Chapter Text
K circled behind John like a restless wolf, her eyes flicking between the door and D as if daring him to make a mistake.
D, meanwhile, stood near the window, her expression unchanged, a faint aura of finality in her stillness.
John leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, a half-smirk tugging at his mouth.
“So. D and K. Should I guess what that stands for?” He tapped his temple like he was thinking deeply. “Let’s see… Drift King? Deadly Kittens? Donkey Kong? You people really know how to make an entrance, through my shower of all places.”
K’s glare could have stripped paint. “Keep running your mouth and see how funny you are tomorrow morning.”
D didn’t flinch or even look at K, her eyes staying on John. “Our entry point was chosen to test your perimeter. You failed to detect us until it was too late. Noted.”
John chuckled, unbothered. “Yeah, well. I wasn’t expecting a pair of covert government assassins to pop out of the bathroom tiles. I thought Ingrid said you’d ‘reach out soon’, not crawl through my pipes like some horror movie creatures.”
D stepped forward, tone as crisp as a blade. “This briefing was a courtesy. Tomorrow, 0600, west wing operations room. We outline the Mist distribution case, establish your scope of cooperation, and align objectives. You are a variable in this operation, one we must define.”
John barked a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mist, huh? Fine. But morning? No chance. I’m not a six AM kind of guy.”
D’s eyes narrowed a fraction. K arched a brow, waiting for a clash.
“Six PM,” John said smoothly. “You want my full attention, you get it after I’ve had sleep, food, and time to check the holes you crawled through tonight. Fair trade.”
For a breath, the room was silent. Then D gave the faintest nod. “1800. No later.”
“Perfect.” John pushed off the desk, brushing past K with a wink. “Bring your files, your shiny axes, and your best attitude. We’ll dissect this Mist problem piece by piece.”
K let out a low huff. “If you make jokes tomorrow, I’ll break your door for real.”
John shot her a grin over his shoulder. “I’ll leave it unlocked just for you.”
At the threshold, D paused, her calm voice carrying more weight than a shouted threat. “Rest well, John Smith. You have nineteen hours to prove you’re worth the oversight.
As the latch clicked behind D and K, John let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The faint clatter of their boots faded down the hall, leaving the room heavy with a quiet tension that hadn’t been there before.
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes drifting to the window, then down to the faint grid lines of cursed energy etched into the walls and floor. They pulsed softly in his perception, subtle and innocuous to anyone untrained, yet thorough enough to warn him of any intruder. Or so he’d thought.
How the hell did they slip past this?
John crouched near the threshold, fingertips brushing along an invisible seam where two overlapping barrier layers met. No sign of tampering, no disruption, no foreign energy forcing a hole open. He probed the threads of residual cursed energy with practiced focus. The barrier was intact. Untouched.
They didn’t break it, he realized, mind ticking through possibilities like a cold machine. They didn’t twist it. They just... walked right through it.
A knot of unease coiled in his gut. Barriers — even simple ones like these — were not passive curtains. They noticed things by nature of cursed energy flow. Something about D and K’s presence bent that rule.
John pushed upright, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the thought. His brain was already a mess of quiet theories: Some tech trick? An innate cursed technique? Or something deeper, a trait built into them, like an innate veil against detection?
And beneath all that, the real thorn: How much do they know about sorcery? He didn’t buy for a second that Elysion’s black-ops dogs stumbled through layers of Jujutsu craft without understanding what they were walking through. Whoever held Perilous Siege’s leash most likely were aware of sorcery, but were they aware of his own nature?
His eyes drifted to the clock. ‘Six PM. Mist, rebellion, and now an uncomfortable dance with the Ark’s dirty hands.’
John flicked the stray bullet up from the floor, rolling its cold weight between his fingers.
He holstered the round, flicked off the lights, and vanished back into the grid of his hidden threads, mind already working on how to watch the watchers.
-
John watched the second hand on the battered wall clock drag itself past 3:17. His pen tapped a slow rhythm against Frima’s file… Not that there was much in it. A few clipped answers, one-word shrugs, and long, snore filled silences she clearly wanted to stretch forever.
Across from him, Frima lay half-collapsed on the couch, the side of her face pressed into a lumpy pillow she’d produced from… Actually, John wasn’t sure where she had pulled it from, just that it had appeared as soon as her head had hit the couch cushions. Her hair spilled like grey silk over the fabric, hiding half her closed eyes. Every so often, her lips moved, not to speak, but to mumble out a sleepy sigh that sounded suspiciously like a cat purring.
John cleared his throat softly. “Frima. You know this is… technically a counseling session, right? Maybe one word? A feeling, maybe?”
