The plasma-torch roared, spitting incandescent particles that danced in the sudden, raw air. Gorzav’s face, a mask of wild triumph, lunged through the ruined doorway. His eyes, bloodshot and gleaming, fixed on Pryna. He raised the torch, not as a weapon, but as a symbolic gesture of reclamation, his free hand outstretched to seize her.
“Mine!” he shrieked, the word vibrating with years of resentful ownership.
Before his fingers could even twitch, Daxen’s hand, slick with his own blood, slammed down on a concealed panel near the floor. A low hum, barely perceptible, filled the small space. Then, with a sudden, impossible lurch, Gorzav stopped mid-lunge. His body, caught in an invisible, crushing grip, floated upwards. The plasma-torch clattered to the floor, forgotten, as he ascended, slowly, absurdly, until his back pressed flat against the durasteel roof-plate.
He thrashed, limbs flailing like an overturned beetle. “What… what in the name of the Nexus is this?!” His voice, normally a thunderous growl, was now high-pitched with terror and bewilderment.
From the newly opened panic room door, a crisp, imperious voice sliced through the chaos. “Daxen! Are you well? I’ve brought security. This… *situation* has gone far enough.” Matriarch Zylas, pristine in a woven plasteel tunic, swept into view, flanked by two hulking private guards in obsidian armor. Her gaze dismissed Pryna entirely, focusing solely on her son’s bloodied arm.
Daxen, still leaning against the wall, took a slow, measured breath. He met his mother’s gaze, and for the first time, Pryna saw not just coldness, but a truly glacial fury. “You sent him, Mother. You funded this assault on my home, on my family.” His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
Zylas scoffed, a brittle, dismissive sound. “Nonsense. I simply… encouraged Gorzav to pursue his legal rights. A minor wardship dispute. It got out of hand, clearly. But now, with my people here, we can rectify this. Pryna can be… transferred. We’ll find a suitable facility for her to complete the surrogacy.” Her eyes, though, darted toward the rafters, where Gorzav still struggled, a curious frown creasing her brow.
Daxen pushed himself upright, ignoring the searing pain in his arm. He stepped deliberately between Zylas and Pryna, his body a shield. “You committed treason against the Vexlan charter. Against *my* will. Against my wife.” The word ‘wife’ echoed off the walls. “As acting CEO and principal shareholder, effective immediately, I hereby revoke all of your Vexlan company holdings, all affiliated financial assets, and all access to Vexlan-sponsored credit lines.”
Zylas’s face went utterly blank. Her jaw dropped, a rare crack in her carefully constructed composure. “Daxen! You wouldn’t dare! This is madness! I am your mother!”
“You are a threat,” Daxen stated, his voice flat. He gestured to the hired sentries. “Escort Matriarch Zylas from the premises. Her presence is no longer welcome.”
The sentries, visibly uncomfortable, glanced between Daxen and Zylas, then slowly began to move towards the Matriarch. Zylas let out a strangled cry of outrage, but Daxen simply turned his back on her.
Meanwhile, Gorzav continued his frantic aerial dance. “Let me down! You little cyber-rat! You’ll pay for this! I’ll sell you to the deepest lunar mines, Pryna! You hear me?!”
Pryna, having retrieved a chilled nutrient-pack from a hidden compartment within the panic room’s wall, took a long, leisurely sip through its integrated straw. She tilted her head, observing Gorzav’s predicament with mild interest. “Actually,” she drawled, her voice a soft counterpoint to his enraged squawks, “I just finished draining your offshore accounts. All of them. The ones you thought were untraceable, linked to those gambling dens on Oakhaven Prime and the black market arms deals on Xylos-7.”
Gorzav froze. His thrashing ceased. His eyes stared down at her in disbelief from overhead. “You… you can’t! Those are triple-encrypted! Even the Syndicate’s best couldn’t break those!”
Pryna shrugged, taking another quiet slurp. “Took me about eight minutes. Daxen’s panic room terminal had surprisingly robust, isolated network access. Very convenient.” She gave Daxen a small, appreciative nod.
Just then, the outer perimeter of the penthouse hummed, and the main elevator chimed. Four Kytheris Constables, their uniforms crisp and their expressions severe, stepped out. They were not the disreputable lot from before. Inspector Elion Varr, a man known for his incorruptible record, led them. He took in the scene: Daxen, bleeding but standing; Zylas, being forcibly escorted, sputtering with fury; Gorzav, pinned overhead, suspended by an invisible force; and Pryna, calmly sipping her drink.
“Vexlan,” Varr said, his voice clipped. “We received an urgent distress signal, corroborated by multiple data-dumps implicating high-level corruption and domestic terrorism. What exactly transpired here?”
Daxen met the inspector's gaze. “Inspector Varr. My wife and I were subjected to a targeted home invasion, an act of domestic terrorism orchestrated by these individuals.” He gestured first to Zylas, then to the flailing Gorzav. “My wife, Pryna Vexlan-Mynor, used the panic room’s secure access to log the full event, including the illegal attempts to nullify our marriage and abduct her. The data is already being uploaded to your precinct’s secure servers.”
Varr's eyes narrowed. He looked at Pryna, then back at Daxen, eyebrows rising above his rigid line. “Your wife, you say?”
Daxen’s gaze softened as he looked at Pryna, steady pride settling into his features. “My equal partner in every sense, Inspector.”
Pryna offered a small, tired smile. The nutrient-pack slipped from her fingers. She suddenly doubled over, clutching her stomach with a gasp of pure agony.