The sound of Dante's pistols was a rhythmic thunder, a violent symphony that signaled the beginning of the end. Elara didn't wait to watch him fall or fly; she threw herself into the narrow, soot-stained vent opening he had pointed out.
The shaft was a claustrophobic nightmare. It was barely wide enough for her shoulders, the metal walls slick with a mixture of grease and condensation. She had to crawl on her stomach, her midnight blue gown tearing further with every desperate inch she gained. The silk bodice snagged, the sheer netting ripping away to leave her breasts almost entirely bare against the cold, abrasive metal.
With every frantic push of her elbows, her breasts heaved and jiggled, the sensitive skin scraping against the rivets of the shaft. The physical pain was a dull thrum compared to the agonizing throb of her heart. Below her, through the slats of the ventilation grilles, she saw flashes of the massacre in the ritual chamber—Dante, a blur of charcoal silk and lethal precision, moving through the white-robed guards like a wolf in a sheepfold.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
She reached the central hub. Below her sat the massive, rust-colored tank of "cleansing" gas. It was connected to a series of pneumatic levers.
Elara peered through the grille. She was directly above the Zenith and her father. From this height, she could see the top of her father's head—the hair matted with blood, his breathing shallow.
"The girl is in the walls," the Zenith's voice drifted up, calm and terrifying. He didn't even look at the gunfight erupting thirty feet away. He looked at the ceiling. "I can hear her heart. It's a frantic, useless thing."
He turned back to Elara's father. "Since the daughter will not join the temple, the father must pay for the vacancy."
The Zenith raised the serrated blade.
"No!" Elara screamed, her voice echoing through the metal pipes. She kicked at the grille, her legs scrambling for purchase. Her skirt was hiked to her waist, her lace-topped stockings stained with filth, her private parts throbbing with a primal, desperate adrenaline.
The grille gave way with a screech of shearing metal. Elara tumbled out of the shaft, landing on a stone ledge ten feet above the gas valve. She scrambled down the iron ladder, her nearly bare breasts swaying and bouncing with the jarring motion.
She reached the valve. It was locked with a heavy iron wheel. She threw her weight against it, her muscles screaming.
"Dante!" she shrieked.
Across the room, Dante heard her. He was pinned behind a fallen marble pillar, his ammunition running low. He looked up, seeing her silhouetted against the machinery, her gown in tatters, her pale skin glowing in the candlelight. The sight of her—vulnerable yet defiant—seemed to ignite a final, suicidal spark in him.
He stood up, ignoring the hail of bullets. He fired his last three rounds into the base of the stone rack holding Elara's father, weakening the structure.
"Turn it, Elara! Turn it and run!"
With a guttural cry, Elara put every ounce of her soul into the wheel. It groaned, the rust snapping, and finally spun. But it didn't release the gas. It reversed the flow.
A high-pitched hiss filled the room.
The Zenith's eyes widened behind his porcelain mask. "What have you done?"
"I didn't just study the vents," Elara gasped, her chest heaving, the heavy mounds of her breasts glistening with sweat. "I studied the pressure seals. You wanted to cleanse the 'Assets'? Now you're going to breathe it yourselves."
The green mist began to pour from the ceiling vents, not into the cells, but into the ritual chamber.
The guards began to cough, clutching their throats. Chaos erupted as the "Holy" council scrambled for the exits, their white robes catching fire from the tipped candles.
Dante lunged for the rack, his hands working the locks to free Elara's father. But as the old man slumped into Dante's arms, a shadow rose from the mist.
Sloane.
The Underboss was bleeding from a dozen wounds, his face a mask of gore. He held a jagged piece of the shattered chandelier. With a roar of "disgusting" rage, he drove the glass shard into the side of Elara's father.
"If I don't get the girl," Sloane wheezed, "you don't get the map!"
Dante let out a roar of pure agony. He caught the old man as he fell, but he was too late to stop Sloane from disappearing into the thickening green fog.
Elara reached the floor, sprinting toward them. She fell to her knees beside her father, her torn gown flaring out around her. Her breasts were crushed against her father's chest as she tried to staunch the wound with her bare hands.
"Dad? Dad, look at me!"
The old man opened his eyes, a flicker of clarity returning. He reached out, his bloody hand brushing Elara's cheek, then Dante's arm.
"The... the lower firms..." he wheezed, blood bubbling at his lips. "The holy front is a lie... look at the... the foundation of the bank... the vault..."
His head fell back. The Architect was dead.
Dante grabbed Elara, hauling her to her feet as the gas began to burn their lungs. "He's gone, Elara! We have to go now!"
"No! I can't leave him!"
Dante didn't argue. He threw her over his shoulder, her soft body draped over his back. As he ran for the secret exit, Elara's breasts jiggled against his spine, her tears soaking into his ruined tuxedo.
They burst out into the cold night air of an alleyway three blocks from the cathedral. Dante collapsed against a brick wall, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a mixture of grief and fury.
He looked at Elara, who was huddled on the pavement, her midnight blue dress now a shroud of rags. She was exposed, broken, and alone.
The Stage 1 and 2 antagonists had been dealt blows, but the Stage 3 organization—The Circle—had just taken the only person who knew their deepest secrets.
Dante knelt in front of her. He didn't offer comfort. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.
"They killed him to keep us quiet," he hissed, his voice a promise of a bloodbath. "But he gave us a name. The Bank. We're going to the heart of their money, Elara. And we're going to burn every cent they have."
Elara looked at him, her eyes hardening. The "normal" architect was gone. In her place was something forged in the catacombs.
"I don't want to burn it, Dante," she whispered, her voice cold. "I want to dismantle it. Brick by brick. Until there's nothing left for them to hide behind."
The war had truly begun.