Part 1
General Dugu's convoy arrived at the Redwood townhouse at precisely eleven o'clock—three vehicles in imperial military colors drawing curious glances from neighboring households whose curtains twitched with poorly concealed interest.
The timing was calculated. Mid-morning would find aristocratic households in their most active state: servants bustling, family members about their business. Harder to stage-manage. Harder to prepare.
Let them scramble.
Lieutenant Chen fell into step beside her, his leather satchel containing the crystalline recording sphere. On her other side walked Sergeant Reyes—a striking woman with warm bronze skin whose relaxed posture concealed fifteen years in Special Operations and no fewer than four concealed weapons. The sergeant moved with the easy grace of someone who could kill you six different ways before you finished blinking, yet somehow projected the demeanor of a bored tourist.
The butler's bow was precisely calibrated to convey respect without deference—the aristocratic sweet spot that took generations to master. "General Dugu. Her Grace the Duchess has requested the pleasure of greeting you personally before your appointment."
More delay. More time for them to prepare their precious little witness.
"I would be honored," Dugu heard herself say, the words tasting like ash.
The drawing room was elegant without ostentation—old money habits she had grown accustomed to recognizing, if never quite accepting. The Duchess sat by the window in a pool of winter sunlight, looking for all the world like a grandmother interrupted during her morning reading rather than a political powerhouse receiving a military commander.
The next fifteen minutes left Dugu quietly impressed despite herself. Margaret inquired about Dugu's parents with genuine warmth, expressed appropriate horror at the bombing with what seemed like authentic concern, and somehow made the entire conversation feel like a genuine exchange between equals rather than the careful dance of predator and prey.
What struck Dugu most was the complete absence of condescension. No subtle emphasis on her remarkable achievements. No patronizing surprise at her intelligence. No carefully calibrated compliments designed to remind her of the gulf between their stations.
It's an act, she reminded herself firmly. Aristocrats are trained from birth to conceal their true thoughts behind masks of courtesy.
And yet—a small, traitorous part of her wondered if her prior assumptions had been wrong. If perhaps Philip hadn't left her because of his family's pressure. If perhaps he had done it entirely of his own free will, and she had simply been too proud to accept it.
She crushed the thought like a beetle beneath her boot.
"I should let you proceed with your duties," Margaret said, her smile warming several degrees. "Though—Philip did want to greet you personally, if you have a moment? He's in the morning room. Just briefly—his physician has insisted on strict bed rest for the concussion."
Dugu's heart stuttered against her ribs.
"Of course, Your Grace."
The morning room was bright with winter sunlight, and Philip stood by the window looking profoundly uncomfortable in a way that made Dugu's chest ache with unwanted recognition.
He'd changed. The lean, athletic figure she remembered—the one that had made her pulse race during their fencing matches, the one she had traced with trembling fingers beneath cherry blossoms—had softened considerably. The chiseled jaw had rounded. He moved with none of the confident grace that had once made her forget how to breathe.
And yet—and yet—seeing him in person, close enough to touch, she felt her treacherous heart accelerate anyway. The muscle memory of longing apparently didn't care about intervening years or accumulated bitterness.
Stop it, she commanded herself.
"General Dugu." His bow was technically correct but awkward, like a schoolboy remembering half-forgotten lessons. "Thank you for conducting the interview here. I apologize for the inconvenience."
"Your health must take priority, Captain. I understand completely."
He looked at her then—really looked—and she saw it.
Nothing.
No recognition. No guilt. No careful management of a shared history. No flicker of memory from nights spent tangled together, from promises whispered against her hair, from the moment he had held her beneath those damned cherry blossoms and sworn forever.
Just... fear. The clueless fear of a man facing a powerful stranger who might do something to his precious mistress.
He doesn't remember me.
The intelligence reports had mentioned memory loss after his suicide attempt. She'd assumed it was exaggeration—convenient amnesia to avoid uncomfortable conversations. But looking into his eyes now, searching desperately for any spark of recognition...
Philip Redwood, the man who had held her and promised forever, had no idea who she was.
Something twisted in her chest. A grief she hadn't expected, for a loss she hadn't known she was still carrying.
"I simply have routine questions for Miss Natalia," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "Standard procedure following a terrorist incident."
Relief flooded his features with almost comical intensity. "Of course. Yes. Absolutely. Natalia will help however she can. She's very cooperative. Very helpful."
Natalia. The soft, protective way he said the name—like a prayer, like a promise—made something twist deeper.
"I wish you a swift recovery, Captain."
