no longer sure he was the one dictating the rules.

  They left side by side.

  Two shadows perfectly aware of how to behave in the light.

  ? ? ?

  while.

  do tell me. I want it to feel smooth, and not like it survived auto-translation.