She offered the box to Oletta. The metal felt cold, heavy, a promise and a burden. Oletta took it, her gaze still fixed on Bex’s unflinching eyes. Her sister knew. Not just an inkling, but a deep, certain knowledge that settled the dust of Oletta’s fractured memory into a new, terrifying picture. Bex wasn’t just a child to protect; she was a conspirator, a keeper of secrets. Perrin shifted, his small hands twisting the hem of his worn tunic. “What’s in it?” he asked, his voice barely a squeak. He looked from Oletta to Bex, then at the bodies spilling dark stains onto the grimy floorboards. He hadn’t looked away once. Not truly. He was a survivor, too. He was learning. Quickly.
Oletta opened the lockbox. Inside, nestled on a layer of tattered canvas, lay a collection of tools that were anything but domestic: a pair of weighted garrotes, their wires gleaming dully; a set of slim, razor-sharp throwing knives; and a leather-wrapped coil that, when unfurled, revealed a segmented climbing hook. She picked up one of the knives, its balance instantly familiar, a phantom weight in her palm. Her hand curled around the hilt, a sense of purpose settling over her, stark and cold. The dizzy persona, the cheerful airhead, felt like a distant, flimsy veil. It was time to shed it.
“Bex,” Oletta said, her voice low, stripped of its usual lilting cadence. “Take Perrin to the cellar. Stay there. Don’t come out until I send for you.”
Bex nodded, her small face serious. “Matron Gorm is still out there,” she reminded Oletta, her eyes flicking towards the outer door. “She saw.”
“She won’t talk,” Oletta replied, a chilling certainty in her tone. “Not after what she saw. She’s too busy trying not to remember.” Gorm was broken. Too terrified to risk exposure, too humiliated to confess. Oletta knew that kind of fear. She’d inspired it often enough in her past life.
Perrin’s lip trembled. “What about Uncle Haldon?”
Oletta met his gaze, a fierce resolve hardening her features. “I’m bringing him home.”
She tied back her long, riotous hair with a strip of canvas, tucking the knives into hidden sheaths along her forearms, the garrotes into the pockets of her worn coat. She smoothed down her dress, the only garment she owned that wasn’t stained with ash or engine oil, and forced a wide, eager smile onto her face. The Ashbound Keep was a grim, brutalist monolith, all cold ferrocrete and iron-barred windows. The air around it hummed with the growl of diesel generators and the distant clang of machinery.
Inside, the lobby was a cavernous space, smelling of stale fear and disinfectant. A bored-looking clerk in a grease-stained uniform sat behind a grimy counter, shuffling through identity chits. Oletta approached, her gait a little too light, her smile a little too bright. She clutched a crumpled paper bag to her chest, the scent of ersatz spiced tea emanating from it.
“Oh, hello there, love!” she chirped, her voice a high, sweet note. “I’m just here to see my Haldon. My poor husband! Always getting into scrapes, that man. Needs his tea, he does. He simply can’t function without his evening cuppa.” She leaned over the counter, tilting her head. “Between you and me, he’s a bit of a grump without it. And you wouldn’t want a grumpy mechanic, now would you? They’re just no good for fixing things.”
The clerk grunted, eyeing the bag with mild suspicion. “Name?”
“Oletta Volkov!” she announced, as if it were the most delightful name in the world. “He’s Haldon Volkov. Such a dear, dear man. Always working so hard. I just *know* he’s in here. He went out of his way to protect his little nephew, you see. Such a noble heart. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, honestly.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Could you just point me to the visitation room, dearie? I’ll just pop in, give him his tea, and pop right back out. Won’t cause a speck of trouble. Promise.”
The sentry waved a dismissive hand towards a set of heavy steel doors. “No visitation tonight. Processing. Come back tomorrow.”
Oletta’s smile didn’t falter. “Oh, but he needs it *tonight*! He gets the jitters without his tea. And you wouldn’t want him jittery while they’re... processing, would you? He might say something silly. He’s ever so sweet, but not always the brightest crayon in the box, bless his heart.” She gave a little giggle. “Could I just leave it with you then? And perhaps you could tell me which way to go when I come back tomorrow? This place is such a maze!”