A muffled grunt answered him. Her hand shifted out from under the pillow just far enough for a thumb to pop up. A lazy thumbs-up. Then it vanished again as she burrowed deeper into the cushion.
He barked out a low laugh despite himself. “Brilliant.” He flicked his pen and scrawled on the page: ‘Patient status: content. Verbal output: zero. Recommended follow-up: more naps?’
He stood, stretching out the tightness in his back from hours of these sessions, and crossed to the old supply cabinet wedged between an overflowing bookshelf and a battered filing drawer. He rummaged past half-empty ration packs, extra files, and a stash of Anis’s pilfered soda’s until his fingers closed on a folded fleece. He tugged it free and gave it a quick shake.
Walking back, he paused by Frima’s side. Even now, she barely stirred, just the slow, steady rise and fall of her back. Carefully, he draped the blanket over her shoulders and down her side, tucking it gently under her elbow so it wouldn’t slide off.
For the first time all day, she actually moved: her lips curved up, not wide, but clear enough. A sleepy smile, a breath softer than a whisper “…Warm…”
He stepped back, made a note on her file: ‘Session concluded: patient asleep, prognosis …Good?’ then turned to the door just as it swung open.
Mihara stood in the doorway, fingers clasped, eyes flicking guiltily to Frima’s bundled shape, then back to him. “Commander John. I’m sorry I’m late — I should have come sooner. Is… now alright?”
John just sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with a weary grin. “Perfect timing, Mihara. She’s got this room booked for her nap now anyway. Let’s find somewhere quieter.”
John nodded her outside with a tilt of his chin.
Once the door clicked shut, he jerked his head toward the stairwell.
“C’mon. Roof’s empty. I need air. And you don’t strike me as a beanbag-and-tissues kind of patient.”
She shadowed him wordlessly up the stairs, hands clenched behind her back.
At the vending machine halfway, John punched for two cans of coffee. The machine whirred and clunked. Mihara just stared at her reflection in the dented metal panel.
“Here.” He slapped the can gently against her arm when she didn’t take it. She caught it on instinct.
“Thank you, Commander.”
The doors to the roof closed behind them with a sigh that felt almost polite. The short walk up gave Mihara space to stand rigid at his side, her hand curled around the still-unopened can of vending machine coffee. John caught her reflection in the polished wall: perfect posture, dead eyes.
He hadn’t known Yuni. She was clearly special to Mihara, but he only knew her as one more dead name in a long chain of ones he’d never saved.
He hated that about himself more than he’d admit. He shoved it down as the rooftop wind hit them.
“Come on,” he said, tilting his chin at the battered bench near the fencing. “Sit. Drink. Pretend we’re normal.”
Mihara obeyed without protest, folding onto the bench like she didn’t know how to take up space. He popped his own can, slurped the bitter heat. She just stared at hers.
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly, voice thin but steady. “For… being late today.”
John snorted softly. “You don’t owe me punctuality for this. This isn’t a debrief. It’s… space to talk about whatever you want.”
She flinched at the word. So he pressed on, casual but careful. “You met me what — once? So I won’t pretend I know your head better than you do. But I can lend a sympathetic ear and give advice if you ask for it. That, I can do.”
Mihara’s eyes flicked up, then away. Her thumb traced circles over the dented can. “Suyen would say I’m defective now.”
He shook his head. “She’s not here to say anything. So that leaves you. And right now, you’re here, and healthy.”
A bitter laugh caught in her throat but never made it out.
“I don’t know what to do with it. With the silence. Yuni, she… understood the parts of me no one else wants to see. She made them... normal. Beautiful.”
Her hand twitched, some phantom memory of chains, of whips, of pain turned holy. John tried to understand it. He’d read enough in her file to get a rough idea of their relationship. Enough to know he didn’t understand it fully.
“I never met her,” he said bluntly. “But I’ve met death. More than I’d like. And I’ve watched people crawl out the other side. Some don’t. Some do. I don’t have a cure for this.”
He tapped his can gently against hers until she startled, blinking back to him. “But I’m here until you figure out if you’re one of the ones who do.”
Mihara’s breath hitched. It might have been a laugh. It might have been a sob — she strangled it before he could tell.
“Thank you, Commander,” she whispered, formal but raw. Her grip finally cracked the tab open. Steam rose into the cold wind.
They sat like that for a while — two silhouettes at the edge of the outpost, one pretending he could shoulder grief he’d never really felt, the other just learning how to hold it without someone else to bind it down.
He didn’t say you’ll be fine. He didn’t believe in lies like that.
