Zibena’s gaze drifted from the glint of the blade to the commando’s hand. The synthetic skin of his glove was peeling slightly at the knuckle. “You know, for someone with such an intimidating job title, Hauer, your nail care is atrocious,” she observed, her voice a relaxed whisper as she tilted her chin. “That ragged cuticle on your index digit? Absolutely scandalous. What would the fashion bots say?” Hauer paused, the mechanical whirring of his internal mechanisms a faint hum. “What are you talking about, woman?” “Just an observation,” Zibena continued, a tiny smile playing on her lips. “It’s distracting. Hard to take a lethal threat seriously when the executioner looks like he’s been filing his nails with a blunt rock. Honestly, Torgal’s standards have really plummeted. Are you a contract hire? He used to insist on bespoke hygiene packages for his enforcers. Maybe that’s why Loria turned on him. She probably just saw your… unkemptness.” Through the service lift doors, the sounds of the Summit hall were a distant, roaring surf. Loria’s frantic, tearful voice continued to shriek over the intercom, detailing account numbers, shell companies, and the specific composition of a neurotoxin. The assembled oligarchs were listening to her unravel. Hauer’s grip faltered, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his expression. He actually glanced down at his glove, a habit learned from years of being critiqued by Torgal, even if only for the polish on his boots. It was the only opening Zibena needed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Drazhan, still on his knees, his teeth ground together, shoulder muscles twitching violently. The arcing static on his jacket began to subside, the voltage weakening. He caught her gaze, nodding once. Then, with a guttural grunt, he threw his head back and slammed his left hand against the polished floor. A sickening crunch echoed in the confined space. He’d dislocated his own thumb, a brutal, practiced move. The flare of agony helped scramble the remaining paralyzing charge. His right arm shot out, a blur of motion. Hauer, distracted by Zibena’s commentary and his own glove, never saw it coming. Drazhan’s fist connected with the commando’s temple, a brutal, concussive blow. The titanium blade skittered away, clattering against the marble. Hauer’s eyes rolled back, and his heavy frame sagged, collapsing like a poorly constructed automaton. “That… was quite dramatic, my dear,” Zibena said, rubbing her throat where a faint red line marred her skin. She glanced at Drazhan’s mangled thumb, already swelling. “A bit much for a simple thug, don’t you think? You could have just used a well-placed kick.” Drazhan ignored her, his chest heaving as he fought for breath, the residual current still making his limbs tremble. “Are you… alright?” he rasped, his eyes scanning her face, searching for injury. “A scratch. Nothing a diamond-encrusted bandage can’t fix,” she dismissed, then pointed at the discarded transmitter. “But Loria, on the other hand, is having quite the moment.” The hot-mic, still active, now blared Loria’s desperate pleas for mercy, her voice cracking as she confessed to aiding Torgal in embezzling funds from the Venz charity trust. “He made me! He said… he’d ruin my family! The poisoned champagne, it was for the elderly donors! Not just the board members, everyone! He wants to control everything! The Sovereign Summit is a lie! He’s going to… he’s going to poison the whole district!” The roar from the main hall intensified, a chorus of outraged gasps and shouts. Drazhan pushed himself to his feet, his broken thumb dangling at an awkward angle. “We need to get in there. Now.” They burst through the double doors of the main Summit hall. The vaulted gallery, typically rigid with protocol, had fractured into chaos. Heads snapped towards the massive holographic projector at the front, which displayed a live feed of Loria Fenn, disheveled and tear-streaked, still babbling her confessions. The elegant attendees, dressed in their finest ceremonial garb, were a sea of horrified faces, their champagne flutes frozen mid-air. Torgal stood on the central dais, his face a mask of furious disbelief, clutching a microphone. “A deep-fake! A blatant, unsubstantiated deep-fake!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the stunned silence that followed Loria’s final, shrieking accusation. “This is a pathetic attempt to discredit me, by my disgruntled ex-wife and her… her hired help!” He gestured wildly towards Zibena and Drazhan, who had just stepped into the light. Before Torgal could continue his theatrical denial, the ballroom plunged into a sudden, deep purple glow. The massive holographic projectors, spanning the full width of the dais, shimmered and flared to life, not with Loria’s face, but with a torrent of glowing, neon-green data. Brix’s triumphantly manic voice crackled over the PA system. “Apologies for the technical glitch, esteemed Veltaris Elite! My mistress, Zibena Kravon, insisted on a more… *transparent* presentation!” Fifty-foot-tall neon letters, vibrant and undeniable, materialized above Torgal’s head. *Venz Corp Purchasing Ledger: Neurotoxin Batch 7.3 – Supplier: Ouroboros Chemical. Recipient: Torgal Venz (Personal Account). Quantity: Sufficient for 500 doses. Date: Pre-Summit Gala.* Then, *Venz Corp Procurement: Biometric Override Systems (Zenith Spire). Date: Post-Proxy Invalidation.* The data scrolled, relentless and damning, projected for every horrified eye in the room to see. Torgal’s carefully constructed composure shattered. His pupils dilated, locking onto Zibena. With a raw, animalistic snarl, he reached into his jacket pocket. Before anyone could react, he produced a hypodermic syringe, its needle glinting wickedly, filled with a viscous, dark liquid. “You think you’ve won, you wretched parasite?!” he shrieked, lunging off the dais, straight for Zibena, the syringe aimed at her neck. Time seemed to stretch. Zibena saw the malice contorting his sneer, the clear design to snuff out her second life. But before she could even raise a hand, Drazhan moved. A blur of motion, he stepped directly into Torgal’s path, his injured hand shooting out. He clamped his palm over the descending needle, intercepting the poisoned attack meant for Zibena. “No!” Zibena screamed, her voice tearing. Torgal ripped the syringe free, a dark stain blossoming on Drazhan’s glove. Drazhan stumbled backward, his stare dulling as the pupils blown open. His frame hitched once in a violent spasm, collapsing like dead weight against the polished marble. Torgal threw his head back, a terrifying, guttural laugh tearing from his throat. “There is no antidote, Zibena! No antidote for *this*!”

The Broadcast