The clerk sighed, rubbing his temples. “Third floor. Take the service stairs at the back. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got actual work to do.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, you’re an absolute angel!” Oletta gushed, blowing him an imaginary kiss. She skipped away, her pace deceptively light, and found the service stairs. Three burly guards were taking a break on the landing between the second and third floors, sharing a cheap cigar. As Oletta approached, one of them smirked, nudging his companions. “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Lost, little dove?”
Oletta tilted her head, her smile dimpling her cheeks. “Oh, I certainly hope not! I’m just trying to find the… uh… the third floor? For my Haldon, you see. He’s in a bit of a pickle. But I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that. Such big, strong men like you, you probably only deal with the *really* bad ones.” She batted her eyelashes, feigning innocence. “I’m just a simple mechanic’s wife, you know. Not meant for all this… *excitement*.”
Another guard chuckled, stepping closer. “We can give you some excitement, sweetie. What say you tell us why a pretty little thing like you is wandering around a place like this?”
His mistake. He was too close. In a blur of motion, Oletta’s hand shot out, not in a clumsy grab, but in a precise, devastating strike to his carotid artery. His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled without a sound, his cigar still clutched in his fingers. Before the other two could even register what happened, she spun, using the momentum to snap the first guard’s neck with a sickening crack, her hand twisting his head with impossible force. The third, startled, fumbled for his sidearm. He never cleared the holster. Oletta’s foot lashed out, a low, savage kick to his knee that buckled his leg, dropping him. As he fell, she brought her elbow down on the base of his skull. The sound was wet, final. Three men. Down. Without a single shout. She smoothed her dress, adjusting her smile. The facade was still in place, but beneath it, the predator was fully awake.
The third floor was quieter, the low hum of machinery replaced by the muted thuds and muffled voices of an interrogation block. Oletta moved with silent grace, her senses extended, mapping the space. She found the room, its reinforced door betraying its purpose. A single, thick-paned window offered a glimpse inside.
Haldon was there, chained to a bolted-down chair, his face a bruised mess. Blood matted his hair, and one eye was swollen shut. Standing over him, a cruel smirk on his face, was the factory foreman who had arranged Haldon's arrest. He was the Syndicate Boss. A heavy, iron-tipped truncheon hung from his belt. Grigor backhanded Haldon across the jaw, a sickening wet thwack. Haldon’s head snapped sideways, but he didn’t cry out.
“Where is she, Volkov?” the foreman snarled, his voice carrying even through the thick door. “The Ghost. Tell me where the assassin is, and maybe you get to keep those pretty fingers.” He gestured to Haldon’s hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists. “Otherwise, you’ll be pushing a broom with stumps.”
Haldon merely lifted his head, a thin trickle of blood running from his lip. He looked at the man, his one good eye burning, and spat. A thick gob of blood and phlegm landed squarely on the Boss’s cheek.
The foreman roared, teeth bared. He raised his truncheon, ready to strike.
That was Haldon. He believed Oletta was a sweet, dizzy woman, helpless in this brutal world, yet he would rather die than betray her. A strange, fierce warmth bloomed in Oletta’s chest, a feeling she hadn't known she was capable of. It was more than gratitude; it was an anchor, a quiet vow.
She kicked the door open. Two armed guards in the room spun, their rifles coming up. Too slow. The glint of steel, a blur of motion. One fell with a knife buried in his throat. The other barely registered her arrival before she twisted his rifle away, using the butt to fracture his jaw. He dropped, gurgling.
The foreman, stunned by the sudden crash, hesitated for a heartbeat. He saw Oletta, no longer the airhead, but a silent, deadly force. Recognition, and a flash of pure terror, crossed his face. He didn't waste an instant attempting to fight. With a frantic scramble, he dove towards a small, grate-covered opening high on the wall, a maintenance chute designed for quick egress in emergencies. He squeezed through, disappearing into the dark maw with a desperate grunt.
Oletta cursed, a low, guttural sound. He was gone. She turned back to Haldon, who was staring at her, his bruised face a mask of shock, awe, and something else – something she couldn't quite decipher, but it felt like a mirror to the fierce warmth in her own chest.
The fallen sentry, coughing on the floorboards, managed a weak, blood-flecked laugh. “He… he didn’t run from you, Ghost…” he wheezed, his eyes rolling. “He’s going to… to the Rustblock. To finish what he started. The children…”