She left before her composure could crack entirely.
Part 2
The chamber was on the third floor—a guest suite that had clearly been hastily converted into a recovery room. Lydia led them through corridors decorated with tasteful landscapes, her posture radiating the particular breed of polite hostility that governesses had perfected over centuries.
"Miss Natalia is still recovering from her injuries," Lydia said, pausing at an ornate door. "The physician has recommended she remain in bed. I trust the interview will not be... strenuous."
The warning was as subtle as a cannon shot.
The room beyond was spacious but warm, a fire crackling cheerfully in the hearth. The bed dominated the space—a massive four-poster draped in cream silk—and propped against its headboard, blankets pooled artfully around her waist, sat the woman from the footage.
Dugu's breath caught.
The woman before her was more striking in person than any recording could capture. Natalia wore a high-collared blouse of dove-gray silk that somehow managed to be both modest and devastatingly flattering, her golden hair arranged in a simple braid that emphasized rather than diminished her features. Her sapphire eyes met Dugu's with an expression of innocent curiosity—bright, clear, and somehow... off. Not hostile. Not deceptive. Just lacking something Dugu couldn't quite name.
Like looking at a perfect painting and realizing, with a shiver, that the eyes were following you.
"General Dugu." Natalia inclined her head with practiced grace. "Thank you for accommodating my condition. I apologize for any inconvenience my injuries may have caused."
"Not at all." Dugu took the chair Lydia positioned facing the bed, noting how the angle gave her subject nowhere to hide. Chen and Reyes settled onto a settee near the window—close enough to observe, far enough to seem unthreatening. "I hope your injuries aren't troubling you overmuch?"
"They are healing satisfactorily." A small wince crossed Natalia's features as she adjusted her position—perfectly timed, perfectly natural. "Miss Lydia's care has been invaluable."
Good. She's playing the injured victim. Let her think I believe it.
"This is Lieutenant Chen and Sergeant Reyes. I hope you don't mind if we record? Standard procedure for all witness interviews."
"Of course not. I'm eager to assist in any way I can."
Dugu opened with rapport-building questions—establishing behavioral baselines before introducing stress. Which city was she from? How long had she been in the capital? Easy questions with predictable answers, designed to map the terrain of truth before venturing into more dangerous territory.
Natalia's responses were... perfect.
Not too smooth—she paused appropriately, showed natural hesitation where expected, even stumbled slightly over a word before self-correcting with a small, embarrassed smile. Her body language matched her words precisely: open posture, steady eye contact, the occasional wince of genuine discomfort.
Either she's telling the truth, or she's a very disciplined operative.
Time to probe deeper.
"Please excuse the indelicacy," Dugu said, shifting tactics with deliberate abruptness, "but my sources indicate you are Captain Redwood's... mistress?"
A faint blush colored Natalia's porcelain cheeks—delicate as rose petals, perfectly timed. "Yes, General. Though that wasn't the original arrangement."
Dugu felt her hand tighten on her pen until her knuckles whitened. She forced herself to relax. Professionalism.
"If I may ask—how did you come to hold that position?"
"I was originally contracted as his bodyguard." Natalia's voice carried no defensiveness, only matter-of-fact explanation. "Master Philip has an unfortunate tendency to attract assassination attempts. But protection works best when threats don't know it exists. A mistress can accompany her patron anywhere without raising suspicion. A bodyguard cannot."
Logical. Plausible. Perfectly delivered.
Something loosened fractionally in Dugu's chest—relief she absolutely refused to examine.
"So your relationship is purely professional? A bodyguard pretending to be a mistress for operational cover?"
Natalia tilted her head with that guileless expression—the one that made her look like a confused angel. "Initially, yes. But the role required me to be with him everywhere. At all times." She paused, seemingly considering her words. "Including sleeping arrangements."
Dugu's pen stopped moving.
"I'm sorry—sleeping arrangements?"
"Yes. A mistress who doesn't share her patron's bed would raise suspicions among the household staff and visitors. So I was required to share his chambers." Natalia's tone remained perfectly clinical, as though discussing inventory management. "Over time, I grew accustomed to his presence. His warmth. His..."
She paused, seeming to search for precisely the right word.
"...wandering hands."
Dugu choked.
Lieutenant Chen developed a sudden, intense fascination with his notebook, his ears achieving a shade of crimson typically reserved for warning beacons. Sergeant Reyes's expression remained professionally blank, but her shoulders had gone suspiciously rigid in a way that suggested she was fighting very hard not to react.
