Kord stared at the data shard, then back at Jynna’s terrifyingly gleeful smile. A faint, high-pitched whine rose from the walls. It wasn't coming from Jynna, but from the walls, the floor, the very retro-tech infrastructure of the Enforcer HQ itself. A low thrum vibrated through the cell’s grimy floor, rattling the loose bars of her prison. The overhead filaments pulsed yellow, casting jumping shadows across the stained concrete. “What have you done?” Kord’s voice was a low growl, devoid of his usual stoicism. He moved with sudden, predatory grace, closing the distance between them. The whine escalated, scraping through the molars. Beyond the iron frame, horns shrieked—a distorted, warbling pitch as internal circuitry overloaded. Jynna tilted her chin, her grin stretching wider. “Just a little structural re-arrangement,” she trilled, her voice cutting through the din with unnerving clarity. “And a transmission. A very thorough transmission.” Suddenly, the heavy steel door to Jynna’s cell screeched open, groaning on protesting hinges. Sena burst through the opening, cheeks dark with carbon dust, flanked by three uniformed strike-team operatives. The whine reached a deafening crescendo, forcing Kord to wince. “Commander! The entire network is going haywire!” one operative yelled over the noise, his voice strained. “Every display, every relay tower across the provinces, it’s… it’s feeding a signal!” Even as he spoke, the massive central monitor in the facility’s control room, visible through the shattered glass of the outer walkway, flickered to life. It displayed a scrolling ledger, overlaid with official seals and birth records, all accompanied by a voice – a woman’s voice, calm and methodical, narrating details of a forced identity swap, of a newborn girl replaced, of a lifetime of calculated poisoning. It was Jynna’s voice, pre-recorded, meticulously dissecting the contents of Sena’s pilfered ledger. From high-seat parlors to rusted ironworks, wire terminals projected the records. Velia Daris, held in a detention pen two doors down, stared as the ledger unfurled. Her name, her mother’s name, the Daris house crest—all stamped in copper-ink resolution beside forged registry books. The poison, the bribes, the original Mirelle Brox’s identity, all laid bare. Veins stood out against her pale throat as her mouth twisted. “You filthy little leech!” Velia shrieked. She lunged, snatching a small, ornate pistol from her boot, a weapon she’d smugly kept hidden from the lax Enforcer search. The barrel glinted, pointing directly at Jynna. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you and watch your smile melt!” But before Velia could squeeze the trigger, a blur of motion slammed into her. Sena, propelled by years of suppressed rage, tackled the fake heiress with brutal force. The pistol slid over gravelly grit, clacking against an iron grille. Velia cried out as Sena’s knee connected with her jaw, a sickening crunch echoing down the hall as the terminal transmission peaked. Sena didn’t stop there. Her hands, surprisingly strong, locked around Velia’s throat, pushing her against the cold, metal wall. “The ledger,” Sena hissed into her ear, knuckles digging under the jawline. “Every grain of arsenic you bought. Every ledger page. It’s done.” Two strike operatives hauled Matriarch Brox around the hallway turn. Her extravagant gown was ripped and dirtied, a leather satchel overflowing with crumpled banknotes clutched in her trembling hands. Her gaze darted toward the stairwell, but carbines barred the exit. Kord stepped forward, his voice a cold blade. “Matriarch Brox,” he stated, his gaze fixed on her. “By order of the Central Martial Tribunal, for treason, embezzlement of municipal funds, and identity fraud, your provincial privileges are revoked. Your assets will be seized, and your name erased from the registry. You are, effective immediately, nothing.” The Matriarch’s face crumpled. The satchel slipped from her grasp, spilling its contents onto the floor – dirty bills, a few tarnished jewels, the paltry sum of her betrayals. She sank to her knees amidst the dust and debris, a pathetic figure stripped bare of all status, her greedy empire vanished in a puff of digital smoke. Her whimper drowned beneath approaching sirens out on the yard approach. Velia wrenched sideways against Sena’s hold, drawing a jagged gasp. Her gaze jerked toward the overhead monitors still cycling the ledger. Her name, her legacy, utterly annihilated. A laugh, thin and hysterical, bubbled from her lips. It was the sound of a mind finally snapping. She reached into a hidden pocket in her torn dress, her fingers trembling as they pulled out a small, metallic cylinder, no larger than her palm. Its surface was scarred with unfamiliar glyphs, a red indicator light blinking ominously. “If I can’t have it,” Velia choked out, her voice ragged, “no one will. Not the Capital. Not the Republic. Not this entire… *cursed*… Rust-Belt.” Her thumb hovered over a small, recessed button. “This is an ordnance core. And its timer has just begun.”

Broadcast of Blood