Chapter Text
The train jolted hard enough to make three people swear and one person drop their phone.
She sat quietly by the window. Her elbow rested on the arm cushion, and her fingers pressed gently at the side of her face. A tablet rested on her lap with its screen dimmed. The same page had been open for several minutes. She tapped it once to refresh.
They were moving east. The Thames kept appearing and disappearing between buildings as the city thinned and regrouped. Warehouses turned into terraces. Rain gathered on the windows, then slid away, replaced by the soft gray streaks of early evening sky.
When the train shifted tracks again, she adjusted with it, uncrossing her ankles, then crossing them again.
Her phone vibrated.
She waited until the train passed beneath a bridge before pulling it from her coat pocket.
The interface wasn't public. There was no branding or visible network.
ZEKE:
You left early.
She typed with one hand.
HER:
I was finished.
The reply didn't come immediately. She returned the phone to her pocket and looked back out the window. Tighter roads now, closer buildings.
The vibration came again.
ZEKE:
We'll talk tomorrow.
HER:
We always do.
Another pause.
ZEKE:
Get home safe, Pieck.
She locked the screen.
The tablet on her lap went dark as well, and she slid it into her bag as she stood. An announcement came overhead, muffled and formal. Everyone on the train began to gather their things.
"Now arriving at Greenwich. Please mind the gap between the train and platform when exiting."
Pieck stepped into the aisle as the train slowed, steadying herself briefly against the back of her seat. When the doors opened, cool air rushed in from the platform, carrying the smell of rain and exhaust.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and stepped off with the rest of the passengers, moving toward the exit, and into a misty fog.
Outside the station, the light had turned into a dull gray. Rain hung in the air in a slight drizzle that clung to coats and hair. Pieck opened her umbrella as she stepped onto the pavement, the fabric snapping and settling above her head.
She walked with purpose, boots striking wet stone in an even rhythm. The streets were quieter here than in the inner city. The buildings were older and closer together. Water gathered along the curb and spilled into shallow rivulets that caught the glow of passing headlights.
By the time she reached her block, the sky had darkened fully. She folded the umbrella at the door, shook the excess, and stuck it into the stand beside the stairs.
Her door was stuck, per usual.
Pieck leaned into it with her shoulder, felt the resistance give just enough, then pushed harder. The lock finally released with a loud click.
"Fuck," she muttered under her breath.
She stepped inside and shut the door behind her. The sound of it echoed briefly through the flat. The air was warm and welcoming. A familiar metallic heat oozed from the ancient radiators and carried the faint smell of old wood, like that of an antique store. It had its issues. Ones that the landlord refused to fix. But it was home.
Her bag slid from her shoulder and landed near the wall. She nudged it aside with her foot and kicked off her boots without looking.
The lights stayed off.
She moved through the space by memory, coat shrugged loose and draped over the back of a chair, fingers working the buttons of her blouse as she walked. By the time she reached the bathroom, it was already half undone.
The light flicked on.
Fabric followed. Shirt first, then trousers, pooled at her feet before she stepped free of them. Her underwear came next, dropped into the sink. She caught her reflection briefly in the mirror. Her skin had been marked by the day, lines where clothing had pressed too long. She let out a loud sigh.
The shower startled her at first. Cold water hit her shoulders and she cursed softly before the heat kicked in.
She washed slowly. Methodical. Soap slicked over skin, rinsed away, replaced again. Fingers combed through her hair, tugging once at the roots as she positioned her head beneath the spray. Water traced over her collarbone, down the center of her chest, lower.
She could stay there for hours. If the utilities were free.
When she stepped out, her skin was flushed and warm. She dried off with the towel placed on the radiator and wrapped it across her chest, tucking the edge in with a practiced twist. Water still clung to her shoulders and along her spine, cooling as it ran.
The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.
She leaned against the counter while it heated, one hip cocked, and grabbed her favorite tea from the cupboard, placing it in her mug. Outside, the city vibrated low and constant. Somewhere nearby, a siren passed and faded.
Her phone buzzed again.
Pieck picked it up, thumb already moving.
PORCO:
You home?
PIECK:
Just got in.
A pause.
PORCO:
Shame. I was hoping you were still stuck somewhere miserable.
She snorted quietly.
PIECK:
What do you want, Porco.
Three dots appeared.
PORCO:
I'm watching this blonde-haired loser.
Her brows knit.
PIECK:
Who.
PORCO:
Tybur.
She exhaled through her nose.
PIECK:
Of course.
The reply came immediately.
PORCO:
Apparently owning half a trillion isn't enough.
It's like he needs the world to like him as well.
PIECK:
Good luck with that.
The dots barely hesitated.
PORCO:
If you want a laugh, turn it on.
