Then, a new sound ripped through the sudden void—the high-pitched shriek of stressed durasteel, followed by a deafening crash. A section of the panoramic sky-wall, reinforced to withstand cyclonic winds, exploded inward. Jagged shards of glass rained down, catching the dim emergency lights that flickered on, painting brief, violent patterns on the floor. Four figures, hulking and darkly clad, rappelled through the shattered opening. Their heavy-duty grappling hooks bit into the remaining frame, and their boots, equipped with magnetic clamps, crunched onto the marble floor. These weren't corporate enforcers; their gear was too crude, too military-grade. Hired guns. Gorzav’s final, desperate play. One of the figures, broad-shouldered and wearing a faceplate that swallowed his features, advanced on Pryna. He moved with a brutal efficiency that promised no negotiation. Pryna, still holding the legal interface that now displayed a blank screen, felt a surge of cold terror. Her usual response—to crumple and play dead—was a luxury she couldn't afford. Not with Daxen beside her, not with their freedom hanging by a thread. Her gaze darted, frantic, for anything. Her eyes snagged on the platinum brick Matriarch Zylas had thrown at her, still sitting on the nearby obsidian table. Its inert weight had once represented an insult; now, it was a weapon. She snatched it up, the cold metal heavy in her hand. “Stay back,” Daxen’s voice was a low growl, utterly devoid of its usual clinical calm. His hand went to her back, pushing her gently but firmly behind him. He didn’t have a weapon, but his posture was that of a predator, coiled and ready. The infiltrator ignored him, striding forward, a stun-baton already extending from his arm guard. Pryna didn’t think. She swung the heavy platinum brick with all the strength she possessed, a clumsy, desperate heave. The brick flew, a gleaming, deadly projectile, straight at the intruder's headpiece. It connected with a sharp, metallic clang that reverberated through the silent room. The mercenary staggered, his visor cracking, a sharp grunt escaping him as he stumbled back. “Impressive aim, Pryna.” Daxen’s voice held a strange note of pride. His fingers flew across his console. The once elegant, automated coffee table in front of them whirred, its polished surface splitting open to reveal a retractable blast shield. It slammed into place, creating a temporary barrier. “Cerberus, activate Zenith’s structural defense grid. Prioritize non-lethal incapacitation protocols. Target all unauthorized personnel,” Daxen commanded, his eyes scanning the remaining intruders. Three more assailants, their initial shock fading, spread out, attempting to flank them. One carried a compact plasma carbine, its muzzle glowing faintly. The penthouse came alive. Not with lights, but with a silent, mechanical fury. The plush, oversized sofa that Daxen had procured for Pryna’s comfort suddenly swiveled, its memory foam cushions expanding rapidly, trapping one intruder against a reinforced pillar. He struggled, muffled grunts indicating his shock at the soft but unyielding pressure. Another raider, attempting to bypass the coffee table shield, found the floor beneath him giving way. A section of the polished marble retracted, revealing a pit filled with what looked like industrial-grade packing peanuts. He plunged in with a muffled yelp, sinking into the soft, clinging material. The pit immediately began to cycle, compressing around him, effectively immobilizing him without serious injury. It was Daxen’s custom-designed 'extreme comfort' security system, repurposed for combat. “The manual lockdown overrides for the inner sanctum are located in the east utility panel, behind the holographic display,” Pryna yelled, her mind already racing. “I need twenty seconds to input the sequence! The system is offline, I can’t do it remotely!” Her cipher-decoding brain, usually so resistant to exertion, was firing on all cylinders. Daxen nodded, his eyes fixed on the two remaining operatives, the one whose visor Pryna had cracked, and the one with the carbine. “Buy me time, Pryna. Get to the panel. Do not engage.” He moved with a speed that belied his usual controlled demeanor. The dining table, a massive slab of crystallized plasteel, rotated on its central axis, its leading edge sweeping the legs of the stunned operative. The man went down with a heavy thud. Before he could recover, Daxen slammed his foot down on a hidden floor panel. A retractable arm, usually used to present a data-slate, shot out, pinning the man's arm to the floor. The raider with the plasma carbine fired a short burst. Blue discharge bolts ricocheted off the blast shield, scorching the wall behind it. Daxen didn't flinch. He ducked, grabbed a decorative plinth holding a priceless ancient ceramic vase, and hurled it with sudden force. The vase shattered against the gunman's chest, stunning him momentarily. Pryna didn't wait. She bolted, sprinting across the darkened room. Her ribs ached with every frantic step. The east utility panel was a dark recess, its controls now tactile, physical buttons rather than shimmering holograms. Her fingers, usually so nimble for digital interfaces, fumbled for a moment, then flew across the archaic keypads. Codes. Sequences. She could feel the pressure of time, the strain of Daxen’s fight behind her. She heard another crash, the sound of Daxen grunting in pain. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Daxen was grappling with the armed operative, twisting the weapon out of his hands. But the man had landed a brutal punch, and a dark stain was spreading rapidly across Daxen's impeccably tailored sleeve. “Almost there!” she shouted, pushing past the pain in her lungs, the unfamiliar burning in her muscles. Her vision swam. This much effort was unheard of for her, a shock to her system. But the image of Daxen’s grimace, the spreading red, spurred her on. She input the final sequence, her thumb slamming down on the 'LOCKDOWN' button. A series of heavy, metallic thuds echoed through the penthouse as internal blast doors slammed shut, sealing off sections of the room. “Panic room, now!” Daxen roared, grabbing the last struggling intruder by the scruff of his neck and throwing him towards the now-trapped sofa. He stumbled towards Pryna, his breath ragged. She ran towards him, noticing the deep laceration on his arm, a jagged line that bled freely. He didn’t slow, pushing her into the small, reinforced panic room, its door already sliding shut. Just before it sealed completely, Pryna caught a glimpse of the central console. The marriage registry document was still there, a ghost of its former self, its glowing 'Accept' prompt stalled at 99%. Gorzav wasn't just sending hired muscle; he was here.

Blackout at the Zenith