The air in Drystan’s suite thickened with the metallic tang of ozone and fear. Bramen stood framed against the splintered doorway, empty-handed, his attention fixed on the four muzzle points trained on Nivara. He shifted an inch, his teeth clamped shut. The point security officer, a man with a scarred cheek and eyes like chipped flint, stepped forward with an unyielding grip on his rifle. Beside the open vault, Nivara leaned heavily against the cold steel, the fire in her degenerating nerves sharper than the imminent threat of execution. The red dots danced on her chest. Then, the floor of the Obsidian Exchange warped, the opulent suite dissolving into the grime-caked alleyways of Kastellon Ward. The stench of burnt synth-fuel and cheap intoxicants filled her nostrils. She was there again, hands bound, the cold barrel of a laser pistol pressed against her temple. Drystan’s sneering face, illuminated by the flickering holo-ads of the district, had been the last thing she saw. Beside him, the lead enforcer, the man who’d delivered the fatal shot, a hulking shadow whose face she could never quite recall, until now. The lead officer held a familiar, clinical detachment. A coded dispatch from her old comms console surfaced in her mind, one she had cataloged months before her death: *“Audit protocol initiated. Target: Mor Media Group. Operative: Sector Chief Roric Vance. Badge: 7-Omega-9.”* The disparate threads snapped taut. This man, Drystan’s alleged head of security, was no thug. He was a corporate auditor, deep undercover, investigating Drystan’s sprawling, illicit media monopoly. He hadn't just been Drystan's executioner; he had been the eye of the law, witnessing Drystan’s crimes, including her murder. Her voice, raspy from the degradation, ripped through the opulent silence of the suite, cutting through the standoff. “Roric Vance! Badge 7-Omega-9! Your audit protocol on Mor Media Group is compromised!” The scarred officer froze. The flint-gray eyes snapped to her face, widening as the protocol code registered. The remaining three operatives exchanged uncertain glances. Bramen, sensing an inexplicable shift, remained utterly still. “The embezzlement, the shell corporations, the rigged transmission tomorrow morning—it’s all in Mor’s hidden ledgers,” Nivara said, finding cold clarity. “He’s about to wipe out his key witness, Vance. Your case evaporates with me.” Vance turned his head, angling his sidearm toward the operative beside him. The tracking beam shifted from Nivara’s sternum to the operative's tactical chest plate. “Stand down,” Vance ordered flatly, keeping his sightlines locked on his squad. “Mission parameters have shifted. Assets are compromised.” The flankers hesitated. One started to realign his barrel toward Nivara. A sharp strike cut the standoff short. Bramen seized a heavy bronze statuette from the credenza and hurled it with vicious precision. Metal smashed against the rogue operative's visor; the man collapsed against the marble floor. Vance fired twice with practiced economy. The two remaining operatives hit the carpet, neutralized before their rifles could cycle. Securing his sidearm, Vance advanced toward the vault. Bramen surveyed the three incapacitated figures and Vance standing above Nivara. “Nivara, explain this,” Bramen said, his voice clipped as he closed the distance between them. “An old asset,” Nivara said through gritted teeth, rising against the reinforced hinge. “The vault, Vance. The regulators.” Vance reached past the titanium latch, extracting an encrypted drive and a cylindrical glass ampoule chased with luminescent filaments. “Temporal regulators,” he said, placing the drive in Nivara's palm. “Along with Mor's personal ledger. He’s diverted millions and manufactured public bankruptcies. He intended to hang the entire embezzlement scheme on you during the live netcast tomorrow.” Nivara took the drive, her fingers trembling as microscopic gray fractures spread across her cuticles. She accepted the ampoule, cool and heavy in her grip. “The compound needs cold synthesis. How much time do I have?” Vance assessed the petechial bruising darkening along her neck. “Decrypting this takes three hours minimum. Your cellular cohesion is cratering. Six hours before systemic organ arrest.” Six hours. It felt like an eternity and a blink. Bramen was at her side, supporting her, his hand firm on her arm. “We get you out of here. Find a lab. Jevna?” he barked into his comm-link, his voice tight with urgency. Jevna’s voice crackled through, a triumphant laugh echoing in the background. “Got ‘em! Drystan’s entire PR network, every single client, every comms line, every digital asset—it’s all been rerouted. Every feed, every release, every public statement now goes through *our* shell company. He’s cut off. Isolated. Completely dark. His empire is ours.” A faint smile touched Nivara's lips, though the room's edges frayed into static. Vance checked his wrist display. “The live syndication is locked for 0900 Obrada Standard. The forged confession packet is already embedded in the telecast feed, set to deploy the moment Drystan names you as the culprit. He intends to ruin you before the entire district.” Nivara tightened her hand around the drive and the glowing ampoule. Six hours. Drystan's live reckoning was set for sunrise. She had to synthesize the dose, outpace her failing biology, and hijack his feed before the Obsidian Exchange woke. She stepped away from the vault, leaning into Bramen's steadying grip as they headed for the exit.

Ghosts of Kastellon