Tevin stood silhouetted against the distant main hall, a predatory smile slowly stretching across his face. Behind him, a dozen shadows armed with pulse-rifles blocked the threshold. The service tunnel offered no cover. Casmir’s hand, still warm on her cheek, tightened momentarily before sliding away. He straightened, a casual shrug of his uninjured shoulder, his bloodied shirt clinging to him like a second skin. He had barely a minute, the bullet wound still leaking crimson onto the concrete floor. “Well, well, well,” Tevin’s voice echoed, syrupy and triumphant. “Look what the rats dragged in. And it seems one of them is already bleeding out. A pity, Volante. Your theatrics were almost amusing.” Casmir coughed, a wet rattle tearing at his throat. He swayed, clutching his ribs while fixing Tevin with an unsteady grin. “Theatrics?” he wheezed, lips curling. “Oh, Tevin, you wound me. Or perhaps it’s your tailor who’s truly venomous. Honestly, this suit… it’s atrocious. The lapels alone could kill a small animal.” Tevin’s smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. “Still making jokes, even as you die?” “Dying?” Casmir gasped, leaning heavily against the grimy wall, his face contorting in a grotesque grimace. A sheen of sweat broke out on his brow, mingling with the grease. “Oh, I assure you, my dear Tevin, this is just a particularly aggressive case of sartorial despair. Look at this fabric! Is this rayon? Rayon, Tevin! Did your bride-to-be pick this out? No wonder she looks so… distant.” He paused, a gurgling sound escaping him, and then continued with a new surge of theatrical agony. “The stitching… it’s unraveling… much like your future, I imagine. Tell me, do you pay them to make you look like a perpetually startled groundskeeper?” His voice was loud, exaggerated, designed to grate. The men behind Tevin shifted, a few exchanging uncomfortable glances. Tevin’s face darkened, his triumph curdling into visible irritation. He hated being ridiculed, especially about his appearance, a weakness Olesia had noted years ago. From Olesia’s earpiece came a sharp crackle. Fennick. “Olesia! I’m in. Give me a target.” “PA system,” she murmured back, her voice barely audible over Casmir’s escalating complaints about Tevin’s “catastrophically cheap shoes.” She kept her eyes on the riflemen, noting their stances. The duct was narrow, pinching them into a cluster. Good. “Right then,” Fennick’s voice was crisp, efficient. “Brace yourselves for a masterpiece.” Above them, a screech of feedback sheared through the Sunken Palace. Not the elegant waltzes or the polite chatter of the wedding gala, but a distorted, amplified voice. Tevin Rostova’s voice. His actual, whiny, groveling voice, echoing through every speaker, every hidden vent, into the grand ballroom itself. “Please, Father, just this once! Lady Veridian is watching. If I don’t secure the Volante contract, she’ll mock me for weeks. I can’t live like that! My reputation… it’s already so fragile. Remember what happened with the Gilt-Leaf auction? She said my *posture* was weak!” The broadcast was raw, unfiltered, pulled from some forgotten private recording. It was Tevin at his most insecure, his most pathetic. The entire wedding party, the Morvane aristocracy, would be listening. Tevin froze, his face draining of color. “What is this? Turn it off!” he bellowed, his voice cracking with pure mortification. He spun around, frantic, searching for the source, his attention ripped from Casmir, from Olesia, from everything but the searing shame of his private humiliation laid bare. The soldiers behind him tensed, unsettled by their employer's disarray. “And then… oh, the shame! She called my taste in wines ‘pedestrian’! PEDESTRIAN, Father! My future hinges on this! I need to impress her! I need a bigger yacht! A faster airship! How else will I ever prove I’m worthy of… of anything?” The recording concluded with a long, drawn-out whine, a sound of utter self-pity. The corridor froze into silence, punctuated only by tinny gasps filtering down from the ballroom ceiling speakers. Tevin’s face was a mask of pure, unadulterated fury and embarrassment. His hands curled into fists, gaze darting between his bewildered squad and the opening overhead. That was her cue. Olesia moved. Her gloved hand darted to her wrist, where the heavy metal band of her corsage still rested. It wasn’t just a morbid ornament; it was a highly specialized, encrypted terminal. Her thumbs flew across the minuscule interface, a blur of practiced motion. Her eyes scanned the vault schematics, now projected in a faint green overlay on her inner lens. There. Automated ceiling emplacements, installed around the relic vault. Tevin hadn't expected anyone to know about them, much less how to access their control frequency. A series of rapid clicks, a complex bypass algorithm executed in milliseconds. The battery, built for terminal suppression, yielded to her override. She altered their loadout to high-density rubber slugs. Designed to incapacitate, not kill, but to leave a lasting, agonizing memory. “Enjoy the show, Tevin,” Olesia muttered, a cold smile gracing her lips. Her thumb pressed the final key. “Full spray.” From the ceiling panels, grinding gears dropped four automated nests into position, their rotating barrels locking onto Tevin’s squad. They didn't even have time to raise their pulse-rifles. A blizzard of rubber projectiles erupted, striking with bone-jarring force. The narrow space amplified the impact, the sickening thud of rounds against armored vests and unprotected limbs. Shouts of pain, curses, and the clatter of dropped weapons filled the air. Casmir, who had been dramatically collapsing, straightened with astonishing speed, his earlier agony vanishing. He grabbed Olesia’s arm, pulling her back just as a stray round ricocheted off the wall where her head had been moments before. Tevin, caught completely off guard, screamed as a volley of rubber bullets slammed into his chest and legs. He stumbled backward, a look of shocked disbelief on his face, before losing his footing and tumbling into the grimy depths of a muddy drainage ditch running along the side of the conduit. The cold, foul-smelling water splashed over him, caking his expensive suit in filth. He sputtered, gasping, his face contorted in a mix of pain and abject humiliation. “Next time,” Olesia called out, her voice clear and cutting through the chaos, “choose your targets more carefully, Tevin. And your tailor.” The automated guns kept hammering, driving the survivors back beneath an unbroken barrage of blunt-force slugs. The path was clear. Casmir pulled Olesia forward, through the scattering of dazed, groaning men. Her gaze fell to the floor, to the Succession Relic dagger Tevin must have dropped in his frantic retreat. Its hilt gleamed, a dark, polished obsidian. She scooped it up, the cool, heavy metal fitting perfectly in her grasp. As they sprinted past the collapsed riflemen, Olesia’s ocular display flickered. The dagger in her hand wasn’t just a ceremonial relic. It hummed with a faint energy, a resonance that synced with the Sunken Palace’s deeper systems. Her internal schematics updated, flashing a new, terrifying message. The dagger was a physical override key. A master control. And a single, horrifying line pulsed red across her vision: *Self-Destruct Sequence: Activated. Countdown Initiated.* Tevin, in his rage, had done it. He hadn't just intended a massacre; he meant to sink the entire estate, taking everyone with it, including himself, rather than suffer humiliation.

The Distraction Protocol