Instead, when her head dipped slightly, John just flicked a glance skyward and muttered under his breath, too soft for Mihara to hear:
‘I’m sorry I never met you, Yuni. But I’ll keep her upright awhile longer. Best I can do.’
Mihara’s breath shuddered once then caught in her throat like a stuck gear. She didn’t make a sound, but tears welled quick and hot, slipping down her cheek to vanish into the steam curling from her coffee.
She didn’t wipe them away. Didn’t hide them. Just sat there, shoulders stiff, staring at the metal fence and the sprawl of outpost lights below.
John didn’t speak. Words would cheapen it.
Instead he shifted, just enough to rest one gloved hand on the bench behind her, a silent line of warmth she could lean into if she wanted. Not a command. Not an order. Just… a place to rest the weight.
At first she didn’t move. But slowly, as another tear broke loose and tracked down her jaw, Mihara tilted. Barely. Her shoulder brushed his forearm, then pressed in, seeking that single point of human contact that didn’t demand anything back.
She didn’t sob. She didn’t choke out apologies. She just let it run — the grief, the shame of it, the raw animal need to be held steady for five heartbeats longer.
John kept his eyes forward. He didn’t dare look at her face; didn’t trust what it would do to see her like that. He focused on the wind, the far-off drone of the watchlights, the faint click of the rooftop security cam panning on its axis.
Inside, a voice he never spoke aloud muttered that he’d seen enough death to be numb, but never learned how to carry the living who hurt this way. Never learned how to say stay and mean safe.
But his arm stayed where it was. His breath stayed steady. And when Mihara’s weight sagged fully against him, soft and trembling but still so painfully precise in the way she tried to contain it, he turned just enough to brace her more firmly with his side.
-
John pushed the door open with a shoulder, an empty coffee cup in his hand. The room smelled like stale ventilation and ink toner, a cold, windowless planning cell that Perilous Siege had claimed as their nest for the night.
D and K were already there. K leaned against the wall near the door like a waiting guillotine, eyes snapping up the second he crossed the threshold.
“You’re late,” she bit out, her voice scraping the quiet like a blade on metal.
John didn’t stop moving. He tossed the apple core into a trash bin by the map table, shrugging out of his battered coat. “Yeah. And I’m here now. Relax.”
K pushed off the wall, boots heavy on the floor. “I said you’re late, Commander. We’re not your little outpost squad—”
“—Then fuck off!” The words cracked out harder than he meant, a flash of raw frustration escaping his throat before he could bite it down. The echo hung there for a breath. John’s jaw clenched, eyes locked on K’s narrowed glare.
Silence pressed the walls tight.
John exhaled, rolling his shoulders once. His tone softened, weariness threading through the apology. “...That was out of line. My fault. Been a long and emotional day. Let’s just get to it.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than the concrete walls. D stood by the projection console at the end of the table. She hadn’t moved but her voice broke the tension with clean authority.
“That is enough. Sit.”
K kept her stare locked a second longer, then turned away with a hiss through her teeth. She remained standing at her side of the table. John sat down opposite her, boots planted firm under the steel frame. His fingers tapped once on the cold metal, then stopped.
D keyed the projector alive. A dossier floated up above the table, a young woman’s face flickering in registry stills and blurred gala snapshots.
“Kamila Harrington. Twenty-four years old. Only child of Regional Advisor Harrington, Infrastructure Bureau, Northern Sectors. Married young. Husband diagnosed with Degenerative Spinal Sclerosis last year. Within two months, she reversed her profile from reclusive spouse to social centerpiece.”
The images cycled. Kamila laughing behind a mask. Kamila whispering with an official on a balcony. Kamila swirling a glass under gold chandeliers.
D’s tone stayed calm, each line pinned and precise. “One event every seven to nine days. Invitations by hand. No venue used twice. Full property buys or long-term luxury leases. Security teams rotated every event.”
K barked a dry laugh, without warmth. “She switched from nursemaid to Ark’s most spoiled champagne barnacle. Everything dripping charity and silk.”
D flicked her eyes at K. One glance was enough. The quip died unfinished.
“What triggers our presence is not her spending. It is the disappearances.”
A new set of records replaced the photos. Attendance lists blurred into missing person reports. Red markers crawled across a city map like fresh wounds.
“Seventy-two confirmed unique attendees since she began. Forty-one vanished with no evidence of interference. Local clean sweeps after each disappearance report zero trace. Mist trades surge in these zones within days of each event. Small doses, distributed in micro-cells. Both street-level gangs and organized cells feeding into larger shipments.”