The cunt's clearly off his face.
Pieck set the phone down.
The kettle clicked off behind her. She poured the water into the mug, walked into the living room, and sank into the corner of the couch, the towel loosening slightly at her thigh as she reached for the remote.
The television flickered to life on a paused screen—Continue watching? A still image of a man all heavy shoulders and sweat-slick skin filled the room. Pieck bit the inside of her cheek, tapped Add to list, and switched inputs.
Willy Tybur was already mid-sentence. Unfortunately.
He stood alone at a podium, suit immaculate, voice smooth and practiced. The kind of delivery meant to sound reassuring even when it wasn't saying much at all.
She sighed, then stood, the towel slipping free and landing where it pleased. Bare feet carried her to the bedroom. Drawers opened. Closed. Soft trousers. An old shirt. She pulled the fabric over her damp skin, cotton catching once on her curves before settling. The television played on.
"...which means increased output across the board."
Tybur rested both hands on the lectern, leaning into the microphone as if it might make the words land better.
"The deposit changes our production ceiling," he said. "Not in theory. In practice."
He looked satisfied with the phrasing.
"Basically," he went on, "it allows us to move fast. Like a cheetah!"
A pause. He smiled, waiting.
No response came. No murmurs, no smiles, no visible reaction beyond the steady blink of cameras and the quiet shuffling of press.
Tybur didn't notice.
"Battery storage," he continued, "transport infrastructure, private-sector partnerships, and this affects everything downstream." He gestured vaguely. "It's pretty good news. Very good news, I mean."
A small laugh escaped him. He carried on anyway.
"Last time, we talked a lot about responsibility," he said. "About balance. And this is balance. Progress that supports growth without any unnecessary hesitation."
Pieck reentered the room, toothbrush in her mouth. She spat it into the kitchen sink, rinsed, wiped her face on the back of her hand. The remote lay on the low table. She picked it up, thumb hovering, already bored.
Tybur cleared his throat. "Trust me, guys. I know. I know that change can be uncomfortable. But discomfort is where growth lives! That's something my father used to say, actually—"
Her thumb paused.
Behind Tybur, one of the security men shifted his stance. Not the two flanking the podium. The third one. A step back. Slightly out of alignment.
Tybur continued his laughter. "He wasn't always right, of course."
The man's eyes moved. Left. Right. Too quick.
Pieck lowered the remote.
Tybur glanced down at his notes, then back up. Still smiling. "So. The lithium deposit gives us scale. Scale gives us leverage. And leverage—"
The guard stepped forward.
Pieck felt it then. A tightening, low and sharp, just under her ribs.
"—is what allows us to deliver on promises," he finished.
"Willy. Tybur."
The name cut clean through the room.
Tybur turned, confusion flickering across his face just long enough to register.
The pistol came up.
The shot detonated.
Tybur's head snapped sideways and burst, blood atomizing into the air, a violent red mist that splattered the wall behind him. He crumpled instantly, his body folding as it dropped out of frame. The sound of him hitting the floor thick and final.
For half a second, nothing moved.
Then the room erupted.
Someone screamed. Chairs scraped back hard. A hand slipped in blood near the podium. A woman from off screen dropped to her knees, fingers hovering uselessly over Tybur's body, already soaked.
The shooter didn't hesitate. He turned the pistol inward and pressed it to his temple.
Arms desperately lunged for him from either side.
But the second shot went off before they reached him.
The man collapsed in place, limbs slack as he hit the stage beside Tybur's body.
Security surged forward. Voices overlapped. Someone shouted for medics. Another person slipped and went down hard near the lectern. The camera shook, catching chaos in fragments, red pooling across the floor. Tybur's polished shoe was still visible at the edge of the frame.
Then the feed cut.
The hum of it filled the flat. Somewhere in the walls, the heating clicked. Water dripped from the kitchen tap she hadn't tightened all the way.
Pieck didn't move.
Her hand was still half-raised. The remote lay angled toward the sofa, one corner catching the light. Her shirt clung faintly between her shoulder blades where it hadn't finished drying.
On the television, the message looped.
We apologize for the interruption. Maintenance is being performed. Service will be restored soon.
Outside, a car passed through the rain. Tires hissed. Then nothing.
Her phone vibrated against the countertop.
She let it buzz.
It vibrated again.
PORCO:
Jesus Christ. Were you watching?
Her phone made another noise. A phone call this time.
She answered it, slowly, without looking at the screen.
"Sorry, Pieck. You need to come back," Zeke said. "Immediately."
He paused.
"It'll be a long night."
The line went dead.
Pieck stood there for half a second longer. Then the moment broke.
