“Duty before self, Marzena,” Grigor said, his voice a silken rasp. “You should have remembered that.” The neuro-disrupter pulsed again, its blue light reflecting off the wet-mop residue on the floor. Marzena didn’t hesitate. The vibro-knife, a blur of motion, wasn't for Grigor directly. It targeted the nearest guard, a hulking man with a shaved head and a neck like a siege ram, specifically his holstered pistol. The blade struck the man’s wrist with a sickening thud, severing the nerve cluster. His hand spasmed, dropping the weapon. Before it hit the floor, Marzena had it. The second guard, quicker, drew his own weapon. A sharp, high-pitched *thwip* filled the room as Marzena fired a round, not at the man, but at the electronics rack beside him. Sparks showered, and a cascade of diagnostic alarms shrieked into life. The guard flinched, his shot going wide and punching into a power conduit. The lights flickered, casting Grigor’s smile into momentary shadow. Grigor, surprisingly nimble for his age, lunged forward with the blue wand leveled at her brow. Marzena ducked as the device hummed past her ear, emitting a high-frequency wash that made her teeth thrum and turned the overhead diodes into smeary streaks. It severed neural pathways rather than stunning the muscles directly. She staggered back, her hand fumbling for purchase on a cold metal console. The wounded guard charged her, swinging his good fist like a club. He slammed her into a rack, the impact rattling her teeth. A warning klaxon began to blare, its insistent cry echoing through the cavernous room, quickly joined by the distant clamor of the gala above. Security systems, now fully aware of the breach, were roaring to life. “The data, Grigor!” Marzena snarled, shaking off the disorientation. “It’s gone!” Grigor laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “Oh, it’s not gone, Marzena. It’s exactly where it needs to be. A little *gift* for Idzi, from me.” He gestured vaguely at the empty Chronos terminal. “Consider it a logic bomb, ticking away.” He threw a small, black drive, no bigger than her thumb, at her feet. “This, however, contains a slightly different truth. The truth of your mentor’s *loyalty*.” Marzena glanced down. The drive was a standard Olenko Corp model. She didn't have time to retrieve it. The second guard recovered, swinging his muzzle to track her ribs. The first one, still reeling from her attack, moved to block her escape route back to the access tunnel. “Goodbye, Marzena,” Grigor said, his eyes glinting. He thumbed a switch on the wand. A blinding flash erupted, followed by a concussive pulse that slammed Marzena against the metal framework again. Her ears rang, and a metallic taste filled her mouth. When her vision cleared, Grigor and his two henchmen were gone, the heavy blast hatch sliding shut with a pressurized hiss. She shoved clear of the frame. The klaxons were deafening now, overlapping alerts howling in unison while bootheels pounded in the hall outside. “Idzi, I’m out!” she shouted into her comms, her voice ragged. “Grigor escaped! He planted something—a logic bomb. And he took the critical data. Get out of there!” On the gala floor, the sounds of distant alarms were beginning to filter through the orchestral music. Idzi, his smile still charmingly insouciant, was mid-waltz with Lysandra Krezh, CEO of the rival Krezh Systems. Her face, usually guarded by boardroom polish, showed flushed amusement. She thought she was winning this subtle power play. “My dear Lysandra,” Idzi purred, dipping her low, his eyes twinkling. “You dance almost as beautifully as you lie.” Lysandra’s smile faltered. “Excuse me, Olenko?” “Oh, come now. Don’t be coy,” Idzi straightened, pulling her roughly back up. “Everyone knows you’ve been funneling illicit funds through those shell corporations in the Vuldovian Free Zone. Your quarterly reports read like a kindergarten art project. Full of pretty colors, utterly devoid of substance.” Whispers rippled through the surrounding clusters of oligarchs. Lysandra’s face went from flushed to pale, then crimson. “How dare you!” she hissed, her voice barely audible above the rising hum of curiosity. “How dare *I*?” Idzi feigned shock. “I dare because your perfume smells like cheap synthetic roses, and your company’s latest quarterly projections are based on manipulating energy futures through the very same backdoors Grigor Brych established for my father. Funny, that. Perhaps you should ask him how well his *loyalty* typically pays off.” Lysandra gasped, her eyes darting to a figure across the room – a stern-faced man in a tailored suit who suddenly looked very uncomfortable. The murmur of the crowd swelled, a buzz of schadenfreude and shocked speculation. This was no longer a playful jab. This was open sabotage declared before the city's financial elite. Idzi leaned in close, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that carried perfectly. “And your dress? Truly, Lysandra. The fabric is a terrible knock-off. My