John leaned forward, studying the map. His voice stayed even, with no emotion to soften the facts. “So she either moves the product herself or hosts the real brains behind it. Or both.”
“Correct.” D switched the display again. Shipment codes, dock logs, security camera snippets of masked handlers passing sealed crates.
K spoke up, voice low and sharp. “So we slip in, dig up proof she’s funneling Mist. If we find it, we gut the chain from inside out.”
John’s eyes stayed on the files a moment longer before he spoke.
“We should pull this back a step. Before we crash her next dance, we investigate properly. Track her routines, see if the missing ones are really dead or just hiding. We move on fact, not gossip.”
D inclined her head once. “Agreed. A direct breach would be reckless. We verify the context, confirm her connections to Mist, then act.”
K leaned her hip against the table edge again, a hint of mockery in her voice. “Which means we snoop. You sniff around her glitter parties, we peel the pretty layers, and if you say cut, we cut. If you say keep watching, we keep watching. Simple enough for you, Commander?”
John ignored the jab. His fingers drummed once on the data pad, mind ticking behind his blank expression. There was something sour in his gut that no tactical clarity would clear.
“One thing. Why is my word the final call? This is your show. I’m the outside factor. Since when does a government kill squad need a third party to sign off on pulling a trigger?”
K opened her mouth to retort but D spoke first, her tone the same clipped precision that never changed.
“Because this is not a simple field removal. Kamila Harrington’s family position shields her from direct black-bagging. No warrant, no recorded proof, no standard extraction. Central Command does not want a scandal. If she dies, they want a credible buffer for deniability.”
John’s smile had no warmth. “Which is me.”
D did not blink. “Correct. If questioned, you acted without explicit Ark sanction. A rogue operator. Perilous Siege and by extension central government authority will be clear of liability. That is the cost of working outside the file.”
For a moment the room was quiet except for the hum of the projection. John weighed the insult in that truth, found it expected, and let it roll off him. He only cared that they were honest enough to stop the pretense.
“Fine. So I do your political clean-up for you. Just say that next time.”
K made a noise that might have been amusement. “Good. Then no more pretty explanations.”
D closed the layout with a flick of her finger. A new plan replaced it. The projection now displayed a sequence of social calendars, half-lit restaurants, and public gatherings spread across three districts.
“When Kamila is not hosting, she attends select private gatherings. High profile. Easy to slip into with the right background. Our cover will be a newlywed Sovereign pair recently returned from the South Rim. Acceptable wealth, verified identity if scanned, and a reputation that matches attendance at closed high circles.”
John squinted at the calendar. “Newlyweds. Really.”
K snorted. “Easier to sell a story if it has roots. Fake rings, fake honeymoon photos, one background check. People believe what they want to gossip about.”
John let out a quiet scoff. “Great. So I get to be a groom. Who’s my other wife then, you or her?”
K’s grin turned wolfish. “You wish. Only D is playing the wife. I run independent. Shadows and alleys suit me more than dancing and small talk.”
John’s eyes flicked to D. She stared back, impassive as ever.
“So. Newlyweds on tour. Infiltrate her parties, blend in, gather dirt, find a live lead or confirmation. If she is clean, we pull back. If she is filth, we bury her deep. I call it. You two make it happen.”
D nodded once. “Correct. Clean entry, quiet surveillance, surgical result. Your comfort with the cover is irrelevant. It will hold.”
K rolled her shoulder, a slow predatory stretch. “Just remember, Commander. A slip in your wedding act makes my job louder. Don’t make me clean up a mess because you forgot how to hold hands.”
John pushed his chair back, a grim grin playing across his face. “Keep your collar on, K. I know how to lie with a smile.”
D deactivated the projection and turned to face both of them. Her voice stayed calm but the final note was iron.
“Then prepare. Departure at dawn. Wardrobe, credentials, access points. No errors.”
John’s breath left him in a single word.
“Understood.”
-
John ran the razor down the side of his jaw in slow, careful strokes. White foam gathered at the blade’s edge, rinsed away under the hiss of warm water. He had not shaved this close in months.
When he was done, he straightened and studied the man in the mirror. The difference was striking. No beard to shadow the lines of his mouth, no bristles to hide the angles beneath the eyes. The fresh synthetic skin laid smooth over old scars made him look almost young again, if you ignored the cold edge lurking under the neat Sovereign suit.
His fingers drifted to the wig waiting beside the sink. The black hair was styled conservatively, parted with careful precision. He turned it in his hands once, then glanced at his own cropped curls beneath the harsh bathroom light.
He almost laughed.
