The transition from Yuliya’s velvet-lined office to the Varo munitions bay hit like a drop into freezing slush. One moment, the matriarch’s smile had been a cool, sharp blade. The next, Mireva was standing amidst a clangor of steel and the acrid tang of spent gunpowder, her arm still prickling from the blood-pact’s cold energy. “The engagement announcement will require a few… adjustments to your public profile, Mireva,” Kazem said, his voice a low rumble. He leaned against a rack of polished chrome carbines, his dark, tailored suit a stark contrast to the rough-hewn metal and oil stains of the workshop. His easy smile, usually fixed for the press feeds, slackened at the corners as he met her gaze. He looked less like the city’s most notorious playboy and more like a man caught in a blast-zone. Mireva barely registered the shift. Her mind was already running a tactical brief on their absurd situation. “My public profile is irrelevant. The goal is Sunken Sector clearance. Everything else is collateral.” She gestured around the vast hall, a cavernous vault where mercenaries tuned bespoke weapons and plate. Gantries crisscrossed overhead, carrying munitions crates, and a dozen plasma-cutters spat blue-white sparks in the distance. “This,” she added, indicating a sprawling workbench laden with schematic printouts, “is where we strategize the public perception. What is your current approval rating among the corporate sponsors? And what is the fastest way to leverage this… partnership… to secure the necessary override codes for the inner gates?” Kazem pushed off the carbine rack, his posture shifting, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “My approval rating is… complicated. But you don’t need to worry about the override codes. My grandmother handles the logistics. You just need to look suitably… enamored.” He gave her a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Mireva ignored the last part. She walked past him, running a gloved hand over the cold, ridged barrel of a heavy-caliber railgun. “Complicated metrics are a weakness. We need concrete data. Project a united front. What are your physical capabilities? This requires more than a mere transactional alliance; it demands a perception of genuine synergy. We must appear formidable together.” Her eyes flickered over his form, a quick, professional assessment. “Your frame is solid. Good musculature, for a civilian scion. It suggests a high-yield genetic baseline, or at least a diligent training regimen. We can work with that.” Kazem’s blush deepened, staining his cheekbones a furious crimson. He cleared his throat, a low, guttural sound. “Right. My… physical capabilities. Let’s just say I can handle myself. And you,” he added, his voice regaining some of its usual swagger, “are quite the… specimen yourself.” Before Mireva could parse the compliment, a team of synth-skinned recording drones whirred into the workshop, followed by a human crew. Lights flared, casting harsh shadows across the gleaming metal. A director, a lean man with a perpetually stressed expression, clapped his hands. “Alright, Mr. Varo, Ms. Kanz! Let’s get some shots. Something natural. Intimate. You know, for the *engagement*.” He winked, a gesture Mireva found profoundly unsettling. Kazem, ever the practiced performer, instantly adopted his charming, careless smirk. He slung an arm around Mireva’s shoulders, his touch light, almost dismissive, but firm enough to pull her slightly closer. Mireva stiffened, but held her ground. This was a necessary tactic. She could endure a brief, performative display of affection if it meant gaining access to the Sunken Sector. Lenses hummed and pivoted, capturing their staged intimacy against the backdrop of industrial plating. “Just look at her,” Kazem murmured for the lenses, his tone a smooth purr. “The sharpest edge in Oskara. And soon, mine.” Mireva felt a flicker of annoyance. He was overselling it, veering into melodrama. Her gaze swept past the crew, toward the deeper recesses of the facility, where technicians calibrated new plasma-forges. Then she saw him. Daris Krov. A rival combatant, notorious for theatrical close-quarters kills. He leaned against a reinforced bulkhead, arms folded, an optic-orb hovering near his shoulder to stream his feed. His eyes, a predatory silver, were fixed on Mireva. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips as he pushed off the wall and began to saunter towards them, his heavy combat boots echoing on the durasteel floor. “Well, well, well,” Daris drawled, his voice carrying cleanly over the thrum of hydraulic presses. “Kazem Varo. Still buying your way into the good graces of Oskara’s finest, I see.” He stopped a few paces away, his gaze sweeping over Mireva’s unyielding form before settling back on Kazem, dripping with disdain. “And here I thought Mireva Kanz, the *Ghost of the Periphery*, was above such… theatrical alliances. Trading a plasma scythe for a pretty necklace, eh, Kanz?” Kazem’s arm tightened imperceptibly around Mireva. His casual smirk remained, fixed and unyielding, but the air around him grew colder, denser. Mireva registered the subtle shift, a familiar tension in a potential foe. She found herself watching Daris, assessing his movements, his stance. He was trying to provoke. But for what purpose? Daris, oblivious or uncaring, simply chuckled. “Come on, Kazem. We both know the only thing you’ve ever hit dead-center is the bottom of a liquor bottle. Maybe you’re worried an actual frontline champion will show your little fiancée what real power looks like.” He let his gaze linger on Mireva, a slow, appraising sweep that felt like a physical touch. “What say you, Kanz? Tired of playing house with the biggest fraud in Oskara? I could show you a real hunt. One that doesn’t involve staged photoshoots and inherited wealth.” Kazem ripped his arm from Mireva’s shoulders, moving with sudden, vicious speed. His feigned grin stripped away, his mouth pulling tight against bare teeth. His hand, a blur of motion, went to his hip. A heavy-caliber hand-cannon, the ‘Widow’s Kiss’ model, materialized in his grip, its polished chrome glinting under the harsh lights. “Kazem!” the director shouted, stumbling back. The broadcast drones scattered, whining in reverse. Kazem didn’t acknowledge him. His gaze was locked on Daris, burning with an intensity Mireva had never witnessed. He pulled a black silk blindfold from his inner jacket pocket and tied it around his eyes, obscuring his vision completely. Daris, for the first time, looked genuinely wary, his cocky grin faltering. “A fraud, am I?” Kazem’s voice was low, laced with a chilling tremor. “Let’s see how good a fraud I am, *Striker*.” With a flick of his wrist, Kazem brought the Widow’s Kiss up. He didn’t aim, didn’t even seem to pause. The weapon discharged with a deafening roar, spitting a searing, high-velocity slug. The slug screamed past Daris’s ear, so close Mireva saw the air ripple around it. It impacted a heavy durasteel plate mounted on the wall behind him, leaving a neat, smoking hole precisely at head height. The crack made Daris jerk backward against the bulkhead, his mouth agape, skin drained of color. Kazem lowered the hand-cannon, the blindfold still obscuring his eyes. He didn’t remove it. Instead, he reached out, his hand finding Mireva’s waist with surprising accuracy. His grip was possessive, almost bruising, as he pulled her flush against his side. The broadcast technicians froze, watching the heir—blindfolded, reeking of cordite, and lethal—clamp Mireva against his side. His voice, a low, dangerous growl, was for Daris alone, though Mireva felt the vibrations against her ribs. “Get out of my sight, Krov. And if you ever look at her again, I will personally mount your head on my wall.”

Collateral Damage