A high-pitched crack split the air, raw and violent. The crack echoed off the acoustic baffling, chopping through the production crew's murmurs. Time seemed to distend, stretching thin and brittle. Lita's trigger finger snapped back, the compact firearm kicking against her palm. But the bullet, a dark blur of metal, never reached Oressa’s image. Kito lunged before the brass casing hit the tiles. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch. His shoulder collided with her ribs, hard and unyielding. The collision spun them across the dais, putting his spine where her skull had rested. A wet, sickening thud. A choked grunt tore from Kito’s lips. His arms, locked around her ribcage, seized up. The warmth of his skin against her cheek abruptly gave way to a gushing heat, slick and ferrous. It seeped rapidly through the fine silk of his jacket, staining the pristine fabric a blossoming crimson. He slumped against her, a dead weight, his breath rasping, shallow and uneven. His eyes, wide and unfocused, stared past her, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips even as life seemed to drain from them. “Oressa,” he whispered, his voice a strained croak, barely audible above the rising clamor in the studio. “Are… you… hurt?” For a moment, Oressa was frozen. The world narrowed to the sudden, agonizing weight of Kito in her arms, the shocking spread of blood across his back, the scent of copper filling her nostrils. Her usual languor, her deep-seated apathy, shattered like brittle glass. This wasn’t a problem she could nap away. This wasn’t a minor inconvenience. This was Kito. Bleeding. For her. The floor erupted. Private guards scrambled past the camera rails. Shouts mingled with screams. Lita racked the slide with trembling fingers, frantic to clear a stovepipe jam. But Oressa didn’t see Lita. She didn’t hear the chaos. She only saw the man who had taken a bullet for her, his life ebbing away in her arms. Her sluggish pulse hardened into flint. The habitual fog burned away, leaving only syndicate conditioning. Her grip on Kito tightened, a brief, almost imperceptible squeeze. Then she stood. It wasn’t a rush, not a panicked lunge. She disentangled herself from Kito’s weakening embrace, gently easing him to the floor, her movements economical. Her eyelids rose, unblinking and black. Tally lights blinked crimson as the broadcast recorded her gait. Lita battled the locked ejector, her sneer collapsing as Oressa bore down on her. It wasn’t the slow, casual stroll she was used to from her former employer. Oressa crossed the boards in three paces. Lita shrieked, finally managing to clear the weapon, her finger already twitching for another shot. But Oressa was faster. Her left hand shot out, not to grasp the gun, but to slam into Lita’s wrist with brutal force. Carpal bones cracked under the strike, and the weapon clattered against the parquet floor. Without a pause, Oressa’s right hand clamped around Lita’s arm, twisting, pulling, forcing the double to her knees. Lita collapsed sideways, sobbing against the runner. But Oressa was unrelenting. Her expensive, needle-sharp stiletto, a gleaming shard of polished obsidian, came down, pinning Lita’s flailing hand to the plush carpet. Not through the palm, not through the wrist, but precisely between the bones of her ring and middle finger, a brutal, calculated reminder of her broken engagement. Lita’s body arched, a raw, primal wail tearing from her throat, her face contorted in agony and disbelief. The soundstage dropped into vacuum silence. Lenses tracked Oressa's upright stance, framing the heir who had abandoned her meek masquerade. Oressa leaned in, her voice low, almost a purr, yet cutting through Lita’s gasps. “You want to play at being a Vymar?” she murmured, her eyes cold as winter ice. “This is how Vymars *fight*.” The security team, now fully recovered, rushed forward. But they didn’t touch Oressa. They surrounded Lita, pulling her away, her mangled hand still bleeding onto the carpet, the stiletto still impaled. Shouting broke out near the lighting rigs. Torin Gault, who had been watching the entire horrifying spectacle from the wings, his face a ghastly shade of white, chose that moment to act. Perhaps he saw an opening, a chance to somehow salvage his ruined life, to reclaim some shred of the power he’d lost. He shoved past a lighting tech, breathless and unhinged. “Oressa! My love!” he yelled, pitching his tone to theatrical distress. He rushed towards her, arms outstretched, clearly aiming for a dramatic, heroic embrace. “Are you alright? I knew that monster would try something! Oh, my dearest, you were so brave! Come, let me protect you, let me take you home. I still love you, Oressa, I always have! We can fix this, my darling, we can start over!” She remained stationary, unmoved by his approach. She didn’t flinch, didn’t respond to his outstretched arms. Her stare pinned him where he stood. Torin faltered, his fake smile wilting under the intensity of her stare. His grin dissolved into raw panic. He stopped a foot short of her, his arms dropping awkwardly. Her fingers slipped under her slit hem toward the thigh holster. Her hand reappeared holding a thin, exquisitely crafted dagger, its hilt inlaid with a single, perfectly cut blood-diamond. The diamond-faceted steel caught the overhead spots. She raised it without flourish. The tip of the blade kissed the sensitive skin of Torin’s throat, just above his carotid artery. A thin, cold line of pressure. Torin halted, unable to draw air against the cold steel. Oressa leaned in, her voice a low, lethal murmur, devoid of any warmth, any pity. “You’re next.”

Blood on the Diamond