The pantry door clicked shut, the sound echoing the sudden, hollow silence in Saskia’s skull. Twenty-four hours. Tell Bram. Or purge. Her limbs felt distant, the air too thin. Fenja’s words had been a carefully aimed arrow, striking the one spot Saskia couldn't armor: Kobus. Bram was a means to an end, a shield, a source of funds. Kobus was the reason she breathed. And now, both were targets. She felt the familiar, cold clarity descend, a tactical switch flipping deep within her. Sentiment was a luxury. Survival was the only currency. And right now, she was bankrupt. She moved without panic, cataloging assets with the stripped-down focus of an operative whose safehouse had burned. Her small staff room, usually a sterile box, now felt like a cage. The single locker, containing her meager civilian clothes and a lockbox, yielded to her touch. Inside, the neatly folded stack of Oestran credits gleamed dully under the low light. Two months’ wages. Not nearly enough for the black-market serums Kobus needed, let alone passage out of the lower sectors for both of them. But it was all she had. Her fingers, usually so precise, fumbled slightly with the old, worn satchel she pulled from the back of the locker. It was a relic from her last clean identity, a life she’d discarded like a shed skin. She stuffed the credits inside, adding the concealed shiv from her boot, the small comm-unit she used for Kobus, and a handful of protein wafers. Essentials. Everything else was ballast. Her mind raced, mapping escape routes, calculating probabilities. The penthouse had multiple utility exits, but they were all tied into the master monitoring network Fenja controlled. If Fenja triggered the purge, every exit would seal, every camera would flag, every automated turret would engage. The Vossen family had engineered their fortress to repel armies, not runaway maids. Her best bet was to slip through a maintenance conduit Fenja hadn’t accounted for, a ventilation shaft perhaps, or a rarely used waste chute. But that would take hours. She had to try the staff lift first—the direct line down to the vehicle bay, her only chance to reach Kobus before Fenja’s deadline expired. She slipped through the back halls, soles silent against the synthetic composite tiles. The air grew colder as she neared the outer walls of the spire, the hum of the city’s environmental controls a low thrum against her ears. The freight lift door glinted ahead, a dull rectangle in the muted light. Just a few more steps. Then, the entire building shuddered. A low, guttural thrum vibrated through the floor, rising in pitch. Red emergency lights flared along the ceiling, bathing the corridor in a harsh, pulsing glow. A voice, synthesized and flat, echoed from concealed speakers: “Vossen Penthouse. Full defense protocol initiated. Unauthorized egress detected. All personnel remain in designated safe zones.” Saskia froze, fingers hovering inches from the wall panel. Lockdown. Not Fenja’s purge, not yet. This was different. “Unauthorized egress,” the voice had said. Someone was trying to *enter*, not leave. Or perhaps, someone was already inside who wasn't supposed to be. She pressed herself into an alcove as the heavy clang of reinforced alloy shutters descended, sealing every window and non-critical bulkhead. The freight lift hummed to a halt, its floor-level indicator dying. No escape, not this way. Not now. Just as the last shutter locked into place, a separate, more melodious chime cut through the alarms. The *private* lift. It activated only for authorized Vossen family clearance, or via direct administrative override. Anika Volland. Saskia swore under her breath, a low, rasping sound. The doors to the main foyer hissed open, revealing Anika, a vision in iridescent midnight silk, her face composed in an expression of cultivated remorse. She swept into the foyer, her entourage of sleek, imposing figures fanning out behind her. “My sincerest apologies, Mr. Vossen,” Anika’s voice, a carefully modulated purr, carried clearly across the vast space. “I’ve come to make amends. A small gift, to show there are no hard feelings.” Bram stood near the grand archway leading to the observation deck, his back to Saskia, his posture rigid. He offered no response, as always, but his silent presence radiated a cold displeasure. Anika gestured to one of her guards. “A private escort unit. A temporary measure, of course, but I insist. For your peace of mind.” The guard stepped forward. He was taller than the others, lean and dangerous, his movements economical, predatory. He wore the charcoal tunic of Anika’s escort, but the collar rose higher, the tailoring stiffer than standard corporate hire. A faint, silver badge caught the overhead fixtures: a stylized raven’s skull, wings spread. The Valen network. The emblem hooked into her stomach. Not a generic crew. Her old crew. And the man wearing it carried the sharp, minute tilt of the head she knew intimately. It was Corvo. Her handler. His eyes, the color of wet slate, met hers across the vast expanse of the foyer. A flicker, so brief it could have been imagined, passed through them. Not surprise, but a dawning recognition, a chilling amusement. He knew. He glided across the floor as if pacing defense perimeters, angling straight toward her alcove. He halted paces away, turning his shoulder to the parlor to form a blind spot behind an architectural pillar. “Well, well,” Corvo murmured, his voice a low rasp that sent a tremor through Saskia’s entire being. It was the same voice that had given her her first kill order. “Look what the cat dragged in. Or rather, what the little mouse turned into.” His gaze raked over her maid’s uniform, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Meike Veld, was it? A suitable disguise for a cleaner. Almost too good.” Saskia kept her face blank, her hands loose at her sides, ready to move, to strike. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Corvo’s smirk widened. “Of course you don’t. You’re a maid. But I know what *I’m* talking about.” He subtly shifted his weight, and a small, sleek holoprojector activated in his palm. A shimmering image flickered into existence, suspended in the air between them. It was a live feed. Kobus’s room. The peeling synthetic walls, the boarded window. Flanking the door frame, a dozen armed shapes cut silhouettes against the lower sector’s sulfur smog, carbines leveled at the threshold. Corvo had found Kobus. “A very sickly little brother, from what I hear,” Corvo said, his voice dropping to an almost inaudible whisper. “Needs expensive medicine, doesn’t he? A shame if anything were to happen to his devoted protector.” He let the image hang there, a silent, brutal ultimatum. Saskia’s teeth ground together. She kept her ribcage level. “What do you want?” “The same thing we always wanted,” Corvo replied, his eyes now devoid of amusement, cold and hard as obsidian. “Bram Vossen. Only this time, you’ll be the one to deliver him. From the inside.” He leaned closer, his voice a venomous hiss. “Twenty-four hours, little cleaner. Or your brother takes a very permanent dirt nap.” The silence between them stretched thin. Her palm twitched with the absent hilt of a blade, measuring the angle below his ear. The blue-lit holofeed anchored her in place. Footsteps. Bram. He had moved from the archway, drawn by the unusual cluster of Anika’s guards. He approached the column, his gaze falling first on Corvo, then on Saskia, his expression unreadable. Corvo’s smile returned, wider now, predatory. He turned smoothly, retracting the holoprojector into his palm. “Just catching up with my little sister, Mr. Vossen.”

The Handler