Saskia’s smile tightened, a thin, almost invisible seam across her face. Fenja’s gaze felt like a probe, dissecting the precise angle of her lips, the too-bright glint in her eyes. The crumpled rag, stark white save for the faint, rust-colored smudge, was an open trap. “Hemoglobin, you say?” Saskia tilted her head, a touch of feigned bewilderment in her voice. “That’s a fancy word, Fenja. I just know what gets stains out. My father, bless his calloused hands, he was a butcher in the Vektor markets. You wouldn’t believe the messes we had to clean up every day, sunup to sundown. Blood, guts, you name it. He always swore by a pinch of lye and a good, hard scrub. Said it worked on anything. Guess I just picked up his habits.” She gave a short, almost girlish laugh, light and dismissive. Fenja’s face remained stone. Her eyes, however, did not waver from Saskia’s. They tracked every subtle shift in posture, every dart of an iris. “A butcher, you say.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement spiked with scrutiny. She smoothed the rag with her thumb, then tucked it into the deep pocket of her apron. “Very well, Meike. Your next assignment is the Conservatory. The automatics have been malfunctioning, and the Rova vines are wilting. I expect to see them green by morning. And do try to avoid any more… unusual stains.” The dismissal was sharp, final. Saskia flashed another bright, empty smile and dipped her chin. As Fenja turned on her heel, her footsteps brisk and precise down the polished corridor, Saskia felt the faint tremor in her own hand. Fenja hadn’t believed a word of it. The head housekeeper’s suspicion was a slow-burning ember, a constant, low-level threat. She had seen through the cheerful facade, if not yet through the whole lie. The Conservatory, a sprawling glass dome nested within the penthouse’s north wing, was usually a humid haven of rare flora, a stark contrast to the sterile chrome and frost of the city outside. Today, however, it was a frigid mess. The heating vents hissed cold air, and the delicate fronds of the Rova vines drooped, brittle with frost. Saskia, armed with a toolkit and a diagram she barely understood, began her task, her breath clouding in the chill. She traced the conduits, her gloved knuckles numb. A faint scratching sound drew her attention, a scuffle from behind a bank of flowering cygnus bushes. She paused, listening. It came again, a weak, desperate whimper. Her palm drifted toward the utility knife at her hip, an impulse honed by years of ambush. Pushing aside the stiff leaves, she found a narrow maintenance vent, its grate torn loose. Huddled in the dust-choked space behind it was a creature. Not a rat, not some exotic pest from the gardens, but a dog. A mangy, skeletal thing with coarse, dirt-matted fur, shivering violently. One of its hind legs was twisted at an unnatural angle, crusted with old blood. Its eyes, rheumy and glazed, met hers in stark, animal terror. Saskia knelt, her motion slow and deliberate. “Easy, easy there, mutt,” she murmured, her voice stripped of its practiced cheer. She reached out, extending a gloved hand, then pulled it back. The dog flinched, a low growl rumbling in its chest. It was too cold here. The cold would kill it before hunger did. Or infection. She pulled off her work gloves, revealing the faint, healing cut on her palm from Bram’s teacup. The raw skin tightened as she reached for the dog again, this time with her bare hand. Its fur was stiff, reeking of wet earth and fear. It didn't bite, but pressed itself tighter against the cold metal, a pathetic ball of misery. Saskia stroked its matted head, feeling the sharp ridges of bone beneath skin. She reached into her apron, pulling out an emergency ration bar intended for late shifts, a sugary, nutrient-dense block. She broke off a corner and set it down. The dog sniffed, then devoured it in a single gulp, its tail giving a weak, almost imperceptible thump against the cold floor. She was unwrapping a fresh bandage from her first-aid kit when a long shadow fell across her. Saskia’s muscles tensed, every instinct screaming threat. She spun, ready to meet an attack, to deflect, to deceive. Instead, she found Bram Vossen standing a few feet away, his silhouette framed by the wilting cygnus. He wore his customary dark, simple tunic, and his gaze was fixed on the trembling animal. His expression was, as always, unreadable, but a faint furrow creased his brow. Saskia’s carefully constructed composure almost slipped. She had been so focused on the dog, so far from her ‘Meike’ persona. She quickly plastered on a concerned, solicitous