She flung the remote aside, already moving, dragging on a hoodie, stepping into joggers. Trainers by the door. It was a controlled whirlwind that her body had memorized time and time again.
She took the stairs two at a time. The door went hard behind her, the frame rattling as she vanished into the night.
The parking deck smelled like old oil and damp concrete, even through the AC.
Ro cruised into the lowest level, circled twice, and pulled into a spot. He grabbed an antiseptic from the center console and wiped the steering wheel, the gearshift, the inside of the door handle, and the seatbelt last. He glanced once at the rearview mirror, shut the engine, popped the trunk, and stepped out.
A compactor sat in its usual place at the far end of the garage, paint scabbed and peeling at the corners. Ro walked up beside it, opened the bag he had grabbed from the trunk, and found a laptop. He held it by the edge, briefly, before letting slide from his grip and into the opening.
He followed it with the phone and the SIM card, snapped cleanly in half between his fingers. Then the bag. Then the gloves. He peeled those off slowly, turning them inside out, before dropping them on top of everything else.
The lid closed as Ro pressed the button. The machine groaned, metal shifting deep inside. He watched the opening until it sealed itself again. Silent.
He crossed the garage again, this time to the self-service drop box, where he tossed in the rental car keys, cut through a stairwell, and emerged outside.
The sky was just beginning to lighten, that early-morning navy blue that made the city feel unguarded. Street-lamps were still on, but losing their authority. Traffic was sparse and moved in slow, uneven pulses.
Ro walked with an easy stride, shoulders loose, hands empty. Somewhere to his right, the Potomac moved parallel to the road. A cyclist cut past him, tires spinning. A man waited at a crosswalk with a paper cup and a yawn. No one paid Ro any particular attention.
He crossed with the light and slipped into the flow of the block. The familiar smell of espresso had reached him now, and after a few long strides, Ro was at the door of a small, inconspicuous coffee shop nestled between a laundry mat and a nail salon.
Inside, the blender screamed once and went quiet. Cups clinked behind the counter. Two people occupied the tables, one hunched over a laptop, the other nursing a mug and staring at their phone. Behind the counter, a woman in her mid-twenties straightened the moment she saw him.
"Oh—hi!"
She said it too fast and a bit too loud, hands wiping on her sides as she reached for a small glass cup.
"Morning," Ro said, easy. He leaned his fists against the counter, familiar with the space. "Maya, right?"
She looked down at her apron, her name tag visibly missing, then back up at him, eyebrows raised.
"Wow. You remembered."
He gave an easy smile. "You make a great cortado."
Her laugh was bright. "I—yeah. I mean. Thank you."
She grabbed the portafilter, movements energetic but meticulous. She placed it under the grinder. Paused. Lifted it and placed it down again, ensuring that it was perfectly aligned. She glanced up at him like she'd been caught mid-thought.
"So—um. The usual then?" she asked, already turning toward her station.
"Please."
The grinder roared. She leaned into it, bracing, hips knocking lightly against the counter. When it stopped, she startled, then shook her head at herself.
"Sorry," she chuckled. "It's early."
"Or late," Ro said, peering at the dark sky through the glass.
Her eyes lit. "Right? Exactly. I can never tell at this time."
She pulled the shot, steam curling up between them. "You're out earlier than usual."
Ro exhaled through his nose. "It was a long night."
She nodded, serious for half a second. "Yeah. I get that."
She glanced at him again, quieter this time. "What do you do, anyway?"
"I send emails," Ro said.
That earned a short laugh. "Woah. Crazy stuff."
He considered her for a beat. "Risk Advisory. Just a cushy desk job. Always busy and always boring."
"Is it, actually?" she asked.
"Yeah. But it pays," he shrugged.
She tilted her head. "And do you like it?"
He didn't answer right away.
"Not really," he said finally. "But I'm good at it."
The milk finished steaming. She poured with focus this time, tongue caught between her teeth, then slid the glass toward him.
"That'll be four fifty."
He set a twenty on the counter.
She sighed, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You still allergic to receiving your change?"
"Yes."
She shook her head once. "Thank you."
Ro nodded, but didn't move right away. "Busy weekend planned?"
She laughed again, nerves back. "Me? No." She paused. Glanced up at him, then away just as quickly. "Well, I mean—yes. I mean—there's this show. Indie band. Like just down the street from here. They're playing this Saturday." She took in a quick breath as if preparing to force the next words out of her mouth. "And—you know—if you're free," she added. "Which—you probably aren't. But. I have an extra ticket."
Ro didn't answer right away.
He met her eyes when she finally looked back at him.
"I'd like to," he said. "But I can't."
Her shoulders dipped a fraction.
"Work," he added, softer. "It's one of those weeks."
