A sharp rasp tore from Zova’s throat. Garek hung limp between Corvan's hands, boots dragging along the polished floor toward the transport craft. The synthetic haze shattered under a clean, cold surge of venom. Marnix’s sneer faded beneath the glare she fixed on Corvan's neck, bypassing the butler entirely. “Garek!” Zova sprinted forward, but Corvan hauled his hostage around, using Garek's bleeding torso as a human shield. Zova braked, the soles of her scuffed uniform flats squealing against the tiles. Her empty hands curled into rigid hooks as the smell of burnt synthetic fabric and hot ozone filled her mouth. Four operatives in obsidian combat plate formed an interlocking wall across the concourse, raising twin-barreled pulse rifles. Zova snapped her posture into a low crouch, cataloging exits across the vault while the shuttle's hydraulic boarding ramp groaned upward. A rectangular service vent hung loose along the baseboard twelve paces right. She lunged sideways into the gap just as blue plasma scorched the plaster above her collar. She tumbled shoulder-first down the narrow chute amid the grime of grease traps and industrial lye. “Secure the target,” Corvan barked behind her through the steel ducts. “Marnix, eliminate any lingering threats.” She crawled forward on elbows and knees, her limbs pivoting automatically through three unmapped junction splits. The duct vented straight beneath the stainless-steel prep islands of the ground-floor culinary wing. She kicked out the slatted intake panel behind an eight-tier stack of stockpots, coming up balanced on the balls of her feet. Industrial chillers hummed beneath suspended copper racks. Two syndicate gunmen in matte body armor swept their sights across the row of prep tables, pivoting as the panel rattled. “Maid! Freeze—” Zova caught the long handle of an iron ladle resting in a rolling kettle of mushroom broth and whipped a cup of boiling fat directly into the first man’s faceplate seam. He shrieked, clawing at the blistering liquid seeping past his visor seal. Before his partner could fire, she drove the ladle's bowl against the latch of his helmet, knocking his aim into the ceiling tiles. Stepping inside his guard, she snatched a twelve-inch cast-iron skillet off the center island and slammed the heavy rim against his temple. The striker folded like an empty uniform. She stepped over them toward the scullery. Past the convection units, a third operative crouched behind an automated dishwasher, hammering keys on an encrypted wrist transmitter. Near the mop basins sat the heavy industrial floor-scrubber, docked for an overnight cycle. Zova’s lips twitched upward into a dry smirk. She kicked the manual bypass switch on its bumper and spun the rotary throttle to maximum. With a hard shove, she sent sixty kilos of whirring steel and counter-rotating abrasive pads hurtling across the linoleum. It clipped the crouched shooter across the knees, pitching him face-first onto the deck. Zova closed the distance, caught his loose weapon, and smashed the composite stock down across the base of his skull. Polished dress oxfords clicked sharply against the parquet flooring outside the swinging pantry doors. Behind the butcher-block station, Velia huddled amid the copper cookware, mascara smudged across her cheekbones. She gripped the edge of the shelf, watching Zova neutralize the squad. Marnix kicked the louvered doors open, tactical pistol raised and necktie askew. “Well, well, little maid,” he sneered, stepping past the pantry threshhold. “Time to clean up this mess properly.” “Get away from her, you fraud!” Velia screamed. She popped up from behind the island and whipped her spiked five-inch designer heel across the room. The steel-tipped stiletto struck the bridge of Marnix’s nose with a wet snap. Marnix stumbled backward with a howl, dropping the firearm to clutch his shattered cartilage as dark red ribbons poured over his manicured fingers. “You miserable parasite!” he choked. Zova snatched a two-foot Italian marble rolling pin off the pastry marble. She stepped past the cart and cracked the stone cylinder against Marnix’s skull just above his left ear. He slumped instantly onto the linoleum, motionless. “That,” Zova muttered, tossing the bloody marble pin onto his chest, “was for the boss's silk waistcoat.” She ignored Velia's open-mouthed stare, threw open the emergency stairwell door, and bolted up the concrete steps toward the roof platform. Cold drizzle slapped her face as she hit the rooftop platform, neon billboards from downtown Neo-Kyros bleeding violet across the wet tarmac. Twin turbofans shrieked inside the transport craft's cowlings. Corvan stood braced on the lowered deck, pinning Garek into an aluminum harness. Garek's chin hung against his collarbone, though his good hand still clawed at Corvan's forearm. “Back away from him!” Zova shouted over the rotor wash. Corvan glanced back over his shoulder without shifting his balance. From his tailored coat he pulled a slender silver cylinder with a luminescent blue node at the tip. He lowered the contact points directly against Garek’s right temple. Garek shuddered as a muscle ticked in his jaw, his glazed pupils focusing on her face. Corvan produced a second item between two gloved fingers: an encrypted platinum data core, identical to the syndicate drives buried in her flashbacks. “Your past, Wraith,” Corvan called across the platform wind. “For his life.”

The Domestic Arsenal