The acrid scent of riot gas still clung to the air, mingling with the sharper tang of cordite and pulverized concrete. Senna knelt, her entire being focused on the man in her arms. Levon’s skin was a sickly gray, his breathing shallow, a faint rasp against the deafening silence that had fallen inside the vault. Her hands trembled as she clutched his face, willing life back into him. Tomas, slumped against the mangled wall, stirred faintly, a low moan escaping his lips. Brida, still holding the smoking detonator, stepped fully into the vault, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and determination. She looked at Goran Ozer, then back at Senna, her gaze pleading. “The cooler, Senna! Give it to him!” Brida whispered, her voice cracking. Outside, the ruined precinct lobby lay fractured under flickering emergency lights. Broken glass glittered across overturned desks and buckled steel beams. Goran Ozer stood amidst it all, an unyielding figure framed by the doorway, his silhouette imposing. His gaze swept over the group in the vault—Senna, Levon, Brida, Tomas—lingering on the insulated case tucked against Senna’s ribs. “My son,” Goran’s voice cut through the debris-laden air, low and dangerous, “requires what you possess, Korvath. And the Karras Syndicate owes me more than a mere apology for this… inconvenience.” He gestured broadly at the devastation. “Your husband’s incompetence almost cost my boy his life. A debt of that magnitude demands a significant payment.” He took a measured step closer, the rifles of his men shifting with him, their muzzles unwavering. “The case first. Then, Levon Karras’s head. A fair exchange for the lives of your brother and your pet enforcer.” His gaze flicked to Brida, then to Tomas, who was now slowly pushing himself upright, wincing in pain. She glanced down at Levon’s still features, then at Tomas bleeding against the wall, and finally at Brida gripping the smoking toggle. They were all exposed. Levon had taken the blast for her, and she had learned the currency required here: blood paid upfront, or blood taken by force. Her grip on the metal latches locked tight. She took a deep breath, the lingering riot gas stinging her throat, and slowly, deliberately, pushed Levon’s unconscious body away from her, laying him gently on the cold concrete. She rose, her movements fluid and deliberate, her eyes locking onto Goran Ozer’s. She was no longer just a sister, a wife, a pawn. In this wrecked precinct, under Ozer's fixed gaze, she stepped forward with deliberate balance. “The medicine is yours, Ozer,” she stated, her voice clear, carrying over the hum of the emergency lamps. She stepped out of the vault carrying the silver box, walking directly toward him. Her steps crunched on shattered glass. The rifles tracked her, but she didn’t flinch. She stopped three paces from Goran, close enough to smell gunpowder on his wool coat. She held out the container like a signed armistice, her gaze hard and level. “This is for your son. He shouldn’t suffer for the mistakes of men.” Her voice was quiet, but it carried an undeniable authority that made even Goran’s men subtly shift. Goran looked down at the latches, then took the handle from her grasp, his rough leather gloves brushing her fingers. The exchange was swift, almost ceremonial. He hefted it, a faint smile playing on his lips as he looked down at the box that held his son’s future. Senna watched him, waiting. The air crackled. His men remained poised, their fingers on triggers. Then, she spoke, her voice rising, no longer quiet, but a steel-edged declaration that echoed through the ruined lobby. Every syndicate enforcer who had accompanied Brida, now emerging from the vault, straightened, their faces grimly attentive. “Hear me clearly, Ozer,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, lethal cadence. “You have what you came for. The boy gets his cure. If you, or anyone loyal to you, so much as *touches* a hair on Levon Karras’s head, if you think to take advantage of his current state, I swear to every god in this forgotten city, I will personally become the queen of this underworld. And I will burn your empire, your family, your very name, to ash. Do we have an accord?” Her eyes, usually guarded, blazed with a cold, terrifying fury. She was no longer simply defending her brother. She was protecting her future, her tenuous claim to power, and the man who had just nearly died for her. There was no hesitation, no fear, only a devastating, absolute certainty in her words. Goran Ozer, a man who had seen a thousand betrayals and a hundred battles, found himself caught by the raw, untamed power radiating from her. He met her gaze, his expression unreadable, before a slow, chilling smile spread across his face. “A new queen, then,” he murmured, a hint of something akin to admiration in his tone. He nodded, a single, decisive gesture. “The boy’s life is enough. For now.” He turned, tucking the canister under his arm, and with a curt wave, his men backed toward the perimeter. Senna watched them go, her body rigid, every muscle tense. The instant Goran’s last man disappeared, she whirled, rushing back into the vault. “Levon!” she cried, dropping to her knees beside him. His breathing was still shallow, but a faint flush had begun to return to his cheeks. Tomas stumbled over, collapsing next to her, while Brida moved to check on Levon’s syndicate enforcers. “We need to get him out of here. Now,” Senna commanded, her voice raw with urgency. She looked up, scanning the cracked concrete girders above. It was never finished in Belzanto. From the rubble above, a surviving Detective Halm leveled a sniper rifle directly at Senna’s back, snarling, ‘Nobody walks away from the law,’ and pulls the trigger

The Parley of Blood