expression. “Master Vossen! I’m so sorry, I… I found this poor stray. It must have snuck in through a faulty vent. I’ll see it removed, of course. Right away.” Bram didn’t speak. He simply walked closer, his gaze still on the dog. He knelt, slowly, deliberately, dropping to the cold floor beside Saskia. His movements were precise, quiet. His pale hand, usually so still, reached out, not to her, but to the dog’s injured leg. He touched the swollen joint with feather-light caution, head tilted. He met Saskia's gaze with steady intent: he meant to help. The sudden intimacy of the moment, hunched together over this broken animal, struck Saskia like an exposed wire. It was a raw, exposed vulnerability that she hadn't anticipated, a flicker of something beyond her carefully calculated strategy. He took the dressing from her palm, skin skimming skin, and began to unspool the cloth with steady caution. Saskia watched him, a strange, tight knot forming in her chest. The heir, the target she was supposed to guard, was tending to a stray dog with a gentleness she had not seen in years. It was a warmth she didn’t know how to categorize, a vulnerability she instinctively wanted to guard, even from herself. Hours later, after the dog (now sleeping soundly in a repurposed laundry basket, set near a repaired heater vent) was settled, and the Conservatory’s ambient temperature was finally rising, Saskia found a brief window. The staff dining area was empty. She slipped into a darkened utility closet, stepping without a sound. From a hidden pocket inside her boot, she extracted a burner comm-link, a cheap, untraceable unit. Her thumb flew across the keypad, punching a familiar sequence. One ring. Two. Three. Each chime echoed the frantic beat of her own pulse. Six rings. Seven. Her stomach clenched. Kobus was always quick to answer. Nine. Ten. Dread, cold and sharp, began to prickle at her. The line went dead. Ten seconds. Ten agonizing seconds of silence, a vacuum that sucked all air from her lungs. Then, with a sudden, jarring burst of static, the line reconnected. A weak, reedy voice, thick with a cough, rasped, “Saskia? Is that you?” “Kobus!” The name was a desperate whisper, raw with relief and terror. “What happened? Why didn’t you answer?” A hacking cough tore through the comm-link, wet and rattling. “The… the power sputtered. Generator’s on its last legs. I’m fine. Just… a bit of the usual chill, you know.” But the lie was thin, transparent. She could hear the strained effort in his voice, the struggle to make it sound casual. “Are you coughing up blood again, Kobus?” she demanded, her voice flat, devoid of the practiced cheer. The pretense was gone, replaced by the grim reality of her brother’s fragile health. A pause. Another shallow, breathy cough. “Just a little, Sis. Nothing the usual meds can’t handle.” “The usual meds won’t cut it anymore, will they?” It was a statement, not a question. She knew the cycle, the slow, insidious decline. The lower-sector clinics only offered palliative care, thin gruel and thinner hope. He needed the black-market synthetics, the high-grade immuno-boosters from the privileged sectors, the kind that cost more than a year’s maid wages. Another silence stretched, thick with what he couldn't afford to admit. “They’re… getting harder to find, Saskia. And the prices…” He trailed off, the implication hanging in the frigid air of the closet. “If I don’t get a new batch by the end of the week, it’s… not going to be good.” Her heart, already a bruised thing, seized. *End of the week.* That was five days. Five days to secure funds she didn’t have, funds that would make her visible, funds that would draw the wrong kind of attention. The stakes had just escalated, violently. “I’ll find it, Kobus,” she said, her voice a low, fierce promise. “Just hold on. I’ll find it.” She cut the connection, the tiny comm-link suddenly feeling impossibly heavy in her hand. Kobus's life, his last fragile chance, hung directly on her next wage. The penthouse felt less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage. She needed to move, and move fast. The syndicate's shadow felt colder, closer. Just as she slipped out of the utility closet, intending to return to her assigned duties, a soft chime chimed down the quiet, opulent hall. It was the private elevator, reserved only for the Vossen family and their most esteemed guests. A metallic sigh, then the polished brass doors slid open, revealing a vision of icy glamour. Anika Volland, a predator in a sheath of silver silk, stepped out, her expression a mask of exquisite disdain.

The Stray