The morning sun filtered through the tall windows of Tesmee's estate, casting sharp beams across the black marble floors. A heavy silence settled inside the private lounge, disturbed only by the faint clinking of glass as Lorenzo—her Enzu—poured himself another glass of whiskey.
It was 10:03 AM.
Tesmee sat at the head of the room, back leaning into the velvet couch, legs crossed in that calm, calculated way she did when assessing chaos. Before her stood the Big Three—Seig, the silent assassin always dressed in black; Blake, the cold-eyed sniper with a scar running from his temple to his jaw; and Lyra, the hacker whose fingers always danced like they were still typing even when idle. And to her left, relaxed yet tense, sat Lorenzo.
"How's the state of the situation so far, Enzu?" Tesmee asked, gaze focused.
Lorenzo took a slow sip before responding. "It's bad."
Her expression didn't change, but her posture did—subtle, a slight lean forward. "How bad is it?"
He let the silence stretch. "I mean really bad," he said at last. "The arsenal is being moved constantly—every six hours, minimum. Not just to different locations, but different types of locations. Underground bunkers. Private airstrips. High-speed convoys. Each new place is harder to access than the last."
Seig tilted his head slightly, arms folded. "Tyson's making sure that even if we catch wind of a drop, we're already too late by the time we get there."
Blake added, "He's anticipating our movements. It's not random. It's strategic."
Tesmee's steel-gray eyes narrowed slightly, lips parting in thought. "So we're not just dealing with security, we're dealing with psychological warfare."
Lyra nodded from her seat near the digital board, where encrypted blueprints and shifting data blinked on the screen. "I've been tracking the network Tyson's people are using. Encrypted frequencies. Dead zones. The last transfer route piggybacked on a diplomatic channel—military clearance. That's how deep this goes."
"And the weapon?" Tesmee asked quietly.
Everyone fell silent for a moment.
Lorenzo finally spoke. "It's his. That much is confirmed. Whatever it is—it's not just valuable, it's dangerous. He's treating it like a damn relic. And from the chatter we intercepted, he's willing to burn every bridge, even pull assets from overseas to keep it out of our reach."
Tesmee's eyes darkened. She tapped her finger against her knee rhythmically. "He knows we're close. He's panicking."
Seig stepped forward. "Or he's baiting us. We storm in blind, and it's not a vault we're walking into—it's a grave."
"Are we certain it's not a decoy?" Tesmee asked.
Lyra shrugged lightly. "Possible. But the level of encryption, the detail of movement—it's too meticulous for a fake. Tyson doesn't play like that."
Blake crossed his arms. "There's also word from one of our informants in the East Quarter. A new shipment is being prepped under heavy guard at an abandoned textile mill. It's the closest we've been able to get."
"Could be a shell," Seig muttered.
"Could be," Blake agreed. "But the guard count says otherwise—sixty men. Three heat-signature scanning drones. Two Hades-class armored trucks. All that, for a decoy?"
Tesmee finally stood, her tall figure commanding the room without effort. "Then it's not a decoy."
She began pacing slowly, thoughts threading together like a puzzle. "Tyson is using fear and confusion to slow us down. He's banking on hesitation. On disagreement between us."
She looked to each of the Big Three. "Do we have a clear layout of this textile mill?"
Lyra brought up the schematic instantly. "Pre-2000 architecture. Reinforced walls. Underground tunnel exits. One main entrance. Two catwalks with 360-vision points. High ground advantage."
"Sniper nest?" Tesmee asked.
Blake nodded. "There's one. Eastern rooftop. If I'm there, I can take out any upper-level eyes before they ring the alarm."
"Good." Her eyes slid to Seig. "You'll be inside. Take out the command head. No disruption—just silence. No alarms."
Seig gave a single nod.
Tesmee walked to the center screen and stared at the heat-mapped outline of the location. "This isn't about the weapon anymore. This is about the power it gives him. We take it—he's crippled."
Lorenzo set down his glass. "And if we fail?"
She turned slowly. "Then we won't have to worry about war. He'll have already won it."
A long pause fell over them.
Then Blake broke it, voice low. "We'll need to breach by 4 AM. That's the next window before another shift in location. It's risky."
Tesmee smirked faintly. "We don't do safe."
Lyra added, "I can loop their surveillance for six minutes tops. After that, we're ghosts—no support, no eyes."
"Six minutes is all we need," Seig replied calmly.
The tone in the room shifted—focus locking in, nerves sharpening.
Tesmee sat again, this time on the edge of the couch, hands clasped loosely between her knees. "Then it's settled. You three move at dawn. No mistakes."
She paused, then added, "And if any of you see Tyson—don't engage. Not yet."
Lorenzo looked over. "Still not ready to face him?"
Tesmee's voice lowered. "No. I'm ready. But I want him to see what it looks like when everything he tried to protect—everything he fought for—slips right through his fingers."
Silence settled again, but this time it was steady. Heavy. Full of understanding.
The Big Three nodded, each already disappearing into their own world of preparation.
Tesmee rose to her full height and looked out the window toward the city stretched out beneath her. Steel towers. Concrete bones. A kingdom built on betrayal.
And she was ready to take it back.