The comms unit silenced, leaving Iskra in the lingering echoes of the arena’s applause, which now sounded like a mocking dirge. Rostova’s summons flattened the satisfaction of Alina’s public stumble into sharp vigilance. Her *parents*. Here. Now. A family matter. The bitter irony almost choked her. The academy's holographic displays gave way to the dark transit tunnels of Rostova’s private mag-lev, plunging straight toward the spire. In the observation gallery of the Rostova spire, filtered vents blew sterile copper and ozone over her collar. Below, separated by a pane of reinforced electro-glass, was the sprawling, opulent meeting chamber usually reserved for conglomerate accords. Tonight, it held the biological kin who had erased her. Her mother, once an untouchable socialite, gripped an ivory handbag so hard the leather pinched, gray hairs escaping her tight chignon. Her father, whose bluster had dictated every cold dinner of her youth, slumped over his lapels. Alina stood beside them, radiating an uncharacteristic nervousness beneath her practiced composure, her gaze darting between her parents and the formidable figure seated across the polished obsidian table. Kazimir Rostova. He was a monolith of quiet power, his dark, tailored suit cutting an austere silhouette against their fraying finery. He sat motionless, slate-gray irises fixed on her father. Two guards in dark tactical weaves flanked the door, submachine carbines resting against armored ribs. “...the recent downturns are merely cyclical, Mr. Rostova,” the elder Vlasov stammered, his gravelly voice thin. “A minor liquidity crisis. Easily remedied with a temporary bridge loan.” Iskra watched, a phantom limb ache in her chest. This was the pair who had starved her room of heat and scrubbed her name from the registry. They were grotesque caricatures of their former selves, stripped bare before a man who could erase them with a single word. The satisfaction was a harsh, metallic tang on her tongue. Alina stepped forward, a forced smile pasted on her lips. “But we aren’t here for a mere loan, Mr. Rostova. We’re here to offer an opportunity. A partnership that will redefine energy production in Novos.” She placed a sleek data slate on the table, its surface glowing with intricate schematics. “The ‘Aethel Core’. A self-sustaining reactor drive. It’s… revolutionary.” Iskra’s internal chronometer registered the subtle flinch of Rostova’s eyebrow. He knew. Or at least suspected. Alina’s supposed genius was a house of cards built on stolen blueprints from a future that hadn’t arrived yet. The Aethel Core, she knew, was a marvel of theoretical physics, but its practical application was years, decades, away from safe implementation. To bring it to market now would be an act of unparalleled recklessness. “Self-sustaining generation?” Rostova’s tone stayed level. “Ambitious. And costly. What would the Vlasovs bring to such a venture, beyond… potential?” Alina’s smile widened, edged with a predatory gleam Iskra recognized from their shared childhood, a look that promised a victim. “We bring the perfect launch platform. The recent surge in industrial accidents – specifically the one at the Volkovian Sector grid last week – has created a public outcry. The municipal council is frantic for solutions, for stability. They offer unprecedented subsidies for replacement infrastructure, provided a responsible party absorbs the blame.” Iskra pressed two fingers against the glass, cold seeping through her skin. The Volkovian Sector accident. A massive power surge, critical infrastructure damage, dozens of casualties. Rostova’s combine had been subtly implicated in a few early, quickly suppressed news reports. Rival factions routinely staged such ruptures to shatter market confidence. Alina leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, audible even through the reinforced glass. “Blame the Volkovian breach on an external faction, Mr. Rostova. A convenient scapegoat. We can even provide… circumstantial evidence linking it to the ‘Iron Serpent’ faction. We secure the government grants for the Aethel Core’s launch, and you, as our silent partner, get a monopoly on the future of Novos’s energy grid. And a substantial cut.” Both parents bobbed their heads, raw calculation naked on their faces. They were proposing to frame Rostova’s syndicate, to exploit an engineered tragedy, to use the lives lost as leverage for their own survival. And they expected Rostova to simply accept it, to allow his faction, his *new* faction, to be dragged through the mud for their benefit. Iskra’s vision blurred with a hot, sickening rage. This wasn’t just about her anymore. This wasn’t just about revenge. They were trying to poison the very foundation Rostova had given her, to betray the man who had seen her and given her a chance. They were trying to steal her new life, just as Alina had stolen her future. They had neglected one daughter into nonexistence, and now they brought their rot directly to Rostova's threshold. She turned away from the glass, the scene below curdling in her mind. Her hand instinctively went to the small, cold metal of the concealed blade strapped to her forearm, a familiar comfort. The corridor stretched long and dim under recessed strip lights. She needed air, needed to process this new, virulent strain of their depravity. A shadow detached itself from the muted wall panels ahead. Iskra barely registered the shift before she was slammed backward, the collision knocking the air from her ribs. Her head struck the cool plasteel with a dull thud. A hand, surprisingly strong, clamped over her mouth, another pinning her wrist above her head, preventing her from reaching the blade. Her vision swam for a moment, then cleared, focusing on the eyes inches from her own. Levan Dorokh. His gaze was intense, dissecting, and utterly devoid of his usual academic detachment. There was a raw, dangerous knowing in those depths. He smelled faintly of ozone and something sharp, like a recently discharged circuit. “I told you I found a discrepancy,” he murmured, his voice low, a rasp against her ear. “A micro-variation in your biometric pulse signature. A ghost in the machine. But it wasn’t enough. Not until I cross-referenced the combat footage from the arena. The way you move. The precise angle of attack, the economy of motion, the instinctual parry against a drone attack that shouldn’t have been possible.” He shifted his weight, pressing her harder against the wall, his grip unwavering. “Zoya Vlasov. The forgotten daughter. Burned through the institute’s archives. The Vlasov family scrubbed you effectively, but not perfectly. A whisper of a name, a record of expulsion for… insubordination. Your fighting style matches the preliminary combat assessments. The ghost wasn’t in the machine, Iskra. It was you.” Iskra struggled, fury sparking through her veins. He knew. He *knew*. She twisted her wrist, trying to dislodge his grip, her mind racing, calculating angles of attack, weaknesses in his stance. The blade, she needed the blade. He had seen too much. He had to be silenced. Her fingers strained toward the sheathed hilt under her sleeve. This was it. The end of ‘Iskra’. Her new life, about to be extinguished. Levan’s face was impossibly close. His breath ghosted across her cheek. “I don’t want to turn you in,” he whispered, his voice a surprising tremor of sincerity. “I want to help you burn them to the ground.”

Beggars in Velvet