“Maybe I should just dye the damn thing and call it a day,” he muttered to himself. He could almost picture Rapi’s unimpressed glare if she saw him fussing over something so trivial.
He slid the wig on, tugging it until it settled flush. The wire-frame glasses came next, balancing across the bridge of his newly even nose.
The stranger in the glass offered no opinion. Just a perfectly acceptable Sovereign, clean-cut and polite, with no hint of the brawler or killer beneath.
A soft hiss of the main door broke his focus. He looked up just as D stepped inside — and the final piece of the absurd puzzle fell into place.
Gone was the tactical shadow that had haunted the safehouse corridors these past days. In her place stood a woman in a tight charcoal dress that curved over her hips and left one shoulder bare under a draped jacket. The small holster tucked near her thigh did nothing to ruin the picture. Her hair, pinned high with deliberate elegance, framed her pale neck and the delicate ink marking peeking from under her collarbone.
For a moment, John forgot to hide his stare.
She closed the door behind her, calm as ever, then let her eyes pass over him. They paused at his jaw, the fresh skin, the absence of stubble.
“You shaved,” she said, almost like an observation in a lab report.
“Trying to look the part,” he answered. “Still thinking if I should just dye it and ditch the wig.”
She stepped closer, inspecting the line of his collar, adjusting the lapel with a flick of her fingers. He caught the faint scent of clean fabric and something sharper underneath, gun oil and faint perfume, an odd contradiction that suited her.
“The wig stays. Changing your natural hair risks residue that can betray the disguise later. This holds.”
She stepped back and tilted her head. The faint curve at the corner of her mouth was not quite a smile, but not far from one.
“Acceptable. Pack light. We move now.”
John gave a quiet scoff, more amused than annoyed. “Yes, ma’am.”
Minutes later, the two of them walked side by side through the main corridor of the outpost’s upper level. The few soldiers and clerks on duty scattered at the sight, casting curious looks at the polished Sovereign and the woman at his arm.
Outside the reinforced glass, the rising arc lights of the Ark glowed like a distant fortress on the ceiling of the buried world. Somewhere up there waited a gilded cage stuffed with gossip, luxury, and, if their luck held, more than enough rot to justify this masquerade.
D matched his pace without a word, the quiet click of her heels steady beside the low rumble of the elevator doors sliding open ahead.
John stepped inside first. She followed, her eyes straight ahead. For a moment, reflected in the polished steel, they almost looked like the real thing. A polished power couple from old money, ready to smile for the Ark’s cameras.
He met her eyes in the reflection, mouth pulling into a faint grin.
“Ready to be a honeymoon scandal, dear wife?”
She did not blink. Only spoke two words, cold and certain as the closing doors.
“Stay in character.”
The elevator hummed, carrying them downward, toward the Ark and everything waiting behind its polished walls.
The steady hum of the elevator filled the small cabin. D stood at John’s left, hands folded neatly over a small clutch bag, eyes locked ahead. She might as well have been carved from stone.
John shifted his weight, feeling the new suit pull across his shoulders, then slipped a hand into the inside pocket for his battered phone. A quick tap opened the encrypted chat tagged Counters (active) — last messages were from Hana, location pings and short updates from the surface scouting point.
He typed without overthinking it.
just got married lol
He smirked, hit send, then held down the power button until the screen flickered dark. Best to save battery until he could afford a secure charge. He pocketed the dead device, ignoring D’s sidelong glance.
-
The wind knifed across the surface camp where Hana and the Counters crouched behind an abandoned rail car, finalizing supply checks before pushing deeper into the drift zone.
Rapi’s handheld buzzed against her chest harness. She adjusted her rifle, flicked the lock open with her thumb, and squinted at the tiny screen glowing in the frost.
Neon leaned in over her shoulder, nose red from the cold. “Did John finally text back? What’s up?”
Rapi’s lips pressed to a thin line. She turned the screen without comment.
Neon snorted, breath fogging the icy air. “Oh, no way. Did he—? He did. I owe Anis ten credits.”
Anis, farther down the line, was prodding at a stuck crate latch with the butt of her gun. She perked up at the sound of her name.
“What? He blow himself up yet?”
Neon grinned wide. “Worse. He got married.”
Anis whooped loud enough for Hana to snap her head around, scowling under her fur-lined hood.
“Focus,” Hana barked, voice cutting through the wind. “Move in three. Put that away, Rapi.”
Rapi grunted, pocketed the device, and muttered just loud enough for Neon to hear.
“When we get back, I’ll kill him.”
-
A shiver crawled up the back of John’s neck, as if someone far away had just sworn an unspoken vengeance on him.
