Stephanie's room felt smaller than ever.
Cardboard boxes littered the floor, half-filled with folded clothes, old books, and little reminders of the life she and her mother had clawed through. Outside the window, Crescent City's gray morning light filtered through like a tired sigh. The neighborhood was waking up—but she wasn't sure she'd ever see it again.
Downstairs, agents from Riley's team moved with quiet discipline, helping her mother pack. Ethan Hale supervised it all, calm but focused, glasses fogging lightly from his earlier rush through the dismembered doors of Stephanie's and her mum humble abode.
But as for Stephanie, she swallowed hard and kept packing.
She didn't hate Riley's offer… but she didn't trust it either.
Everything felt too fast.
Too unreal.
Too dangerous.
"Hmm…?"
As she reached under her bed for the last few scattered things, her fingers brushed something thin and cold.
A picture frame.
She pulled it out.
Dust clung to the edges, the glass slightly cracked. But the photo inside remained untouched—a younger Stephanie, no older than four, sitting on her father's broad shoulders. He was laughing, eyes full of warmth. Strong arms holding her steady. A man who looked like he could take on the world.
Stephanie's breath caught.
'Dad…'
She sat back slowly onto her bed, holding the picture close.
He was so different then—gentle, smiling, free. Not the stressed, haunted man she remembered in her later childhood. Not the man who came home exhausted. Not the man who died before he could explain anything.
A soft ache curled inside her chest.
The memories flooded back.
Of her father lifting her high into the air while her mother shouted at them to be careful.
Of him teaching her how to wrap her tiny fists for the "baby punches" she insisted on throwing.
Of her riding on his shoulders through the market while he hummed military tunes she didn't understand.
Of his promise: "No matter what, princess, I'll always protect you."
Stephanie blinked hard as tears stung her eyes.
She had believed that promise her whole childhood.
Until the night he didn't come home.
And now—now she knew he had been a militant. A soldier. Someone connected to a man like Riley Styles.
"Steph?"
Taylor's voice drifted from the doorway, soft and worried.
She didn't look up. "Yeah?"
He stepped closer, noticing the picture trembling in her hands. His expression softened.
"That's your dad, right?"
Stephanie nodded.
Taylor sat beside her quietly, giving her the space to speak first.
"I… I didn't even know," she whispered. "Mom never told me he was in the military. And now this stranger—this Riley—shows up out of nowhere and knows him better than I ever did."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
"It just feels unfair. Why did Dad hide so much? Why did Mom? Why did he leave us with nothing but debts and danger?"
Taylor placed a gentle hand over hers.
"Your dad didn't leave you," Taylor said softly. "He died. And he loved you more than anything—I can see it in that picture."
Stephanie closed her eyes, pressing the frame to her chest.
A small sob escaped before she could choke it back.
"I just… I just wanted to know who he really was."
Taylor didn't answer. He simply put an arm around her shoulders, letting her lean against him as she cried quietly into the space between past and present.
Footsteps approached.
"Miss Stephanie?" Ethan's calm voice sounded from the doorway. "The car is ready whenever you are. Riley… asked me to personally make sure you and your mother arrive safely."
Stephanie wiped her tears quickly, forcing herself to stand and steady her voice.
"Okay. I'll be down in a moment."
Ethan nodded and left.
Taylor hesitated before following, glancing back at her—his eyes saying everything he was too afraid to voice.
Stephanie took one last look at her room.
This cramped little space…
This worn-out bed…
These old walls that had seen her cry, laugh, and grow…
She clutched the picture frame close.
"Goodbye, Dad," she whispered.
Then she stepped out of her childhood room, ready—terrified—to walk into a world she didn't understand.
———
The room was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet—
but the poised, coiled silence that sits right before a blade slides between ribs.
A single lamp cast a warm circle of light across a polished mahogany table.
Everything else in the room was swallowed in shadow. The air smelled faintly of leather, disinfectant…
and perfume that didn't belong to softness.
A woman who seems to wear goth as a piece of clothe sat at the center of the room like an empress in exile—legs crossed, posture flawless, fingers lazily turning the pages of a small, black ledger.
Every few seconds, she stopped on a name.
Looked at it.
Smiled.
Drew a thin red line through it with a pen.
The door opened.
Her Intel—one of her "debt hounds"—stepped in, swallowing hard before he even spoke.
"M–Ma'am Maura… I have… news."
She didn't look up.
She dipped her quill in ink instead.
"Speak," she murmured. Soft voice. Warm tone. Nothing human in it.
"It's… Varko Genn, Ma'am. He's dead."
The quill froze mid-stroke.
A drop of red ink swelled at the tip.
She still didn't look up.
"How?" she whispered.
"T-that's the thing, Ma'am…" He wiped sweat from his brow.
"We don't know."
She finally lifted her gaze.
Slowly.
Her eyes were pale—almost colorless—like frost coating glass.
"You came into my space… to tell me you don't know?"
"N-no, Ma'am—I mean yes, Ma'am—he was found with his entire crew wiped out. Surgical. Precise. No witnesses."
She stood.
Gracefully.
Like a ballerina rising to begin a performance.
But her shadow stretched across the room like something predatory.
"And you're telling me," she said, stepping closer, "that someone executed one of Viper's captains… with this level of competence… and my network didn't hear a whisper?"
He stepped back.
She stepped forward.
"I—I'm sorry, Commander. Whoever did it… it wasn't a street gang. Or a rival syndicate. It was—different. Too clean."
Maura tilted her head, lips curving in that calm, delighted smile she wore when her mind slipped into darker spaces.
"Clean," she repeated softly.
"As if done by men who know the value of precision."
She tapped the quill against her fingertip once.
Twice.
Then she pressed the red-inked tip against the Intel's chest—staining his shirt like a wound.
"Find out who," she whispered.
"Or I'll add your name to the ledger."
His breath caught.
"Yes, Commander! Right away!"
He fled.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Maura looked down at the ledger again, her smile widening as she neatly wrote a new line on the fresh page:
"Unknown Operator — debt pending."
She closed the book with a soft thud.
Then she whispered, almost affectionately:
"Whoever you are…
you've just made things interesting."
She turned, picked up her coat, and walked toward the darkness of the hall.