"I—" Dugu cleared her throat violently. "I see."
"It was not unpleasant," Natalia continued with devastating innocence, apparently oblivious to the effect her words were having. "In fact, I found the sensation quite agreeable. The physical contact triggered responses I had not previously experienced. Eventually, the rest simply... happened."
Lydia coughed sharply—a sound that might have been embarrassment but carried an oddly pointed edge.
Natalia glanced at her, then back at Dugu with those impossibly blue eyes. "Was that too much detail? Miss Lydia has suggested I sometimes over-share regarding intimate matters."
Dugu's face had achieved a temperature typically associated with forge work. She was dimly aware that her carefully constructed professional demeanor was crumbling like a sand castle before the tide, but she couldn't quite stop the images flooding her mind.
Philip's hands. Wandering. On this woman's—
Stop. STOP.
"No," Dugu managed, her voice approximately two octaves higher than normal. "That's... quite sufficient detail. Thank you."
She took a breath. Then another. Then a third for good measure.
Philip did what? Of course he did. He always did exactly what he wanted, consequences be damned. Same as before. Same as always.
The old bitterness surged up, familiar and almost comforting in its clarity. Anger was easier than grief. Anger she knew how to use.
"So you do have romantic feelings for Captain Redwood?" Dugu asked, her voice steadier now, anchored by righteous disapproval.
"Yes." The word was simple. Devastating. Delivered without hesitation or shame.
"And him? Does he reciprocate?"
Something softened in Natalia's expression—a vulnerability that seemed genuine despite everything. "I would like to think so. His actions certainly indicate as much." She paused, her fingers twisting gently in the bedsheets. "He held me after the explosion. Refused to let the physicians examine him until they had treated my wounds first. When I woke, he was still holding my hand."
Dugu smiled. But it was a smile of bitter irony, sharp enough to cut.
Typical Philip. Grand romantic gestures that cost him nothing while never failing to win the hearts of women. He always knew exactly how to seem devoted without actually committing to anything.
"But you're content with this arrangement?" The question emerged before she could stop it, sharper than intended. "Being a mistress? You know these arrangements are usually... temporary. If things don't progress further..."
She let the implication hang in the air like a blade.
Natalia's response was immediate and utterly without self-pity: "Yes. A girl of my station should be satisfied with whatever I can get. I shouldn't be too greedy."
The words hit Dugu like a splash of ice water.
My station.
She studied Natalia with fresh eyes—this impossibly beautiful woman who had thrown herself between Philip and a bomb, who had bled for him without hesitation, who spoke of "wandering hands" as if they were a pleasant surprise rather than grounds for scandal.
And who accepted that she would never be more than a mistress because she genuinely believed that was all someone like her deserved.
She actually means it, Dugu realized with dawning wonder. She's not playing the victim for sympathy. She genuinely believes this is the best she can hope for.
For a moment—just a moment—Dugu felt something that might have been kinship. She knew what it was like to believe you weren't worthy of more.
She shut the feeling before it could affect her judgement.
"Let's discuss your background," Dugu said, shifting to more dangerous ground. "Where did you grow up?"
Something flickered across Natalia's features—a shadow of genuine emotion that seemed to catch even her off-guard.
"I grew up in an orphanage," she said quietly. "St. Meredith's Home for Foundlings, in the Commonwealth of East Zeeland."
An orphan. That explains some things.
"Do you remember your parents? How you came to be there?"
Natalia's brow furrowed, and for the first time, her composure seemed to waver authentically. "I... my memories of early childhood are... fragmented. I remember the dormitory. The other children. But before that..."
She pressed her fingers to her temple, her expression tightening with what appeared to be genuine distress.
"I try to remember, but it's like reaching through fog. There are shapes, impressions, but when I try to focus on them, they slip away. I remember... I remember..."
Her breath caught. A tremor ran through her shoulders.
Lydia moved smoothly to the bedside, her hand finding Natalia's with practiced gentleness. "It's alright, dear. Don't force it."
She looked up at Dugu with an expression of polite but unmistakable warning. "Miss Natalia has always had difficulty with her earliest memories, General. The physicians believe it may be the mind's way of protecting itself—sometimes, the brain chooses to forget experiences too painful to carry."
The implication hung in the air: whatever happened to this girl before the orphanage was bad enough that her mind erased it entirely.
Natalia took a shaky breath, visibly composing herself. "I apologize, General. I wish I could be more helpful."
Dugu studied her carefully. The distress seemed genuine—the trembling hands, the unfocused gaze, the way she leaned into Lydia's comfort like a child seeking reassurance.
