Chapter Text
Aracnid moved with haste, her heels silent on the carpeted gallery stair. She didn’t feel the need to look back. Musha was already in position upstairs, and Cecilia would’ve warned her if something had gone off course... At least, she should have. The second floor was quiet, it was less crowded-- Fewer guests wandered up here-- most of them preferred to be seen, not to see. A few leaned near paintings with manufactured interest, drinks in hand, laughter fake as ever. Still, she continued her pace without giving them a second thought.
The hallway narrowed near the Rivera collection, dimmed slightly for atmosphere. She was almost there.
Then she paused.
Ventro wasn’t at his post.
He was supposed to be here... pacing, nervous, within reach. Her fingers twitched slightly at her side, muscle memory prepping for the lift, but there was no target. Just a pair of guards standing too close together near the entrance to the east wing. One leaned against the wall, bored. The other wasn’t supposed to be here at all.
Her posture didn’t change. Neither did her pace. But the irritation behind her ribs sharpened slightly.
Someone shifted the rotation. Why?
She scanned without moving her head. No cameras that she could see but that didn’t mean much, these kinds of places were built on invisible eyes. She drifted toward a painting-- one of the Riveras, fog and water and ruined cityscape-- and let her gaze linger. Her profile faced the guards. She could feel one of them looking at her... thankfully just noticing her.
Too early for him to be gazing too hard at her.
There was a shift in the atmosphere, a change in pressure one might say.. Like someone had opened a door down the hall and didn’t close it all the way. Her jaw flexed behind the veil.
Ventro’s not here.
Timing was slipping, and the clock was still running. The ballroom’s glow dimmed behind Aracnid as she stepped away from the main floor, heels quietly stepping across marble tile. Champagne chatter carried from the crowd, dull and meaningless now. Her target was late returning to his table, ten minutes too long. She noticed, as always. A soft flick of her wrist adjusted her mask. The lights here were drenched in gold, all reflective surfaces and crystal drops. Every step glittered like artifice. But beneath the shine, she’d seen the shift: a guard repositioned. A cluster of guests shepherded off course by some low-level handler. And the replacement waiter? He seemed so... perfect, so stiff.
This wasn’t random.
She stopped near a towering orchid arrangement, the perfume of it syrupy and overdone. In its shadow, her hand lifted, brushing against the edge of her bodice where the communicator hid in plain sight, camouflaged as jewelry.
There was someone here who shouldn’t be. Someone who noticed them first.
—
"If things go sideways," Musha had said, leaning over the spread of blueprints in the back seat of the car earlier that evening, "we improvise. Stay on mission, but prioritize separation. Aracnid, you pivot. Make noise if you have to, just don’t make it look like noise."
Cecilia had nodded, hoodie sleeves bunched to her elbows. "I can ghost out. Hit the servers, reroute cameras. Just give the word."
"And if we can’t get out clean?" Aracnid had asked, lacing her gloves slowly.
"Then we leave teeth marks on the inside of this place," Musha had said. Her cigarette burned low.
—
Aracnid exhaled slowly. Her gaze swept the gala floor again. No sign of the mark. No sign of the handler either. But there, by the mirrored bar, a man in a dove-gray suit. His face..
Her eyes narrowed. "There you are."
She pivoted gracefully, rejoining the crowd with practiced ease, smile painted soft and distracted. Her fingers found the edge of a passing tray, took a flute of champagne. Her shoulders lowered.
Plan B. Now or never.
.
.
.
The music softened for just a moment: a beat dropped out, a key shifted, something small changed in the air... barely enough for most people to notice, but Aracnid felt it in her teeth. She turned her head slightly, scanning the sea of rich fabrics and lacquered smiles. Glasses clinked. Perfume clouded the air in ribbons. Drones hovered overhead capturing the scene. And just across the ballroom, near the sculpture centerpiece.. he was there again.
That man.
Same pale suit, same smooth, unbothered gait, holding a glass but not drinking from it... Staring back at her. No-- watching her. Aracnid didn’t look away. Just squared her shoulders a degree more and stepped to the side as if to approach. Testing the waters.
He smiled. It wasn’t wide or warm, just a curl of the mouth like he knew something she didn’t or maybe like he wanted her to think that. He lifted his glass slightly in a lazy mock-toast, then turned casually into the crowd.
She followed.
She wasn't careless or rushed with her pursuit, she was gliding through the slow churn of bodies, past velvet gowns and gemstone earrings, past the gilded chatter of politicians and performers pretending they belonged in the same room. Her heels made no sound on the polished marble.
She turned the corner where he had vanished--
And the lights flickered.
Just once.
Enough to pull a few eyes upward. Then a muffled crash, sharp and metallic. A server tripped over a tray of empty champagne flutes, the sound fractured the room, a startled laugh, then.. someone screamed. A flash of movement at the far edge of the floor-- two men in suits brushing past security.
Her hand twitched toward the clasp at her hip but by the time she turned back toward the sculpture--
He was gone.
No pale suit. No glass. No smirk.
Just candlelight dancing across polished stone, and the sudden weight of her own reflection caught in the mirror behind it.
Was it her he was watching or was he watching something else entirely?
The crash of the tray still echoed faintly as Aracnid moved through the crowd, but she wasn’t looking at the mess. Her eyes scanned for the man in the dove-gray suit. He was gone. No sign near the sculpture. No flash of pale fabric threading through the crowd.
He had vanished.
She pivoted slightly, scanning the mirrored wall behind the centerpiece. Her reflection looked calm, elegant, poised. No one watching would’ve noticed the tension in her shoulder, or how her gloved hand tightened ever so slightly around the stem of her glass.
Then she spotted it: A curtain, just barely pulled back near the caterers’ staging corner. Behind it, a door that was left ajar.
He’d gone through there. She didn’t need proof. Her instincts were rarely wrong. She crossed the floor casually, slipping behind the velvet drape. The door wasn’t locked. She eased it open, slipping into the hush of the service hallway beyond.
Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The air shifted -- colder here, industrial. No perfume or champagne, just the scent of steel and cleaning solvent. A maintenance corridor. Long. Narrow... and quiet.
Footsteps echoed faintly ahead.. and it definitely wasn't a waiter.
She moved with haste, heels quiet against the tile. The folds of her gown brushed her legs, but the blade at her hip didn’t shift. She knew how to move without sound.
This wasn’t just some curious guest.
Who are you? What are you doing here?
He turned a corner up ahead. She slowed, hugging the wall. Didn’t breathe for a moment. Another door. This one metal, slightly ajar. He slipped through and it closed behind him with a soft click. She waited. Three full seconds. Maybe four.
No movement.
She approached, her hand hovering just above her side.. not grabbing the blade yet, just... ready. If he was part of something bigger, she had to know. If he was alone, even better.
She touched the door.
And pushed.