“Little sister?” Bram looked from Corvo’s heavy hand on Saskia’s shoulder down to the fixed curve of her mouth. The recycled air tasted of iron and damp masonry. Saskia felt the faint pressure of Corvo’s thumb against her trapezius, a subtle reminder of the holofeed burning a hole in her mind’s eye. Kobus. Her smile stretched, a brittle thing, and she leaned into Corvo’s touch, a perfect image of familial ease. Every muscle in her back screamed betrayal. She gave Corvo a playfully chiding look. “Always finding me in the most unlikely places, arenin't you, Corvo? Mr. Vossen, I apologize. This is my… older cousin, Corvo. Just visiting from the lower sectors, he heard I was working here and couldn’t resist saying hello.” Corvo’s lips twitched, a shadow of the old amusement. He pulled his hand back, a smooth, practiced motion, but his gaze, when it met Bram’s, held a challenge. “Indeed. A delightful surprise, catching up with Meike. Her mother and my mother were… well, they were close.” He let the implication hang, weaving a flimsy, believable lie. Saskia’s throat tightened. The story was just plausible enough, a nod to the sprawling, interlinked families of the outer districts where everyone was someone’s cousin or aunt. Bram didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on Corvo’s face, then flickered to the stylized sigil on the lapel of the guard's tunic – the predatory bird of the Valen Syndicate. Saskia watched the muscle tick beside his ear. He took a step forward, a deliberate, measured stride that placed him directly between Saskia and Corvo. It wasn’t an invitation to conversation; it was a wall. A physical barrier, possessive and unexpected. Corvo’s urbane smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise, a quick tightening around his eyes that Saskia, trained to read every micro-expression, didn’t miss. Bram wasn't just a mute invalid. He was a presence. “Well,” Corvo recovered, his voice regaining its smooth cadence, “I wouldn’t want to keep Meike from her duties, or Mr. Vossen from… whatever he was doing.” He gave a curt nod, then turned, signaling the other guards with a dismissive flick of his wrist. They began to fan out, establishing observation points around the corridor, their movements precise, professional. They were not just security; they were an incursion. Saskia felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. Anika Volland hadn’t just brought guards. She’d brought a siege. In the grand lounge, the air crackled with a different kind of tension. Anika Volland reclined on a synth-silk chaise, her long legs crossed, diamonds catching the recessed ceiling strips. The projection hovering above the marble pedestal pulsed with corporate data, Vossen Conglomerate financials scrolling in blue ribbons. Fenja, the head housekeeper, stood by the entrance, her posture ramrod straight, her gaze sharper than any blade. Corvo and two of his operatives stood near the ornate windows, their presence a blatant, armed intimidation. “Just a simple formality, Bram,” Anika purred, holding out a slate. The screen displayed a single, binding contract. “Sign over the voting rights to my father for the next fiscal cycle. A courtesy, really, after all the… unpleasantness you’ve caused. Think of it as a temporary vacation from your responsibilities.” Her smile was a vicious slash of scarlet. Bram stood before the pedestal, his back to Saskia, his shoulders rigid. He didn’t reach for the slate. He merely stared at the projected financials, his expression unreadable. Saskia, positioned near the drinks cart, felt the familiar thrum of a high-stakes encounter. Her eyes scanned the room, assessing angles, exits, threats. Corvo’s men were too well-placed, their hands resting too casually near their holstered disruptors. They weren't there to protect Anika. They were there to ensure Bram signed, or failed to sign, in a very permanent way. Fenja’s eyes, a steely grey, met Saskia’s across the cavernous room. There was no warmth, no kindness, but a sudden, stark understanding. The head housekeeper’s gaze flickered to Corvo, then to the other ‘guards,’ and Saskia knew. Fenja had recognized the flat efficiency, the coiled stillness, the lack of genuine deference in their stances. These weren't corporate security. These were assassins. A silent, fragile truce settled between the two women. Fenja’s warning from yesterday — confess or be purged — dissolved, replaced by a shared, immediate threat. Saskia’s right hand drifted to the deep pocket of her apron. Her fingers found the familiar, cool glass vial, no bigger than a thumbnail. Inside, suspended in a viscous gel, were three fine, hollow needles, each tipped with a fast-acting neurotoxin, extracted and refined from a deep-sea jellyfish. One prick, delivered precisely to a carotid artery or a nerve cluster, and Corvo would be dead before his disruptor cleared leather. It would burn her cover, expose her true identity, but it would remove the immediate threat to Kobus. Her brother’s hacking cough echoed in her memory. Sacrifice the identity, save the boy. The tactical advantage was clear, brutal, and simple. Her eyes locked onto Corvo’s jugular. The angle was difficult from here, but not impossible if she could create a distraction. A spilled tray. A sudden lunge. She imagined the feel of the needle, the soft give of skin. Her fingers tightened around the vial. Bram moved. Not toward Anika, but toward the central pedestal. He tapped the holographic display, dismissing the financial reports. A blank tablet appeared in his grip, and his stylus skittered across the glass, rapid and decisive. He didn’t look up. He didn’t make a sound. When he finished, he shoved the tablet face-down across the low table toward Anika, the impact jarring the crystal decanters. Anika recoiled, her carefully constructed composure fracturing. She snatched up the tablet, reading the single line of text. Her face, usually a mask of haughty disdain, twisted into something ugly, venomous. Her lip curled back, revealing a flash of bared teeth. “You… you wouldn’t dare,” she hissed, her voice low and ragged. Bram lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting hers. There was no fear in their depths, no hesitation, only a cold, ancient fury that made the air itself seem to thin. A killer’s gaze, sharp and lethal, that Saskia had only ever seen in the black-market trenches. It wasn’t a silent threat; it was a roar. The mute heir, long thought broken, was showing his teeth. Anika Volland, for all her bluster, shrank under the intensity of his stare. The silence that followed was suffocating. Anika’s fingers trembled against the glass slate. Her polished facade crumbled, leaving behind a raw, humiliated fury. She stood, stumbling back from the dais with bared teeth. She snatched a glass of amber synth-whiskey from a passing server and hurled it at Bram. It shattered against the stone pedestal, scattering shards of light and amber liquor. Bram didn’t flinch. He merely watched her, unflappable, utterly dominant. “Fine,” Anika spat, her voice laced with venom. “Fine, you ingrate. But you won’t get away with this.” She turned, her eyes sweeping over Corvo and his men. Her glare settled on Saskia, then returned to Bram, a promise of retribution in her gaze. “Corvo,” she snarled, her voice cutting through the stunned quiet of the lounge, “Liquidate the mute and the maid.”

Silent Threats