“Phelan.” Neva’s voice was a whisper, a stark contrast to the thundering rhythm of her pulse. The man whose surgical grip had guided her first residency incision had drafted every punitive protocol Olenna used. The glowing text on Tamsin’s data-slate confirmed it: an internal subnet address from Gault Labs, traced to the exact timestamp of Olenna’s most vicious psychological attacks. Kasen, still holding Neva’s elbow, pulled her closer. “Neva?” His gaze, usually so sharp and analytical, was clouded with raw concern. He had seen the shift in her, the way her spine stiffened, the sudden hollowness that had consumed the last vestiges of her weaponized cheerfulness. Neva tore her gaze from the slate, her eyes, usually vibrant, now held a chilling glint. “He didn’t just want Gerrick’s patents,” she murmured, the pieces clicking into place with horrifying clarity. “He wanted the Dassein empire. And he knew the only way was to break me first.” Her fingers skimmed the glass of the data-slate, pressing a command. The archive logs instantly replicated to her wrist-comm. “To break you so he could step in as your ‘savior’?” Tamsin rasped, her voice still rough from the oxygen deprivation. She pushed off the shelf, her own expression a grim mask of understanding. “He’s been playing the long game, Neva. Every ‘helpful’ gesture, every protective word… it was all a performance.” Neva closed her eyes for a fleeting second, the betrayal a bitter poison in her veins. Her jaw tightened, erasing the last trace of the pliant, ditzy woman she’d pretended to be. “Not anymore,” she stated, her voice low and cutting. “The Trask vendetta was a distraction. Phelan Gault is the target.” She met Kasen’s gaze, a silent request for his unwavering support passing between them. He simply nodded, his grip on her elbow firm, a silent promise. “The neuro-tech vault,” Neva continued, looking from Kasen to Tamsin. “That’s his end game. It houses the Nerve-Weave matrix. He tried to frame me for a bio-hazard to get access, then to coup me out of the company. He needs it before the board meeting, before he’s exposed.” “The Apex Philanthropic Gala is tonight,” Kasen supplied, his thoughts already racing ahead. “He’ll be there. It’s the last major social event before the quarterly board review.” Neva’s lips curved into a predatory smile. “Then we attend the gala. And we retrieve what’s ours.” *** The Grand Hall of the Argent Spire glittered with a thousand suspended crystal fractals, each catching the ambient light and scattering it across the faces of Prynth’s elite. The air, thick with the scent of imported orchids and expensive synth-champagne, buzzed with the low hum of power brokers. Neva, draped in a gown of shimmering midnight cerulean that clung to her curves, moved through the throng with Kasen Yarrow at her side. Her smile was a flawless mask of engagement, her eyes, however, constantly scanned the room, searching. Phelan Gault stood near the central fountain, his silver hair impeccable, his face a picture of benevolent authority as he charmed a cluster of bio-pharmaceutical executives. His left hand tapped against his breast pocket, where he kept his master access key card for Dassein facilities. Kasen leaned in, his voice a warm murmur next to her ear. “He hasn’t left that pocket unattended since we arrived. He’s anticipating something.” “Good,” Neva replied, her own voice equally hushed. “Let him anticipate. It will make him predictable.” She caught Phelan’s eye across the room. He offered a knowing, paternal smile. Neva returned it with a sweetness that could curdle milk. The orchestra swelled, signaling the start of the evening’s formal dance. Phelan, ever the charmer, immediately headed towards a prominent senator’s wife. Neva, however, had other plans. She guided Kasen onto the dance floor, her hand resting lightly on his arm. “Keep your eyes on the prize, Kasen.” As the music began, a sweeping, classical piece with a driving rhythm, Neva subtly steered Kasen towards Phelan’s position. Their movements were fluid, perfectly synchronized, a dance of two predators stalking their prey. Neva’s cerulean gown swirled around her, a hypnotic blur, as she executed a series of intricate turns with Kasen. Her hand, resting against his back, radiated a warmth that seeped through the silk of his suit jacket. His thumb traced the tendon along her wrist as they dipped and turned in step. Their gaze held for a beat, mutual calculation humming under the polished veneer of polite society. Kasen’s gaze held a fierce protectiveness, a challenge to anyone who dared to cross her. Neva, for her part, allowed a sliver of her true self to show, a flash of vulnerability that she rarely permitted. It was a calculated risk, designed to draw Phelan’s attention, to make him complacent in his assumed control. This wasn’t just a dance; it was a performance for an audience of one. They circled closer, Neva’s focus laser-sharp on Phelan’s breast pocket. As they executed a particularly complex rotation, Neva subtly adjusted her footing, bringing her within touching distance of Phelan and his current dance partner. Her hand, angling toward Kasen’s shoulder as if steadying a spin, grazed Phelan’s side. It was a barely-there contact, a whisper of silk against fine wool, but her nimble fingers were already at work. A flicker of movement, a nearly imperceptible shift in Phelan’s posture. Neva’s heart thrummed, but her face remained serenely composed. She felt the smooth plastic of the key card, her fingers closing around it with practiced ease. Success. But as she pulled away, Phelan’s eyes, previously warm, turned to chips of glacial ice. He didn’t betray a hint of alarm to his partner, merely tightened his smile. Neva’s triumph was short-lived. A low, almost inaudible hum vibrated through the floor. A discreet chime, barely audible above the music, echoed from the Spire’s internal comms. The exits, Neva realized with a jolt, were silently sealing. Phelan had caught on. And he had just locked them all inside. Before Neva could process the implications, a piercing shriek ripped through the air, utterly distinct from the music. It was the sound of tortured metal, of something tearing through the very fabric of the building’s defenses. A shadow, impossibly vast and fast, swept across the glittering ceiling. A targeted kinetic strike. Precision ordnance calibrated for the ballroom floor. Kasen instinctively pulled her close, shielding her, but Neva saw it—the glint of an incoming projectile through the now-cracking crystal fractals. Time seemed to distend. “Kasen, *down!*” she screamed, her voice hoarse, and with a superhuman burst of adrenaline, she shoved him with all her might. He stumbled back, colliding with a pillar, just as the ceiling above them exploded inwards. Glass, steel, and crystal rained down in a deadly cascade. A searing pain erupted in Neva’s lower back, a white-hot agony that stole her breath. She crumpled, the world tilting violently as her legs gave out beneath her. The last thing she registered was Kasen’s guttural cry, his arms catching her as she fell. His voice was a panicked roar against the chaos, his hands pressed against the rapidly blooming crimson stain on the back of her gown. Her legs, once capable of swift, elegant movement, were now unfeeling, unresponsive dead weight. The cold, creeping numbness started from her calves, climbing rapidly, consuming her. “Neva! Neva, look at me!” Kasen hovered over her, his expression cracked open as he hauled her upright against his chest. The Nerve-Weave matrix. The only technology that could stitch her nerves before permanent paralysis set in was locked in the vault. The vault she had failed to open, even with the key now clutched in her trembling hand.

The Midpoint Strike