“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize my own dead woman walking?” Drystan’s voice, amplified by the comm’s discreet speaker, filled the silent room like a chemical vapor. Nivara caught Bramen’s gaze across the polished slate. Drystan knew. His casual malice was a declaration of war, and it meant their timeline had just collapsed. Nivara pressed a single button, severing the connection without a word. “He’s onto us,” Jevna stated, her bandaged arm held stiffly. “The vault, the compromised accounts… he knew it was you from the moment Olyra went silent.” “Which means he’s moved the stabilizers,” Nivara countered, her voice low and steady despite the internal tremor that pulsed through her veins, a stark reminder of her accelerating decay. “Or secured them further. We need physical access to his executive quarters, to his central server banks.” Bramen straightened from the console, his movements economical. “The Obrada Media Gala. Tonight. It’s the only event where Drystan grants unrestricted access to the complex’s upper tiers for networking. His penthouse is on the seventy-first floor, directly above the main hall.” His lips thinned. “He’ll be there, in his element, flaunting his perceived dominance.” “Perfect,” Nivara replied, a predatory glint in her eyes. “It’s time to crash his party.” The Grand Rotunda glittered with a thousand refracted lights, a sea of bespoke tailoring and manufactured smiles. Nivara, in a gown of midnight blue that clung to her frame like a second skin, moved through the throng with a quiet magnetism. She saw Drystan first, a predatory shark in a school of lesser fish, his attention fixed on a corner where Olyra Senn, visibly distraught, clutched a glass of iridescent azure liquid. Her skin looked chalky, her expensive gown rumpled, her usual sheen stripped raw by mounting dread. Drystan stepped toward Olyra, his smile a cruel slash. He leaned in, a theatrical display of intimacy that held no warmth. “My dear Olyra,” he purred, his voice carrying just enough to be overheard by a few strategically placed gossips. “I hear your luck at the Aevum’s Coil has been… catastrophic. Such a shame. Especially since your collateral for those… *unfortunate* debts seems to have vanished right along with your good sense.” Olyra’s eyes, wide with panic, darted around the room, settling on Drystan’s face with a desperate plea. “Drystan, please. They’re threatening… everything. You promised protection.” He laughed, a cold, sharp sound that sliced through the ambient murmur. “Protection? From your own poor choices? I’m afraid my generosity has its limits, darling. Enjoy the rest of your evening. I’m sure your new… acquaintances will make it memorable.” He gestured subtly to two burly figures in the periphery, their eyes already fixed on Olyra like hungry predators. Then he turned, dismissing her as easily as flicking a speck of dust from his cuff. Bramen, who had been observing from Nivara’s side, moved with liquid grace. He intercepted Olyra just as the two enforcers began to close in. His voice was a calm, resonant hum, cutting through Olyra’s rising terror. “Ms. Senn. A moment of your time.” Olyra spun, her eyes wild. “Who are you?” “Bramen Krell,” he introduced himself, extending a hand that was both firm and reassuring. “You are in a rather precarious position.” His gaze flickered to the incoming muscle. “You also hold a significant block of proxy shares in Mor Media Group. Shares that Drystan Mor has just, quite publicly, indicated he no longer values you enough to protect.” Olyra’s jaw worked, her mind clearly scrambling. “What do you want?” “Your remaining assets, Ms. Senn,” Bramen stated, no preamble. “Specifically, those proxy shares. In exchange, I can guarantee your complete anonymity and safety from your current… financial complications. A clean slate, far from Obrada. No questions, no lingering threats. A direct transfer, immediately.” He offered a data-pad, its screen already displaying the transfer agreement. Olyra stared at the document, then at the approaching enforcers, then back at Bramen. Her options were dwindling to zero. “Everything?” