The strike team spilled into the dim station, a dozen figures in charcoal-grey tactical gear, their energy rifles held ready. Marzena moved first, her hand sweeping up, pushing Idzi behind a crumbling support column. Krystian was already drawing his sidearm, the click of the safety echoing in the cavernous space. “No,” Marzena’s voice was low, rough with urgency. “This isn’t a firefight we win. Not here.” Idzi, usually so quick with a retort, stood frozen, staring blankly. He looked at Marzena, then at the approaching squad, then back at Marzena, a dawning horror on his face. “Marzena, no. You can’t.” “I’m the bodyguard,” she said, her gaze steady on the lead operative. “It’s my duty.” Her hand went to her own sidearm, but instead of drawing it, she unholstered it slowly, deliberately, and placed it on the floor beside her. She raised her empty hands. “I surrender.” A guttural sound tore from Idzi’s throat. “Marzena! What are you doing? They’ll break you!” He lunged forward, but Krystian caught him, a hand clamped firmly on his arm. “She’s buying us time, Idzi. It’s the only way.” Krystian’s voice was strained, his grip tightening. The lead enforcer, a hulking figure with a scarred chin visible beneath his visor, stopped a few meters away. “On your knees, ward,” he barked, his voice distorted through a comms unit. “Hands behind your head.” Marzena dropped to one knee, then the other, her movements precise and unhurried. Her spine remained rigid. She ignored the team, her eyes fixed on Idzi and Krystian. “Go,” she mouthed, a silent command. Idzi struggled against Krystian’s grip, his face contorted. “I won’t leave you!” “You have to,” Marzena said, her voice carrying across the space, clear and firm. “Expose him. Clear your name. That’s your duty now.” Two operatives moved in, grabbing Marzena’s arms and yanking her up. She didn’t resist. She kept her gaze on Idzi, a silent promise passing between them. He finally stopped struggling, a terrible understanding settling over him. Krystian gave him a shove towards a narrow access tunnel that branched off from the main platform, hidden behind a stack of rusted service conduits. “They’re gone,” the squad lead stated, a heavy hand pressing down on Marzena’s shoulder, forcing her forward. She allowed herself to be led, her eyes scanning the tunnel, memorizing every detail, every shadow. Hours later, the air in the interrogation room was thick with the sterile scent of ozone and old ambition. Marzena sat strapped to a cold metal chair, the light from a single luminescent panel above harsh on her face. Across the table sat two figures. One was Examiner Zygmunt, his face a roadmap of sharp angles and deeper lines, his grey hair clipped short. The other was Warden Rysiek, younger, with an air of contained aggression, his gaze sharp like a raven’s. Both wore the dark grey uniform of the Vistulene State Security Bureau, a stark contrast to the familiar academy fatigues they once donned. “Kowalska,” Zygmunt began, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth he sometimes feigned during training. “You have been blacklisted. A burn notice issued. You know what that means.” “I understand the parameters of state protocol,” Marzena replied, her voice steady, betraying no emotion. “It means I am a liability. A renegade. A target.” Rysiek leaned forward. “And yet, you facilitated the escape of Idzi Olenko, a man accused of high treason. Why, ward? Loyalty to a mark? Or something more…personal?” Marzena met his gaze, unflinching. “My contract was to safeguard Idzi Olenko. The methods were adapted to the evolving threat matrix. The goal remains constant: full execution.” The examiner tapped a stylus against a datapad. “You violated every tenet of the Cradle. Duty Before Self, Kowalska. You chose self-preservation by aiding a fugitive.” “I chose operational success,” Marzena corrected, her voice sharper now. “The true threat, as you well know, is not Idzi Olenko. It is Grigor Brych.” Rysiek scoffed. “Brych is a decorated veteran of the institution. A patriot. You, Kowalska, are confused. Idzi Olenko is the traitor. He’s been funneling Olenko tech to the Oskardian Syndicate for years.” “Based on falsified data and a manipulated Succession Clause,” Marzena countered, her eyes narrowing. “A clause that would grant Grigor Brych control of the Olenko empire. Did he mention that little detail in his briefing, Instructor? Or did he just feed you the easy narrative?” Zygmunt lowered his stylus. Rysiek shifted, glancing aside. Marzena pressed her advantage. “You teach us to analyze data, to detect anomalies, to see beyond the surface. Where is your analysis now? Or are you simply following orders, like the fresh recruits in the training simulations?” “Don’t insult us, Kowalska,” Rysiek growled. “Is it an insult to question the integrity of an assignment briefing