Either she's an exceptional actress, or she truly doesn't remember.
Dugu shifted tactics. "Very well. Let's move to something more recent. Your training—you displayed exceptional combat capabilities during the bombing. Where did you learn such techniques?"
Natalia's composure returned like a door closing, her voice steadying. "I trained with various masters over the years."
"Various masters? Could you be more specific?"
"Of course." Natalia straightened slightly, a hint of quiet pride entering her voice. "I studied marksmanship at the Thornfield Academy in the United Eastern States—they're renowned for precision shooting. Hand-to-hand combat at the Iron Crane School in the Land of a Thousand Suns—Master Yoshida's techniques are considered among the finest in the world. Blade work at the Volkov Institute in Arussia, and equestrian combat at—"
"Wait." Dugu held up a hand, her eyes narrowing. "You trained at institutions across at least four different nations?"
"Yes, General."
"Why so many?"
Natalia met her gaze with quiet determination. "Because I wanted to be the very best. Each school specializes in something different—Thornfield for firearms, Iron Crane for unarmed combat, Volkov for edged weapons. Why settle for competence in one area when excellence in all is achievable?"
The logic was sound. The ambition was plausible. And yet—
"These are elite institutions," Dugu said slowly. "Extremely expensive ones. How does an orphan from a foundling home in Zeeland afford tuition at four of the world's premier combat academies?"
For the first time, Natalia's expression brightened with something approaching genuine warmth. "Charitable sponsorship. The Toosexy Foundation covered all my expenses."
Dugu blinked.
"I'm sorry—the what foundation?"
"The Toosexy Foundation," Natalia repeated, her tone perfectly innocent. "They sponsor talented young people from disadvantaged backgrounds."
Dugu's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Behind her, she heard Chen make a small, strangled noise.
"Lieutenant Chen," she said carefully, "could you verify that organization?"
Chen was already pulling out his portable mirror-tablet, his fingers moving across its glowing surface with desperate efficiency. After confirming the spelling with Natalia, his eyebrows rose so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline.
"It... exists, ma'am." His voice carried a note of carefully suppressed disbelief. "According to its official registration, the Toosexy Foundation is—" he paused, cleared his throat with obvious difficulty, "—'the world's greatest and most glorious single foundation for the advancement of human sexiness.'"
The room went very quiet.
Sergeant Reyes's expression remained professionally blank, but a muscle in her jaw had begun twitching in a way that suggested she was biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood.
"The advancement of..." Dugu trailed off, her voice failing her entirely. "What specific activities does this foundation sponsor?"
Chen scrolled through the mirror-tablet, he became increasingly stunned. "Swimming. Weightlifting. Gymnastics. Cosmetics. Anti-aging research. Professional modeling. And..." he hesitated visibly, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "...combat training for underprivileged youth."
"Martial arts training," Dugu repeated flatly.
"Yes, ma'am." Chen's voice had gone slightly strangled. "The foundation supports children of extraordinary talent who demonstrate world-class potential in combat disciplines. For example, their rationale for sponsoring marksmanship training is..." He stopped.
"Is what, Lieutenant?"
Chen's face achieved a shade of crimson typically reserved for emergency warning signals. "is that 'Nothing is sexier than a sniper.'"
Silence.
Absolute, profound silence.
Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked. The fire crackled.
Natalia tilted her head with guileless curiosity. "Is something wrong? The Foundation has been quite generous. They paid for all my training, my travel, my equipment—"
"And who founded this... organization?" Dugu managed.
Chen consulted his tablet again, his expression suggesting he was seriously reconsidering his career choices. "The Toosexy family, ma'am. One of the most powerful dynasties in the Continental Republic. The foundation has existed for approximately seven decades." Another pause. "The family made their original fortune in... the manufacture and distribution of..."
"Of what?"
Chen looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. "Contraceptives and adult products, ma'am."
Dugu felt heat flood her face with renewed intensity.
The Continental Republic. A seventy-year-old foundation tied to one of the Republic's most prominent families. Sponsoring combat training for orphans under the pretext of "advancing human sexiness."
Could she be a Republican operative?
The thought crystallized with sudden, cold clarity. It would explain everything—the exceptional capabilities, the coherent backstory, the institutional support. The Continental Republic was renowned for its long-term intelligence operations, for cultivating assets from childhood and deploying them decades later.
But the mission statement is just so absurd. Surely no intelligence agency could be so sloppy with their cover organization?
