Marzena’s body absorbed the impact of Idzi’s lanky frame with practiced ease, her training overriding every other sensation. The floor was cool, expensive synth-wood under her cheek. Above them, the newly formed hole in the smart-glass wall exhaled a chill gust, carrying with it the faint scent of ionized air and distant rain. She didn’t wait for him to recover. Her grip on his robe tightened, yanking him further down, pressing his head low. His surprised yelp was a satisfying counterpoint to the distant wail of rising sirens.
“Stay down,” she grated, her voice a low rumble. Her gaze swept the opulent suite, triangulating potential secondary firing positions on the towering structures across the Vistula. The city glowed, a fractured kaleidoscope of neon through the spiderwebbed glass. His security detail, a quartet of burly men in ill-fitting charcoal suits, finally stirred, fumbling for sidearms holstered too late. They looked less like protectors and more like bouncers for an exclusive lounge.
“Identify and neutralize,” Marzena barked at the nearest guard, a man whose paunch strained the buttons of his jacket. He blinked, his movements sluggish. “Move! Secure the perimeter, now!”
“Who are you to give orders?” the guard blustered, a hand hovering over his sidearm. “This is Mr. Olenko’s private security. We have protocol.”
“Your guidelines just got Mr. Olenko nearly ventilated,” Marzena snapped, her eyes never leaving the skyline. “I am your new standing order. On your feet, scan for hostiles, or get out of my sight. Your choice.”
Idzi, still pinned beneath her, finally found his voice. “She’s… right, Balin. Do what she says.” He sounded disoriented, a stark contrast to his earlier flippancy. The brush with death had clearly sobered him.
Balin, grudgingly, began to move, but with the speed of a sloth traversing a syrup vat. His colleagues were no better. One fumbled his comm unit, another stared blankly at the shattered glass, seemingly mesmerized.
Marzena pushed herself up slightly, keeping Idzi shielded. Her slate flicked open, its interface a blur of light and data. “This is Kowalska, Marzena. Priority Alpha. Lock down Sector 7-Theta, Aviary summit. Deploy rapid response. Identify hostile sniper position, likely Sector 8-Gamma, high-rise, 2.3 klicks out, bearing 3-1-0.” Her words were clipped, precise, a stark contrast to the flailing around her.
A clipped voice responded over the comm. “Acknowledged, Agent Kowalska. Rapid response en route.”
Marzena turned her attention back to the bumbling quartet. “You,” she pointed at Balin. “You failed to detect, failed to respond, failed to protect. You’re fired. All of you. Effective immediately.”
Balin went slack-jawed. “You can’t—!”
“I just did,” Marzena interrupted, cutting him off mid-protest. “Gather your pathetic belongings and await termination papers. If I see any of you within fifty meters of this building, I’ll assume you’re a hostile. Understood?” Her tone left no room for argument. The guards exchanged bewildered glances, then, deflated, began to slowly shuffle towards the foyer doors.
“Well,” Idzi said, pushing himself up, now fully released by Marzena, though she remained poised. He dusted off his silk robe, a small, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands. “That was… efficient. And surprisingly exhilarating. I assume this means my ‘useless hide’ is now under new management?” He attempted a weak smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Marzena straightened, her stance still radiating coiled alertness. “It means your life is now under my direct, unnegotiable authority, Mr. Olenko. My standing orders are absolute. No exceptions, no excuses. From this moment on, you breathe when I tell you to breathe, and you move when I tell you to move. Do you comprehend?”
Idzi ran a hand through his disheveled platinum hair. “A bit draconian, don’t you think? I’m still the client. And this is my penthouse. My rules.”
“Your rules resulted in two bullet holes inches from your brainstem,” Marzena countered, gesturing to the shattered glass. “My rules will keep you alive. Choose.”
He sighed, a long, exasperated sound. “Fine. Your rules. For now. But let’s be clear, this is a temporary arrangement. Once this… unfortunate incident blows over, we can revert to a more civilized employer-employee dynamic.”
“There is nothing temporary about a credible assassination threat, Mr. Olenko. And there is nothing civilized about the people who want you dead.” Marzena’s gaze sharpened, fixing on him. “Speaking of which, you seemed unusually calm earlier. And you didn’t flinch when I mentioned the sniper. Most people, even the high-tech elite, aren’t quite so composed after a near-fatal incident.”
Idzi shrugged, a flicker of his usual nonchalance returning. “Perks of being born into the Olenko dynasty, I suppose. You learn to live with the occasional attempt on your life. Comes with the territory when you’re sitting on top of the Vistulene tech empire.” He paused, then added, almost too casually, “Besides, I recognised the signature. That was a ‘Phantom’ rifle, wasn’t it? An Olenko Corp experimental prototype. Stolen from our research labs six months ago. We never quite figured out who took it, or why.”
Marzena’s eyes narrowed. The casual mention of classified information, the specific designation of the weapon, didn’t escape her notice. This frivolous billionaire knew more than he let on. “Phantom rifle? You’re telling me your own company’s tech was used to try and kill you?”
“The irony is not lost on me,” Idzi replied, a faint, sardonic smile playing on his lips. “Adds a certain… corporate espionage flair to the whole affair, wouldn’t you say? Makes for excellent headlines. Though I’d prefer not to be the headline.”
Marzena made a mental note. This changed things. Idzi Olenko was not merely a helpless target; he was a potential source, possibly even an unwitting player in a larger game. This assignment just became significantly more complex. She spent the next hour securing the floor, personally overseeing the installation of reinforced ballistic panels and the re-routing of all surveillance feeds to her encrypted field terminal. She dispatched a perimeter team from her own Iron Cradle network, silently grateful for their swift, disciplined efficiency.
Later, in a spartan guest suite she’d commandeered, Marzena sat hunched over her datapad, the only light in the room emanating from the glowing screen. The rain-swept cityscape of Stanczów stretched out beyond the reinforced window, an endless sprawl of neon glare and shadow. She was deep in the labyrinthine security logs of The Aviary, cross-referencing anomaly reports with recent access attempts. Idzi’s nonchalance about the ‘Phantom’ rifle gnawed at her. It wasn’t just a random act; it was targeted, sophisticated, and internal.
Minutes bled into hours. The logs were clean, almost too clean. No external breaches, no obvious malware. But then, a subtle discrepancy. A ghost entry. A series of commands executed at a low-level network node, then erased without a trace, almost perfectly. Too perfectly. It wasn’t a hack from outside. It was a backdoor, woven into the very fabric of Olenko Corp’s proprietary network architecture. And the access credentials used to mask the activity? Top-tier. The kind only a handful of individuals within the Olenko hierarchy would possess. Someone with supreme authority, capable of moving through the digital infrastructure like a ghost.
She leaned back, a cold knot forming in her stomach. This wasn't just about protecting a spoiled billionaire. This was a deep, systemic infection. Grigor's blackmail, Idzi's potential framing for treasonous corporate espionage, the stolen weapon, the digital ghost in the machine—it was all interconnected. A web of betrayal and power, far grander than she’d anticipated.
Her slate vibrated, a new message flashing on the screen. It was from an unfamiliar, highly encrypted channel, a ghost in itself. She tapped it open, a ripple of unease moving through her. The message was short, blunt, and instantly recognizable in its arrogant brevity.
‘Heard you’re babysitting. Need a real partner?’ It was from Krystian ‘Krys’ Nowak.