The gown felt like a second skin, spun from iridescent noct-silk that shimmered with static. It clung to Iolla's frame, a stark contrast to the roughspun scavenge-gear she usually wore. In the mirrored prep-chamber, a team of Severin automatons meticulously applied a shimmering cosmetic sheath to her skin, obscuring the faint, old scars that still crisscrossed her forearms. Burdock chittered softly from his brushed chrome carrier, his multi-jointed legs twitching with impatience. He hated the scent of the synthetic perfumes, the sterile hum of the machines. “Almost done, little shadow,” Iolla murmured, her voice a practiced lilt, sweet and slightly vacant. The smile she wore was a carefully constructed mask, affixed as firmly as the temporary bio-luminescence painted onto her cheekbones. She’d spent the predawn hours re-reading the contract, the horror of Warden Galt’s name a cold ember in her gut. Now, she simply pushed it down, beneath layers of forced cheer. Survival meant playing the part until the payout, even if the payout was already stolen. Arkady Severin waited outside the chamber, a dark, imposing silhouette against the luminescent corridor. His presence felt like a gravitational pull. When the doors hissed open, Iolla glided out, a vision of superficial grace. Arkady's gaze swept over her, a brief, assessing scan that lingered for a fraction of a second too long on the curve of her throat. “Ready, Iolla?” His voice was a low thrum, devoid of warmth. “As I’ll ever be, Magnate Severin!” she chirped, linking her arm through his, her touch light, almost ethereal. The comm-link in her ear buzzed softly, relaying Arkady’s instructions: *Maintain visibility. Engage only with approved contacts. Avoid prolonged solitary conversation.* Her role was clear: bait on a gilded hook. They descended to the Severin Spire’s Grand Conclave Hall, a cavernous space where holo-chandeliers dripped synthetic light onto buffed synth-marble floors. Oramor’s elite, clad in their own shimmering silks and bespoke bio-weaves, swarmed like exotic fish in a bioluminescent reef. Whispers followed them, not just for Arkady’s glacial reputation, but for the unexpected, almost ethereal girl on his arm. Iolla smiled, giggled at a poorly delivered joke from a junior Magnate, and maintained a vacant, admiring expression as Arkady navigated the social currents. She felt the eyes on her, a mixture of envy, curiosity, and predatory assessment. The trap was set. Later, in the Champagne Lounge, a more intimate alcove with panoramic views of Oramor’s storm-lashed lower districts, Iolla feigned a sudden fascination with a rare noct-orchid display. Arkady, engaged in a low-toned conversation with a director from the Hydronet Corporation, had granted her a brief leash. She drifted, a glass of effervescent synth-champagne in hand, her eyes wide and innocent, feigning ignorance of the subtle shift in the room’s ambient hum. A quiet fizzing, almost imperceptible. Then, a sudden, jarring silence. The soft music from the lounge speakers died. The low murmur of conversation seemed to flatten, soundless. Even the tiny internal comm-link in her ear went dead, replaced by a hollow static. Iolla’s cheerful smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of genuine unease. This wasn’t just a power fluctuation. This was a targeted blackout. Before she could process it, a hand clamped around her wrist, brutally tight. Magnate Zanech, his face a predatory mask beneath his meticulously styled dark hair, loomed over her. His eyes, dark and flat, bore into hers. “Lost your way, little bird?” he snarled, his voice a low growl that seemed to vibrate in the sudden quiet. He was closer than she remembered him from the warehouse, his scent metallic and sharp. “Foolish girl. Do you truly think you can play house with Severin and walk away?” Iolla’s practiced ditzy facade cracked, a hairline fracture she frantically tried to mend. “Oh! Magnate Zanech! I was just admiring the—the way the light catches the—the bubbles!” Her voice was a breathy, nervous whisper, her free hand fluttering uselessly. But inside, her mind raced. *Localized EMP. Severin’s audio feed is dead. He knows.* Zanech’s grip tightened, cutting off her circulation. His thumb dug into the nerve cluster on her inner wrist, driving an ache straight to her shoulder. “The decoy,” he hissed, leaning closer, his breath hot against her ear. “A rather transparent ruse, even for Arkady. But the Severin line *will* end. And you, my dear, are the perfect instrument to sever it. I’ll gut you like a fish, right here. Your death will be a public declaration, a message carved into Severin’s gilded cage.” His other hand moved, a glint of bare steel emerging from his sleeve, a slim, wicked blade. Just as the blade came into full view, a shadow fell over them. The air around Zanech dropped ten degrees as draft vents kicked high. Arkady Severin stood behind him, silent, a ghost of retribution. His ornate synth-ebony cane, usually a mere accoutrement, moved with lethal speed. The heavy pommel slammed down, not on Zanech’s head, but precisely on the small, glowing device concealed in Zanech’s palm. The EMP scrambler shattered with a sharp *CRACK*, sparks flying, the quiet in the lounge instantly giving way to a returning wave of sound and light. “Magnate Zanech,” Arkady’s voice was a whisper, yet it cut through the revived chatter like a sonic blade. “You seem to have a penchant for breaking things. First your various investment ventures, then your privacy, and now, my personal property.” Arkady’s eyes, cold as the deepest reaches of the Oramor Trench, swept over the assembled guests, then settled on Zanech. “Perhaps you'd care to explain to the assembled financial magnates how your holdings in the Hydronet Infrastructure Project are currently circling the insolvency drain, a fact you’ve been rather desperate to conceal?” Zanech’s face went ash-pale, his grip on Iolla’s wrist loosening instantly. The blade vanished back into his sleeve. The other guests, now fully aware of the drama, turned their full attention to the scene, their expressions a mixture of shock and morbid fascination. Arkady had just exposed Zanech’s deepest secret, his financial ruin, to the entire corporate elite. Zanech, humiliated, stumbled back, melting into the crowd. Arkady’s hand, possessive and almost brutally strong, wrapped around Iolla’s waist, pulling her flush against his side. His arm remained there, a cage of woven synth-fibers and raw power, the tightness bordering on suffocating. “Are you unharmed?” he murmured, his breath a cool caress against her hair. There was an edge in his voice, a low rumble of suppressed fury that sent a tremor through Iolla despite herself. It was not concern, not truly, but the fierce protectiveness of a predator over its valuable asset. Back in the austere luxury of the penthouse, the adrenaline that had fueled Iolla’s performance began to drain, leaving behind a hollow dread. Burdock, sensing her unease, had abandoned his perch on the plush synth-leather sofa and was now nudging her shin, a soft, worried chitter in his throat. Arkady watched them, his expression unreadable. “Bring him here,” Arkady commanded, his voice clipped. Iolla gently guided Burdock, who willingly climbed into Arkady’s outstretched, gloved hand. The Magnate’s fingers, surprisingly delicate, began to meticulously inspect the soot-macaque. He ran a thumb along Burdock’s six-legged body, traced the line of his small, bio-engineered skull. Then, his gaze snagged on the lacquered synth-collar Burdock wore. A faint, almost invisible glint. Arkady’s thumbnail scraped against the surface. A sliver of almost transparent film peeled away, revealing a pinpoint of glowing red light, no larger than a grain of sand. A microscopic tracker. Arkady’s eyes, when they met Iolla’s, were bleak and cold. “They weren’t trying to kill you, Iolla,” he stated, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “They were planting this. The Spire’s perimeter has been breached.”

EMP and Champagne