“So, Zibena,” Torgal purred, his voice dripping with condescension, “it seems you’ve bought yourself a very expensive seat to watch your own downfall.” Zibena’s perfectly painted lips curved into a slow, saccharine smile. The diamond-studded gas mask, still perched precariously on her head, gave her an air of surreal, unbothered menace. “Oh, Torgal, darling. You seem to misunderstand. I didn’t buy a seat to watch. I bought it to *direct*.” She tapped a manicured finger against the side of her mask. “And this little plot twist? It’s rather… cliché, wouldn’t you agree? Deceased relatives, sudden proxies. Next you’ll tell me there’s a secret twin.” Torgal’s triumphant grin tightened. He hated when she refused to play by his rules. Drazhan’s grip on Zibena’s hand remained firm, a silent anchor in the room’s suddenly charged air. His gaze, however, was fixed on the ancient parchment, a subtle frown etching itself between his brows. “Cliché or not, it’s legally binding,” Torgal shot back, sliding the parchment across the polished conference table. “Sixty-one percent. The Venz Corp is mine, and you, Zibena, are back to being a forgotten accessory.” Zibena laughed, a bright, tinkling sound that completely lacked genuine amusement. “Oh, precious. You’re adorable when you’re desperate. But do try to keep up. I’ve never been an accessory. I’ve always been the *weapon*.” She turned, pulling Drazhan gently by the hand. “This meeting is over. Torgal, do tell Loria I expect those floors to sparkle by morning. And perhaps invest in some new stationery; that parchment looks like it’s seen better centuries.” With a final, dismissive wave, Zibena swept from the room, Drazhan following close behind. The conference room erupted in a cacophony of whispers and hushed exclamations. Torgal, red-faced and sputtering, slammed his fist on the table, sending the trembling assistant scrambling back. Outside the boardroom, the white polymer floor gave off an industrial lemon tang beneath neon strip lights. Zibena pulled off her gas mask, letting it dangle from one finger. Her expression was now devoid of the theatrical mirth. “Uncle Zylos… Drazhan, your father. He really is… gone?” Her voice was surprisingly soft. Drazhan nodded, knuckles pale against his lapel. “Vanished over two decades ago. The official declaration of death came five years later. His body was never recovered, but legally, he’s deceased.” He rubbed his temple. “A proxy from a dead man. It reeks of Torgal’s usual desperation and forgery. My father would never have signed over his share.” “Then we go digging,” Zibena declared, a glint returning to her eyes. “Where would Torgal hide the original, or any proof of its… *origin*?” Drazhan paused. “There’s the Venz ancestral manor. Sealed after my father’s disappearance. It contains a vault. My grandfather amassed a rather impressive collection of family secrets, and he believed physical paper was always more trustworthy than data. Torgal wouldn’t have been able to access it. Only direct heirs.” “Perfect,” Zibena grinned, a predatory gleam. “Brix, darling, prepare the neon chariot. We’re going on a treasure hunt.” The Venz ancestral manor stood like a gargantuan, gothic anachronism amidst the sleek, modern towers of the Elite Enclave. Its dark, spiraling turrets and stained-glass windows seemed to absorb the city’s omnipresent neon glow, casting long, melancholic shadows. The air inside was thick with dust and the scent of forgotten grandeur. They found the vault behind a rotating bookshelf in the patriarch’s study, a hulking edifice of reinforced steel and glittering biometric scanners. Drazhan ran his fingers over the complex array of sensors. “My fingerprint, my retinal scan… it should work. It’s supposed to be impenetrable otherwise.” He pressed his thumb against the pad, then leaned in for the retinal scan. A low hum emanated from the door, followed by a series of beeps. Then, a sharp, red flash. “Access Denied. Heir-level authentication revoked.” His voice was low, laced with frustration. “Torgal must have tampered with the family registry.” Zibena clicked her tongue. “Honestly, men and their overly complicated security. It’s always so much faster to just… bypass it.” She rummaged in her impossibly small, designer clutch, pulling out a small, intricately carved, diamond-encrusted sphere. It pulsed with a faint, iridescent light. “Brix found these. Said they were ‘divinely destructive’ and ‘simply *had* to be mine’.” Drazhan eyed the sphere with suspicion. “What is that, Zibena?” She winked. “A little something called a ‘Blight-Charge.’ Apparently, it utilizes focused sonic vibrations to disrupt molecular bonds. Very high-end.” She pressed the sphere against the vault door. “Stand back, darling. We don’t want to mess up the hair.” Drazhan barely had time to react before Zibena pressed a button on a remote. A low, resonant *thrum* vibrated through the floor, escalating rapidly into an earsplitting *CRACK*. The steel vault door buckled inward with a groan, then exploded outwards in a shower of sparks and pulverized metal, landing with a deafening crash in the study. Dust billowed into the air. A framed portrait of a stern-faced Venz ancestor tumbled from the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces. Zibena, entirely unfazed, fanned the dust away from her face. “See? Much more efficient.” Drazhan simply stared at the gaping hole where the vault door had been, then at Zibena, one eyebrow creeping into his hairline. “You blew up my family vault.” “It was necessary,” she replied with a shrug, stepping over the debris. “Besides, it adds character.” Inside, rows of black iron shelving held leather bindings, brass cylinders, and locked cedar boxes. The air was dry, heavy with the scent of old paper and forgotten time. Zibena, with Brix chattering in panic over a tiny earpiece, pulled down folder after folder, searching for references to Zylos Venz or proxy declarations. She found a small, ornate wooden box tucked away on a high shelf, marked with an unfamiliar sigil. Curiosity piqued, she opened it. Inside, nestled on velvet, was a single, crystal vial. It contained a clear, viscous liquid that shimmered faintly in the dim light. A chill clamped down on Zibena's ribs. Her fingers shook as she lifted the glass. The filigree stopper, the faintly almond-sweet vapor escaping the wax seal—she knew it down to the marrow. It was the concoction Torgal had stirred into her tea, the exact venom that had ended her first life. The world tilted. The opulent vault, Drazhan’s focused breathing, the distant hum of the city – it all faded, replaced by the suffocating darkness of a prior memory. The bitter taste on her tongue, the burning in her throat, the rapid decline, the frantic, useless pleas. Her vision blurred, the edges of the vault closing in. Her ribs froze, refusing to draw breath. Cold sweat prickled her temples, and her shoulders shook uncontrollably. *Not again. He cannot.* “Zibena?” Drazhan’s voice was distant, distorted. He was suddenly beside her, his sharp eyes fixed on her pale face. “What is it? What’s wrong?” She couldn’t speak. The vial slipped from her nerveless fingers, clattering on the stone floor, its contents thankfully sealed. Her knees hit the runner rug. Her throat locked up, stripping away every shred of theatrical nonchalance until only raw dread remained. A guttural sob tore from her throat, raw and uncontrolled. Drazhan dropped his smirk, stepping forward before she could hit the tiles. He caught her as she swayed, pulling her gently against him, his arms strong and reassuring. “Zibena, look at me. Breathe. What did you see?” He scanned the area, spotting the fallen vial, his expression hardening into pure, unadulterated fury when he recognized its sinister purpose. He held her tighter, pressing her head against his shoulder. “It’s alright. You’re safe. He can’t touch you. I won’t let him.” His voice was a low growl, vibrating with a promise of brutal vengeance. “Torgal will burn for this. I swear it, Zibena. I’ll make him regret every single breath he’s ever taken, for what he did to you.” His words, delivered with such fierce, unexpected tenderness, were a lifeline. Slowly, painstakingly, Zibena’s ragged breathing began to even out. The suffocating darkness receded, replaced by the warmth of Drazhan’s embrace. She dug her fingers into the heavy wool of his jacket, listening to his steady heartbeat until her pulse slowed. After what felt like an eternity, she pulled back slightly, her eyes still watery, but a spark of her usual defiance rekindling. “Brix, you found something yet?” she croaked into her communicator, her voice still hoarse. The panic, though subsiding, left her weak. Brix’s voice, tinny and frantic, crackled through. “Oh, Miss Zibena, the horror! The utter *scandal*! I traced the notarization on that dreadful proxy slip. It’s authentic, technically, but signed off by none other than High Judge Renard Solis. The man is notoriously corrupt! He’s hosting his annual ‘Crimson Gala’ tonight at the Sovereign Spire! It’s an exclusive affair, only the most… *discreetly influential* are invited. His ledger, Miss Zibena, his private ledger, it’s rumored to contain everything! Every bribe, every forged signature, every despicable little favor!” Zibena wiped her eyes, stepping around the broken stone. “High Judge Solis, you say? A masked ball. How perfectly theatrical.” A plan, audacious and dangerous, began to form in her mind. To get close enough to Solis, to uncover the proof she needed, she would have to navigate the treacherous currents of the Veltaris elite. And Torgal would be there. He would *always* be there, lurking, waiting. She knew the risk. A crowded ballroom, a formal dance. The close proximity. The subtle, invisible threat of another poisoned drink, another brush with death. Her jaw tightened. She had faced him before, and she would again. “Drazhan,” she said, her voice steady again, “get me an invitation to the Crimson Gala. I need to dance with Torgal.”

The Dead Man's Proxy