great-aunt’s curtains have more integrity.” He then, with a flourish, deliberately spilled a glass of scarlet Kryovian wine down the front of her shimmering gown. The crimson liquid spread like a blossoming bruise across the pristine white fabric. A collective gasp erupted. Lysandra shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury and humiliation. The security alarms, now full-throated, were suddenly almost an afterthought. All eyes were on Idzi and the utterly disgraced Krezh CEO. A path cleared instantly around them, creating a perfect, chaotic escape route. “That’s your cue, Marzena,” Idzi muttered into his comm, a genuine smirk now on his face. “Enjoy the show.” Marzena, having shattered the door's mag-lock panel with a shot into the internal wiring, sprinted through the echoing service corridors. The Devil’s Gala was several floors below, but the path to the rooftop helipad was clear. She burst through the final hatch, the rain-slicked concrete stretching before her, the Stanczów skyline a dizzying array of neon and towering steel. A fierce wind tore at her gown, plastering the silk to her form. And then she saw him. Grigor. He was already at the pad's perimeter near a sleek, matte-black VTOL, its turbine whine building. His guards were already aboard. He turned, the wand still in his grip, an arrogant sneer lifting his lips. His eyes, however, weren’t on her. They were scanning the sky above. Marzena’s blood surged. He knew. He was waiting. Just as she processed this, a dark silhouette detached itself from the storm clouds. A modified combat gunship, twin tilt-rotors whining, dropped from the clouds with predatory speed. Its underbelly gleamed with weapon mounts. Krystian. He hadn’t forgotten. *Thwip-thwip-thwip.* Slugs from Grigor’s men, firing from the open bay of their shuttle, chewed concrete inches from her boots. Grigor himself raised a heavy-caliber mag-pistol. Marzena dove, rolling behind a maintenance shed, the flimsy silk of her gown offering no protection against the chilling spray of the rain or the impact. The gunship roared overhead, belly-mounted autocannons spitting tracer lines. That heavy suppressing fire chewed across the shuttle's armored flank, forcing its pilot to bank sharply to evade a direct strike while the guards ducked for cover inside. Grigor cursed, momentarily distracted, looking up at Krystian’s aggressive approach. “Krystian, you fool!” Grigor bellowed over the wind and the gunfire. “This isn’t your fight!” “You made it my fight, Grigor!” Krystian’s voice, amplified by the comms, crackled in Marzena’s ear. “Get to the edge, Marzena! I’m coming around!” Marzena gained her footing, ignoring the hot sting where a stray bullet had grazed her deltoid. The shuttle gained altitude, twisting out of the line of fire. Grigor, seeing his escape vehicle pulling away, spun back towards Marzena, desperation etched on his face. He fired, a single, precise shot aimed at her chest. It was too fast. Too accurate. Marzena braced for impact. But then Krystian’s chopper banked hard, swooping dangerously close to the skyscraper’s edge. Its landing skid, usually retracted, was extended, dangling tantalizingly close. “Now, Marzena!” Krystian screamed. “Jump!” The bullet tore through the air, inches from her left ear, whipping her hair. Marzena hurled herself into open air, fingers stretching for the landing bar. The world tilted violently. The skyscraper plummeted away beneath her. Her fingers scraped against the cold, wet metal of the skid, her grip tenuous. She dangled precariously, the wind trying to rip her from her hold. Grigor hesitated for an instant, then squeezed the trigger, targeting her exposed knuckles. The ricochets threw orange sparks off the tube inches from her skin. Marzena gritted her teeth, pulling herself up with a grunt of raw effort, her feet finally finding purchase on the skid. The gunship climbed, banking hard over the drop. As they gained altitude, Grigor's shuttle became a shrinking dot against the stormy clouds. “You okay?” Krystian’s voice, surprisingly calm now, came through the comms. “That was… theatrical.” “He didn’t just take the drive,” Marzena gasped, hanging on as wind whipped her gown. “He planted an execution worm. Called it a 'gift' for Idzi.” Krystian’s laugh was humorless. “Figured as much. Grigor’s never been one for clean breaks. He always leaves a parting shot. Check your comms, Marzena. Something’s happening in Stanczów.” Marzena fumbled for her wrist-comm, its screen flickering to life. Across the city, in every direction, every public display, every holographic billboard, every private screen in the soaring towers of the Vistulene Republic, flickered once, then went black. A brief hush settled, broken only by the twin turbines overhead. Then, simultaneously, every screen illuminated once more, bathed in a stark, accusing red. A single, stark message, emblazoned in bold, angular script, pulsed across the entire cityscape: ‘IDZI OLENKO, TRAITOR TO THE REPUBLIC.’

Freefall