He rolled his shoulders, dismissing the thought. D watched his reflection in the polished metal door but said nothing.
“Something wrong?” she asked anyway, her tone cool.
John just exhaled a soft laugh. “Probably. But it’ll wait.”
The elevator lights shifted to green. A muted chime signaled final approach to the Ark’s inner corridor.
Together, Sovereign husband and flawless wife stepped forward into the trap they had chosen to spring.
The walk to their new abode was short.
John stepped through the polished double doors and immediately came to a stop.
He had expected opulence. He hadn’t expected a living room bigger than the entire outpost mess hall and his quarters combined.
Tall windows framed the Ark skyline in layered blue and white. Furniture sat perfectly arranged like a showroom: deep velvet sofas, dark polished wood, delicate lamps that probably cost more than any weapon in his armory. Even the air smelled expensive — fresh and faintly floral, as if the walls themselves had been perfumed.
He let out a low whistle, dragging a hand through his disguised hair.
“Well. I see you settled for ‘modest’.”
D moved past him, her heels silent on the marble. She checked a concealed security panel near the entrance to what looked like a study.
“This residence was built exclusively for Sovereigns. All pre-existing structures were cleared when the sector was renovated. Any occupant here is cleared at the highest social tier.”
John trailed behind her, fingers brushing over the back of a sofa that tried to swallow his hand whole.
“Uh-huh. And how exactly did you get us the keys? Intimidation? Blackmail? Threaten someone? Sleep with Central’s housing director? You can tell me, I promise not to get jealous.”
D did not glance back. “It is secure. That is sufficient.”
He snorted softly, accepting that as final. He stepped around her to the center table where she had already set down a slim tablet. She tapped it once and slid it toward him.
“Read this. Memorize every detail. Kamila targets novelty and rumor. A new couple with old money is bait she cannot ignore. We appear in her orbit until she invites us closer. At her event, we verify her ties to Mist and the disappearances.”
John sank onto the edge of the nearest couch and picked up the tablet. It flickered awake to reveal a dossier so thick it might have been a corporate merger file.
He sat on the edge of a cream sofa and flicked the tablet awake. The first page hit him immediately: Steve. Age 32. Owner of a very profitable logistics portfolio. Known for rapid wealth growth and unusual investment maneuvers in mining and transport sectors.
He snorted, halfway to a laugh. “Steve. Amazing. I look like a Steve to you?”
D did not answer. He suspected that was her version of yes.
He swiped deeper into the document, reading aloud now, half for himself and half to watch the corner of her mouth tighten.
“Married to one Diana. Relationship: Ten years of devoted courtship, culminating in a private wedding last month at Sovereign Gardens. Noted for public displays of affection and joint philanthropy. Oh, lovely. So we’re that couple everyone hates.”
She crossed her arms but held her silence.
He kept scrolling. The deeper he went, the worse it got. The ‘financial summary’ page read like a hedge fund bloated on rumors. The ‘social reputation’ section read like an embarrassing fanfic.
“Listen to this - Diana is very submissive to her husband's demands, her most favorite flowers are the ones her husband buys her.”
His bark of laughter bounced off the high ceiling. He turned the tablet so she had to see it.
“This isn’t a dossier. It’s the cringiest high school romance someone ever wrote. You didn’t write this part yourself, did you?”
A faint flush touched the tops of her ears. Her eyes narrowed a fraction but her voice stayed level.
“Such phrasing softens scrutiny. A Sovereign wife is expected to appear elegant and devoted. The more predictable we are, the fewer questions they ask about your origin.”
He leaned back on the couch, grin wide under the neat fake hair. “Predictable, huh? You’re sure you can keep up with this part? There’s a lot in here about flowers, doting glances, love poems on anniversary cards— oh look, our fabricated anniversary is next week. Should I book a violinist and scatter rose petals in the hallway?”
She stepped closer, reached out, and calmly tapped the screen so it flipped to the final plan.
“Learn it. The rest is meaningless. They are drawn to new money scandals and gossip. If we appear interesting enough to whisper about, Kamila will notice.”
John’s grin softened into a quieter smile as he flicked through the last pages: honeymoon stubs, fake property deeds, photos so carefully edited they almost fooled him for real.
“Alright, dear wife. I’ll study every word. If I slip up, you can scold me at dinner like a proper newlywed bride.”
She turned away without acknowledging the joke, but he caught the tiny exhale that betrayed she’d heard him.
-
John stepped out into the corridor, a neatly wrapped gift box balanced on one palm. The hallway was silent and pristine, lined with polished stone and subtle recessed lighting. He paused as the faint sweetness of flowers caught his nose.