when the facts point to a grander deception?” Marzena retorted. “You trained me to see the unseen. To question everything. Are you now telling me to unlearn those lessons?” Zygmunt leaned back, his gaze unreadable. “You’re intelligent, Kowalska. Always were. But you’re misguided. Brych is a loyal son of the Republic. You are not.” “He blackmailed me,” Marzena stated, her voice flat. “With falsified evidence implicating me in a failed covert operation. An operation I never conducted. He forced me onto this assignment, then used me to further his own agenda. Is that the loyalty of a ‘son of the Republic’?” Neither man responded. The silence stretched, flat and cold. Marzena knew she had planted a seed of doubt. It wouldn’t be enough to free her, but it was a start. Meanwhile, in a grimy, cramped comms den above a bustling night market, Krystian worked his contacts. The air was thick with the scent of cheap noodles and illicit data streams. Idzi paced the small space like a caged animal, his usual flamboyant attire replaced by borrowed, ill-fitting street clothes. “This is insane, Krys. He’ll never agree,” Idzi muttered, gesturing at the flickering display of Krystian’s comms rig. “He hates me. I practically publicly declared his company insolvent at the Gala.” Krystian ignored him, his fingers flying across the holographic keyboard. “Hatred is a strong motivator, Idzi. But ambition is stronger. Especially with a power vacuum looming.” He paused, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Ah, he’s responding. Mister Kazimir, as prickly as a durian, but just as ripe for a deal.” The screen resolved into the severe, angular face of Kazimir, chief of the rival conglomerate Idzi had so gleefully humiliated. The magnate's eyes held a spark of wary curiosity. “Nowak,” the magnate’s voice crackled through the comms, a thin sneer on his face. “To what do I owe the… unexpected pleasure? Heard you’ve gone rogue with the Olenko boy. Poor career choice, I’d say.” “Circumstances have changed, Kazimir,” Krystian replied smoothly, ignoring Idzi’s agitated signals to cut the call. “Grigor Brych is making a play for Olenko Corp. A very messy play. And a very illegal one.” Kazimir’s brow furrowed slightly. “Brych? That old brute? I always thought he was a glorified pet.” “A very ambitious pet with very sharp teeth,” Krystian corrected. “He’s using a Succession Clause to seize control. If he succeeds, the entire Vistulene economy will destabilize. And your current market share will become… negligible.” His expression hardened. “What do you want, Nowak? You didn’t call just to warn me.” “We need your help to expose Brych. Your resources, your influence in the Republic Council, your… specific expertise in financial forensics.” Krystian paused, letting the offer hang in the air. “In return, when the dust settles, and Idzi Olenko regains control, I will personally guarantee you a seat on the new Olenko board. A significant minority stake, and oversight on all joint ventures.” Idzi started, aghast. “Krys! You can’t just offer–” Krystian held up a hand, silencing him. Kazimir’s gaze, however, gleamed with predatory satisfaction. The offer was audacious. It was exactly what he had always craved: legitimate power within the Olenko dynasty without the public bloodbath of a hostile takeover. “A seat on the Olenko board,” Kazimir mused, his gaze drifting from Krystian to the nervous Idzi in the background. “And you’re certain Idzi will honor this… agreement?” “He will,” Krystian said, his voice firm, unwavering. “Because he has no other choice. And because I will ensure it.” The tech mogul leaned closer to his screen, a flat smile spreading across his face. “Very well, Nowak. You have my attention. Send me the details. And make them watertight.” The connection severed. Idzi exploded. “A board seat? To *him*? Have you lost your mind? He’s tried to sabotage my company for years!” “And he’ll try again,” Krystian said calmly, turning from the comms rig. “But now, he’ll be doing it from *inside* the tent. We’ll watch him. And right now, we need his help more than we need to maintain your petty rivalries.” He clapped Idzi on the shoulder. “Consider it an investment. One that might just save your life, and your empire.” Back in the black site, Marzena sat in silence, the hum of the fluorescent light a constant companion. The interrogators had left, their questions unanswered and their voices gone. The door hissed open again. A different guard, one Marzena hadn’t seen before, entered. He walked directly to the table, his face impassive. Without a word, he reached into a pouch on his belt and placed a small, carved iron bird on the cold metal surface. It was her graduation token. The one Grigor Brych had personally given her, a symbol of her initiation into the elite ranks of the academy's vanguards.

A Deal with the Rival