Lyssia’s smile widened, a cruel, deliberate gesture that carved sharp lines into her face. “You really thought this would be a triumphant return, didn’t you, Zivanni? The long-lost dock rat claiming her birthright. Pathetic.” She gestured to the figures in white. “The specialists are here to ensure you get the *special* care you need. And my security detail will make sure you don’t resist your much-deserved rest.” The lead enforcer, a hulking man with eyes like chipped obsidian, took a step forward. “Miss Morvante, the orders are clear. Subdue the subject. The institutional papers are already filed.” Zivanni anchored her boots against the stone. The rage settled into flat, flinty focus. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, her voice dropping into the quiet register of the salt wharves. Her gaze flicked to Cielo; he gave a sharp, deliberate nod. “Oh, but you are,” Lyssia said, her voice silky. “Your little charade is over. The lunatic impostor will be erased from history. Alta-Riva will forget you ever drew breath, and I will retain everything.” She snapped her fingers. “Now. Don’t be gentle. Make her compliant, but break whatever you like. It will make the intake report so much more convincing.” The squad moved, a coordinated surge of dark uniforms. Zivanni reacted first, sweeping her forearm up, trapping the lead man's wrist, and wrenching it downward. She ducked under a wild left hook, driving her shoulder hard into his solar plexus to knock the wind from his chest. He staggered back, coughing, buying her a second. Cielo shifted to cut off the second attacker. He sidestepped a wild swing, hooked his heel behind the man's ankle, and shoved his shoulder down, slamming him flat across the polished floor. The chronic fatigue in his posture evaporated, replaced by cold precision. “Grit!” Zivanni barked. Her mastiff sprang forward on three scarred limbs, lunging at the clinician in rimless glasses. Jaws clamped shut on the man's calf through his trousers. The glass syringe slipped from the orderly's hand, shattering against the flagstones as the clear liquid pooled harmlessly. The technician hopped in a frantic circle, screeching, while his partner froze in panic. Zivanni pivoted under a brawler's reach, drove her elbow backward into his bridge, and felt cartilage give with a sharp snap. The man reeled away, clutching his nose as blood spilled through his fingers. But there were three of them, and Zivanni was already bruised, her knuckles aching. A heavy boot connected with her side, sending a searing pain through her ribs. She gasped, stumbling, but refused to fall. She saw a third guard gaining on Cielo, about to land a devastating blow. “Cielo, look out!” He spun, narrowly avoiding the punch, but the guard was relentless, driving him back towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. The activated security grid hummed faintly, a faint blue energy barely visible. If he went through that, it would be over. The second orderly lunged at Zivanni, his thumb poised over a fresh plunger. Zivanni set her jaw. A decade of grime, hunger, and calculated moves narrowed to the bronze terminal behind her, where a green optical pad glowed faintly. The Morvante core ledger, the final vault of her inheritance, waited inside that system. She took a deep, shuddering breath, ignoring the throbbing pain in her side, the sting of a cut on her cheek. Grit continued to harass the first psychiatrist, a whirlwind of barks and nips, keeping him out of the main fray. Cielo was holding his own, but the two remaining guards were beginning to overwhelm him, their relentless attacks forcing him to retreat further. “Zivanni!” Cielo yelled, his voice strained, as a guard’s fist grazed his temple. He stumbled, shaking his head, but his gaze remained locked on her, a silent plea and encouragement. Zivanni leaned into the orderly's rush rather than retreating. The metal point raked across her forearm, drawing a red stripe without sinking in. She drove her bloodied palm flat against the glass reader, pressing until the optic sensor flashed beneath her torn skin. The pad flared emerald. A high, ringing tone chimed through the chamber, cutting clean through the shouting. Lyssia, who had been watching with a triumphant sneer, suddenly went still. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, stared at the console. The holographic panels lining the glass shuddered, the blue market streams dying. With a heavy thrum, the projections snapped into harsh crimson, rendering a single diagnostic across the room: **ZERO YIELD.** Lyssia gasped, a sound torn from her throat. “No. No, that’s impossible! What have you done?!” The text shifted, updating with chilling speed. Financial figures, previously soaring into the multi-billions, now plummeted. The Morvante Group’s entire portfolio, every asset, every bond, every share, was collapsing in real-time. It wasn’t just a drop; it was an utter, absolute annihilation. Below the “ZERO YIELD” warning, another line of text appeared, glowing with an ominous, verdant light: **TRANSFER PROTOCOL: ACTIVATED. ASSETS REDIRECTED TO: MORVANTE.ZIVANNI.PALDORA.OFFSHORE.001.** The mercenaries froze at the blinding crimson flare. Cielo knocked the staggering squad leader to his knees, while Grit stood over the downed technician with a low, vibrating growl. Lyssia lunged at the nearest console, clawing frantically at the light as if the projected characters could be wiped away by hand. “My assets! My empire! You can’t do this! It's mine!” Zivanni kept her palm locked on the glass, chest heaving against her bruised ribs. She looked across the marble floor at Lyssia, whose styled hair had collapsed into tangles. “It was never yours,” Zivanni said, her voice rough. “It was a deadfall. Ten years in the making.” The holographic crimson glow reflected in Lyssia’s eyes as the final digits of her fortune vanished. Every corporate bond and parent equity stake routed cleanly into the offshore holding accounts Zivanni had built from cargo wages and black-market dividends. Suddenly, the heavy obsidian doors, previously locked, hissed open, revealing a flood of armed security personnel in sleek, charcoal uniforms. They weren't Lyssia's private detail; their insignia was the Morvante Group's official emblem, now under new, undisputed ownership. Their weapons were raised, aimed not at Zivanni, but at Lyssia’s stunned guards, who slowly dropped their fists. Leading them was a stern-faced woman with a comms unit in her ear, who locked eyes with Zivanni. “Director Morvante,” she said, her tone level and crisp. “The corporate board has confirmed the immediate re-allocation of all controlling equity. The emergency committal order has been voided. We await your orders.” Lyssia sank to her knees, staring at the flashing red screen, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly, her world, her entire identity, crumbling around her. The manufactured royalty was gone; only a shivering girl on marble tiles remained. Zivanni exhaled, feeling the steady ache of survival settle in her bones. Cielo stepped up beside her, resting a steady hand on her shoulder, while Grit nudged her calf with his broad snout. The room stood silent beneath the crimson projection, ready for whatever she chose to build next.

Zero Yield