Eyes narrowing, he swept the corridor with a calm glance, noticing slender ceramic diffusers tucked at regular intervals between the doorframes. Beautiful, subtle… but something about it made him hum low in his throat.
Under his breath, so softly not even the sensors would pick it up, he murmured, “Ruinous Gambit.”
The world brightened behind his eyes. The gentle floral aroma split apart layer by layer — underneath the sweetness lingered something bitter and chemical, masked expertly but still there if one knew where to sniff. Not poison. Not quite. But enough to file away for later.
He felt a light touch at his arm. D stepped up beside him, looped her hand through his elbow with effortless grace, and spoke in a low command, eyes flicking down the hallway.
“Quiet. Visitors.”
At once, John’s posture shifted. He had always carried himself like a professional — shoulders square, steps precise — but now something deeper settled in his bones. The half-slouched ease vanished. His back straightened into a subtle line that radiated authority without brashness. His chin lifted just enough to claim respect without demanding it. His eyes softened into polite calm, careful to meet D’s gaze gently before drifting away again, never lingering rudely.
He dipped his head in a fractioned bow toward the approaching footsteps, hands loose but arranged with perfect courtesy at the small of his back, palm resting over wrist. A deliberate pose — exactly as the old clans had done it in jujutsu clan’s conference rooms, where words could mean a gift or a knife under the floorboards.
D felt the shift immediately. She turned her head slightly, studying his profile. It wasn’t forced. The lines of his neck, the measured breaths, the way he waited just a heartbeat longer than necessary before speaking — it all sang of high etiquette training. But just beneath the surface, she caught it too: the subtle pauses, the faint slip in his eye line as if double-checking the placement of his own hands, the way his weight shifted a touch too consciously from heel to toe.
To any onlooker, he was the perfect Sovereign husband — refined, attentive, respectful to the point of old money pedigree. To D, who knew how flawless actors in the Ark’s upper tier truly moved, it was clear: he had learned this somewhere old and formal... but not by birthright. He had watched others do it first, absorbing it until it stuck like a second skin over different bones.
She filed that mental note away without blinking.
In a heartbeat her voice flipped from cold command to warm affection, clear and sweet enough to embarrass the both of them.
“Oh, darling! Do you think our neighbors will like us? I do hope they don’t think we’re intruding on their quiet hallway!”
John covered a snort with a polite chuckle.
A soft clack of heels echoed just around the corner. A woman rounded it with a bright smile already plastered on her face. She was overdressed for a hallway stroll — layers of pastel silk, furs, and pearls tight at her throat, hair pinned too perfectly to be casual.
“Oh my, new faces!” She pressed her hands together in delight. “What a pleasant surprise in this quiet building. You must be the newlyweds they mentioned at the front desk!”
John dipped his head in a small bow, precise and respectful. “Good morning, madam. I am Steve, and this is my wife, Diana. We’re very pleased to meet you.”
D mirrored him with a graceful nod, her hand tightening slightly on his arm as she slipped right back into the role. “It’s our first day settling in, so we thought we should introduce ourselves properly. And, well—” she lifted her free hand to show the small box wrapped in pale silk, “—a little greeting never hurts.”
The woman practically beamed, stepping closer to tap a manicured nail against the gift.
“So thoughtful! Ah, allow me, I’m the Chairwoman of these apartment’s, head of our little residence association. Some say I keep this place more orderly than Central Security.”
She laughed at her own joke, and D matched it with a shy, elegant giggle. “Oh, I can tell we’ll be in good hands then, Chairwoman. Please forgive us if we’re a bit awkward. We married quite young, and ever since then, well—”
She cast a quick, bashful glance at John that would have made an entire theatre troupe weep with envy. “—he can hardly stand to let me out of his sight. It’s made socializing rather... tricky.”
Chairwoman Sato clasped her hands over her heart dramatically. “You two are absolutely precious! You must let me help. We have a lovely couples-only circle — very private, only the best people. It would suit you perfectly. I’ll send you an invitation, and in return—”
John started to tune out the conversation, his mind nodding off despite his best attempts to keep focus. A sudden brake in the talking broke his self imposed trance, and he inclined his head again, face calm but eyes faintly amused. “Of course, Chairwoman. We would be honored.”
She pressed a delicate card into D’s palm, then patted John’s sleeve as if to check he was real. “New money brings fresh stories. Everyone will be dying to know yours.”
With a final grin, she floated away, humming happily to herself, no doubt already drafting a group message about the building’s new gossip centerpiece.
When the echo of her shoes faded, D withdrew her arm, her expression shifting back to cold efficiency in a blink.