Unless that's precisely why they chose it. Who would believe a spy was funded by an entity dedicated to "advancing human sexiness"? The sheer ridiculousness provides its own camouflage.
"If requested, would you be able to support your claims?" Dugu asked, her voice carefully neutral despite the whirlwind of implications. "Provide documentation of your enrollment at these institutions, your sponsorship records?"
"Of course, General." Natalia's confidence didn't waver an inch. "I can request transcripts from each academy. The Foundation maintains detailed records of all their sponsored students. Please let me know if you need any documentation—I'm happy to facilitate."
Too confident. She knows the records will check out.
Because they would. After Lydia's remote magical interferences, every database, every archive, every enrollment record would confirm exactly what Natalia claimed. Every thread Dugu pulled would lead exactly where Lydia wanted it to lead.
She's either telling the truth, or the organization behind her had gone to extraordinary lengths to create an impenetrable cover story.
Dugu filed away her suspicions and pressed forward.
"Very well. After your training concluded, what positions did you hold before entering Captain Redwood's service?"
"I traveled to Yorgoria seeking employment based on what I heard," Natalia said. "My qualifications were... unusual. Most security firms preferred experienced retired military personnels. The only work I could find initially was as a bartender."
"A bartender." Dugu's tone carried a note of incredulity. "With your skills?"
"The job market can be quite challenging for those without connections." Natalia's expression turned slightly rueful. "I was considering returning to East Zeeland when I saw the news coverage."
"What news coverage?"
"The assassination attempt on Captain Redwood." Something softened in Natalia's eyes—a genuine warmth that made Dugu's stomach clench. "The image showed him bravely shielding his lawyer from the attackers. Throwing himself in front of the gunfire despite having no protective equipment." She paused. "I remember thinking: here is a man who protects others without hesitation, yet has no one to protect him. Perhaps I could be of use."
She saw Philip on the news and decided to offer her services. Romantic. Convenient. Completely unverifiable.
"So you simply... approached the Redwood household?"
"I submitted an application through proper channels. Miss Lydia conducted the interviews." Natalia glanced at the older woman with evident respect. "She was quite thorough in her vetting process."
Lydia inclined her head with modest precision. "Miss Natalia's references were impeccable, and her practical demonstration was... impressive. The household was in considerable need of enhanced security following the attempts on Master Philip's life."
And the rest is history, Dugu thought grimly. An orphan with mysterious origins, elite training funded by a ridiculous foundation, arrives at exactly the right moment to protect the heir to a ducal fortune.
Every piece fits together too neatly. Every answer leads somewhere plausible. And yet I cannot shake the feeling that I'm being played—that this beautiful, guileless woman is running circles around me with every perfectly crafted response.
Time to test her differently.
"Let's return to the bombing itself. Walk me through that morning. What were you doing while waiting by the carriage?"
"Observing."
"Observing what, specifically?"
"The building. The architecture. I found the neo-classical elements quite striking."
"The building." Dugu's tone sharpened like a blade being drawn. "Not the people approaching the stairs? Not the vehicles in the street? Just the building?"
Natalia blinked with apparent confusion. "Well, I was also monitoring the environment for potential threats. But the building was my primary focus at that particular moment."
"And yet you detected a bomb that no one else noticed. While admiring architecture."
"I... yes."
"What about your other senses? Smells? Sounds? What do you remember experiencing?"
Natalia tilted her head—that characteristic angle that suggested deep processing. "The smell of horse manure from the street. Coal smoke from nearby chimneys. Someone's perfume—jasmine, I believe—as they passed within three meters. The sound of carriage wheels on cobblestone. A newsboy shouting headlines approximately forty meters to the north."
Dugu kept her expression neutral, but her mind was racing. She has heightened perception far beyond normal civilian parameters.
"Describe the pattern on the third step from the bottom of the War Office stairs."
Natalia didn't hesitate. "Herringbone pattern. Seventeen full stones visible, with two partial cuts on each end. The mortar between the fourth and fifth stones showed signs of repair—approximately twelve years old, based on the weathering differential."
The question had been designed to catch her off-guard—a test no normal person should be able to pass.
Sergeant Reyes shifted slightly. Chen's pen stopped moving entirely.
I knew it, Dugu thought with grim satisfaction. She's definitely undergone specialized training far beyond what civilian academies provide.
"You observed all of that while waiting by a carriage?"
"I observe everything, General." Natalia's tone carried no boast—just simple statement of fact. "It's simply what I do."
"General Dugu, Miss Natalia was selected precisely for her exceptional photographic memory," Lydia interjected gently. "It's quite remarkable, really. She can recall conversations from weeks ago verbatim."