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Everything,” Bramen confirmed, his gaze unwavering. “Or nothing. Your choice.” With a trembling hand, Olyra took the stylus and scrawled her signature. A notification chimed softly on Nivara’s comm, confirming the transfer. Their 51% majority was secured. “Go,” Bramen murmured to Olyra, his eyes already on Drystan, who was now scanning the room, a flicker of suspicion in his gaze. “The exit is that way. Do not look back.” Olyra melted into the crowd, her escape aided by Bramen stepping into Drystan’s path with a legal dossier already in hand. Nivara used the diversion. The building's floor plans were etched into her memory. She slipped away from the party, bound for Drystan’s penthouse. A hidden service elevator, rarely used by guests, took her swiftly to the seventy-first floor. The corridor was hushed, opulent, and empty. Drystan’s suite door, a seamless panel of dark volcanic glass, required a retinal scan she no longer possessed. But she had a better way. Her comm pulsed. Jevna. “Nivara, I’m spoofing the security feeds on your floor, but I can only hold it for seven minutes. After that, it’s a manual override, and they’ll know you’re there.” “Understood,” Nivara whispered, already at a recessed maintenance panel. Her stolen access key, a device resembling a credit chip, bypassed the lock with a soft click. Inside, a tangle of fiber optics and power conduits. She located the primary neural network link to the suite door’s biometric scanner. Her fingers, nimble and sure, worked with practiced ease, rerouting the connection through a miniature bypass module she’d concealed in her bracelet. A faint green light glowed on the module. The door slid open. The suite was vast, built to feed Drystan’s ego. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of Obrada’s glittering expanse. The air was thick with the faint scent of his expensive cologne. She moved through the living area, past a sprawling entertainment system, into his private office. The walls were lined with data-slates displaying real-time market fluctuations, and in the center stood a massive desk of dark synth-wood. Behind a rotating abstract sculpture, hidden in plain sight, was the vault. A seamless chrome surface, devoid of handles or keypads. Jevna’s earlier intel pulsed through her mind: a pulse-signature lock, calibrated to Nivara’s own unique heart rhythm. Her comm chimed again. “Nivara, Drystan is making direct eye contact with Bramen. He knows he’s being stalled. He’s looking agitated.” Nivara placed her palm against the vault door. A faint red light shimmered under her skin, reading the rhythm of her life, or what remained of it. The vault hummed, a soft, mechanical sigh, and then, with a barely audible hiss, it retracted into the wall. Inside, a chilled compartment, and within it, several sleek, silver-cased vials: temporal stabilizers. Victory. She reached for them. Down in the rotunda, Drystan’s face hardened. He’d watched Bramen for too long. The lawyer’s questions, his thinly veiled threats about Mor Media Group’s new, undisclosed majority shareholder, were a distraction. A highly inconvenient one. Drystan tapped his comm discreetly. “Security. Seventy-first floor. Mor suite. Now.” Nivara had two vials in her hand when the external comm link from Jevna blared, the urgency in her voice cutting through the silence. “Nivara! Drystan just signaled his security detail. They’re swarming your floor! Two teams, armed!” Just as Jevna’s warning cut off, sudden cellular degradation tore through Nivara’s body. Her muscles seized, her vision blurred, the temporal stabilizers clutched uselessly in her grasp. She swayed, hitting the edge of the vault’s opening, a sharp pain radiating through her hip as the vials clattered to the floor. A low groan escaped her lips as her legs buckled, sending her to her knees. She could hear the heavy thud of boots in the corridor, growing closer, closer. The suite door blasted open, splintering into the frame. Four hulking figures in black tactical gear burst in, weapons raised, their movements synchronized and brutal. They fanned out, their laser sights painting red dots across the walls, then across Nivara, crumpled on the floor beside the open vault. Her eyes, still swimming in a haze of pain, registered the glint of their sidearms, aimed directly at her. Before they could issue a command, or fire, the fragmented doorframe splintered further. Bramen Krell launched himself through the opening, his face a mask of primal fury. He registered the four armed guards, their weapons trained on Nivara, and the fact that he was unarmed, staring down four gun barrels.

The Gala Heist