John, unable to resist, leaned in just a fraction closer and murmured with mock affection, “Well done, honey. You nearly had me convinced we actually like each other.”
She shot him a warning glare that could have iced the entire hallway. “Keep your voice down. And if you call me that again when we’re alone, I will break your cover before Kamila ever gets the chance.”
He chuckled under his breath, pivoting toward the next suite door, the faint sharp scent still pricking at the back of his sharpened senses.
“Of course, dear wife. Onward to the next poor soul we’re going to terrorize with our fairy tale.”
-
The last of the polite bows and neighborly farewells drifted behind the newly minted Sovereigns like a ghost as the door sealed them back inside their private domain. John shed the mask of the polished clan heir piece by piece — jacket first, gloves next — letting the raw tension drain from his shoulders as he paced the length of the main suite.
D leaned against the arm of the sofa, arms crossed, watching him with that same unwavering calm. “Tomorrow, eleven o’clock. Royal Road’s Premium Palace Hotel. Couples-only circle. You will speak only when spoken to about investments. I will answer the specifics.”
John barked a tired laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Good. Because I still can’t explain the difference between an ETF and a trust. And if they ask about ‘Steve’s holdings’ too deeply, we’re screwed.”
She ignored the joke. Or rather, absorbed it and filed it away. Her mind, he could tell, was already combing for loopholes in their paper-thin fairytale.
“They will want to know how to make money faster than they already do. That is what Sovereigns value most. Keep your answers vague, project confidence, and defer to my clarifications. They will not see past the performance if we give them new rumors to chew on.”
John dropped onto the edge of an armchair, exhaling sharply. “Fine by me. Let them gawk. Let’s just get through it without a bullet in my back.”
D tilted her head slightly, the faintest flicker of something softer passing over her eyes. “Rest, Commander. We will refine your lines in the morning.”
-
Steam drifted from the en suite bathroom as John stepped out, hair damp, loose sleepwear clinging warm to skin that still ached from old, half-healed bruises. He moved carefully, towel slung over one shoulder, eyes half-lidded with bone-deep fatigue.
He turned the bedroom corner and froze.
D sat atop the bed, the Ark skyline burning behind her through the window, city lights painting fire across her pale skin and the smooth gray slip dress hugging every hidden line his brain had politely pretended not to catalog. Her outer jacket slipped low off one shoulder, an intentional oversight or sheer exhaustion, he couldn’t tell.
Beside her on the blanket, the flat metallic glint of her axe watched him too.
He caught himself staring and coughed, glancing around for an excuse. “Ah. Sorry. Got the rooms mixed up. I’ll just—”
“Stay here.”
Her tone left no seam for argument. She didn’t even look at him, just patted the far side of the bed with a light tap of her fingers.
He stood rooted to the spot, every inch of old-school clan etiquette at war with the burning reminder that he had never shared a bed with anyone, not for comfort, not for show.
“I can take the couch. It’s big enough.”
She finally looked at him then, crimson eyes steady but edged with quiet threat. “Lie down. Sleep. This room is the most secure. Night is the ideal time for infiltration or assassination. I will keep watch.”
He rubbed a hand down his face, the towel nearly slipping to the floor.
“Fine. But you wake me in four. I’ll take over. No sense both of us burning out.”
She said nothing to that, only shifted a fraction to make space as he perched gingerly beside her, then carefully lay back against the cool sheets. The faint press of the mattress beneath her weight made the whole situation feel more intimate.
He dragged one arm over his eyes to block out the city lights flickering through the curtains.
“Four hours, D. Promise.”
No answer. Only the faintest scoff of air from her nose.
Sometime Later
D remained perfectly still at the edge of the bed, axe within reach, eyes trained on the shadows that drifted over the window glass. Her ears tracked every hum of security drones beyond the balcony, every muted footfall of the upper corridors.
Beside her, John twitched once in sleep. His breath caught, teeth grinding faintly before his lips parted in a hoarse whisper she did not understand. His hand flexed against the blanket, searching for something. Or someone.
He jolted half-awake once, eyes wide but unfocused. Then he found her silhouette in the corner of his vision, and his body went slack again, pulled down into uneasy sleep by sheer exhaustion.
D watched the process repeat, again and again, her own mind cataloging the restless tremors, the subtle signs of a man who did not fear dying but hated being at the mercy of sleep.
She did not wake him at four hours.
She only adjusted the loose fall of her jacket back over her shoulder, checked the magazine of her sidearm, and watched him breathe, the Ark’s city lights painting both their secrets in quiet gold.