She nodded, quick, like she'd practiced that reaction before. She turned back to the machine, steam hissing up between them, cheeks faintly pink.
"Right. Yeah." She cleared her throat. "No worries!"
Ro studied her for a moment longer before taking his drink and continuing toward his corner table. He took the seat that faced the door, slid an earbud in, and opened his phone.
His feed populated immediately.
A news clip filled the screen first. Shaky phone footage of a crowd packed tight enough that faces blurred. Someone was shouting, the audio peaking and collapsing into static. The clip cut mid-motion.
He scrolled.
Another video. Different city. Night this time. Fireworks tossed through the gaps of metal barricades. A chant rolling forward in uneven waves, names breaking apart as they were taken up by too many voices at once.
A headline slid past.
Markets React to Tybur Assassination: Futures Unsteady
Below it, a photo of riot shields stacked against a courthouse wall. An officer beating on an elderly man, his face pressed against the ground.
He scrolled again, stopping at a post from three days ago.
Rod Reiss next, please
Hundreds of thousands of likes and climbing. Ro maneuvered to the comments.
Say it louder for the people in the back.
If President Reiss has any fucking balls, he'd do it himself.
Guys. If I repost this, will the FBI come knocking at my door?
Ro's mouth pulled sideways, just a fraction.
His thumb swiped, the feed sliding away as the chess app rose to meet him. A match paired instantly.
White.
Pawn to e4.
...c5.
Knight to f3.
...d6.
d4.
He was lining up the next move when the board dissolved. A message slid across the top of the screen.
RICO:
Pixis asked me to pass this along. Sorry about the change in plans. And to be on your best behavior.
Ro stared at it, then typed back.
RO:
I don't like the sound of that.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared.
Another message followed.
RICO:
Ride's outside.
Ro glanced up through the café window. A dark SUV had eased into the curb, engine still running.
He forfeited the match with slight annoyance, took the last sip of his cortado, and stood. The glass went back on the counter.
"Maya. It was perfect," he said, already turning away.
The barista caught his eye and gave a small nod, quick and contained, before returning her gaze to the espresso machine.
The driver had the door open by the time he reached the street. Ro slid into the back and the door shut behind him with a soft, airtight thump.
The SUV was configured for conversation. Two facing benches, and a narrow aisle between them. Across from him sat a man he knew as Zackly.
They'd met before. Once, maybe twice. Enough for Ro to understand the importance of his presence.
"Sir."
Zackly acknowledged it with a nod that didn't lift his eyes. He looked thinner than Ro remembered. Like whatever current shit-show had worn him down to the bone. His jacket was rumpled at the shoulders, his tie loosened, and his face resembled a man who had forgotten what sleep felt like.
Ro's gaze dropped, almost without thinking.
His luggage sat on the floor between them. Everything he owned that mattered. Packed clean. Tagged.
That wasn't right.
Zackly noticed. He followed Ro's line of sight, then exhaled through his nose.
"Listen. I know you're wondering who signed off on this," he said. His voice was steady, but tired. "Frankly. So am I."
Ro didn't respond.
Zackly reached into his coat and produced a thin folder. The paper inside was marked, stamped, handled too many times.
"Declassified," he said, and passed it across.
Ro took it. Opened it.
Assembly.
The word appeared early. Then again. Then everywhere.
Fragments. Financial disruptions. Infrastructure sabotage. Bombings that never quite made the news cycle. Some bombings that did. Patterns that only existed if you were looking for them. And then, Tybur. A podium. A security guard. A gunshot.
"Only a handful of people in the world know that you exist," Zackly continued, "let alone what you're capable of."
Zackly shifted in his seat, the leather creaking softly. The car rolled on in silence for a few seconds longer than was comfortable.
"It seems that number may have increased slightly about seventy-two hours ago. People who don't like being fucked with started asking how certain problems get handled without leaving fingerprints. I'm guessing someone probably answered them."
Ro held the folder for a moment longer than necessary. "Am I being pulled out completely?"
Zackly shook his head. "No. We're just handing off your leash for a bit. I'm not sure how long."
The SUV slowed. Turned.
Outside the window, the familiar geometry of departures slid into place.
Zackly leaned forward and took the folder back, tucking it out of sight. In its place, he handed Ro a boarding pass.
DCA → LHR
09:00
"London," Zackly said. "Follow their orders. Stay focused. Keep quiet."
He dug out a stick of gum from his pocket, worked it between his teeth.
"And once it's all said and done, the American taxpayers will fund a vacation of your choosing."
The vehicle rolled to a stop.
The driver was already out, opening Ro's door and setting his luggage on the curb.
Ro tightened his jaw and gave Zackly a final look before nodding once, and stepping out.
He didn't look back as the SUV pulled away.