Photographic memory. Rare, but not impossible. That explains the observation capabilities—partially.
Time for the final kill.
"Let's discuss what happened after you noticed the threat." Dugu leaned forward, her voice dropping to something harder. "You sprinted twenty meters up marble stairs, through a crowd of civilians, and tackled a man to the ground—all within approximately 1.5 seconds of the bomb detonating." She paused. "The average Olympic sprinter couldn't have covered that distance in time. How did you?"
"Adrenaline," Natalia said. "And training. When someone you care about is in danger, the body is capable of extraordinary things."
"That's not a sufficient explanation."
"It's the truth, General. I perceived a threat to Master Philip. Every fiber of my being screamed at me to reach him. I didn't think about distance or time or crowds—I simply moved."
Dugu pulled out her notebook, flipping to a specific page with deliberate slowness. "I timed myself on identical stairs yesterday. Multiple attempts at maximum effort. My best time was 1.9 seconds—and I'm considered exceptional by military standards." She looked up, her eyes hard. "You beat my time by nearly half a second while starting from a dead stop and navigating through civilians. Adrenaline doesn't account for that differential."
Natalia was quiet for a moment. Then: "I was considered exceptionally talented for the overall population, General. Otherwise I wouldn't have received the sponsorship in the first place."
"But your speed is extraordinary... almost bordering on inhuman."
"Actually, it was quite average at Iron Crane." Natalia's response came smoothly. "If you don't believe me, you can verify their published records of top speed rankings—they release them every year. I was merely in the top five percent."
Damn. Another verifiable claim. Another thread that would lead nowhere.
"Very well then," Dugu said, filing away this revelation for later analysis.
"And then there's the matter of your injuries." Dugu pressed on, shifting angles. "You mentioned experiencing a concussion. How are you feeling now? Any lingering symptoms?"
"Some headaches. Occasional difficulty with—"
"Your recall seems excellent," Dugu interrupted smoothly. "Your responses are articulate and precise. You've been tracking our conversation quite well for someone supposedly experiencing post-concussive symptoms. No confusion, no word-finding difficulties, no apparent fatigue."
Natalia's expression flickered—the first sign of genuine uncertainty. "Another effect of the conditioning, I believe. I am accustomed to shocks and suffering."
"Conditioning?" Dugu repeated flatly. "You took three pieces of shrapnel to the back yesterday. Most people would still be bedridden with pain. You're sitting here having a coherent conversation about childhood memories."
Silence stretched between them like a wire pulled taut.
"I think I should mention that Miss Natalia did ingest quite a significant quantity of painkillers prior to your arrival," Lydia said, gesturing toward a bottle placed on the edge of the bedside drawer.
Dugu glanced at the bottle, then back at Natalia, searching those impossibly blue eyes for calculation, for the smug satisfaction of a manipulation well-executed.
She found only patient curiosity, waiting for the next question.
It's entirely possible that Miss Natalia is a preconditioned Republican operative without even knowing it herself.
And if she really works for the Republic, that would complicate matters significantly.
Then, a more chilling thought crept through Dugu's mind: Could there be countless more Republican operatives, both knowing and unknowing, placed within the households of important political figures?
Could this be an unspoken arrangement within between the two governments?
If that were true... any misstep could spell the end of her career. She knew that the fastest way to an earlier retirement would be exposing things that her patrons might prefer kept hidden.
"Le's conclude for today, shall we?" Dugu said, closing her notebook with careful precision. "You've been very helpful, Miss Natalia. We have the urgent information we need."
"Of course." Natalia's relief seemed genuine. "I'm sorry I couldn't be more—"
"You've done well." Dugu rose from her chair, her movements controlled. "I may have follow-up questions as the investigation progresses. Please don't leave the city without notifying my office."
"I understand completely."
Dugu moved toward the door, her team falling into step behind her with practiced synchronization.
As they passed through the corridor, their footsteps muffled by thick carpet, Chen and Reyes flanked her in professional silence. Neither asked questions. Neither commented. They knew better.
Dugu said nothing until their convoy had left the estate grounds and the townhouse had shrunk to a distant silhouette through the rear window.
Then the corner of her mouth lifted.
A small smile. The smile of a predator who had discovered something important.
"Ma'am?" Chen asked quietly.
Dugu didn't answer immediately. Instead, she reached into her pocket and withdrew something small, almost invisible against her dark glove.
A single strand of golden hair, gleaming in the winter light.