Author: [writers hub]
Mina was a whirlwind of enraged limbs and guttural curses, her elegant facade utterly stripped away. Her nails tore at Zara's arm, the pain a sharp, visceral jolt that momentarily eclipsed the larger fear. Zara pushed back, the rough stone of the tunnel digging into her spine. The dagger, still in her hand, felt heavy, cold, a desperate last resort. She couldn't kill Mina, but she could defend herself.
"You ruined everything!" Mina shrieked, her face inches from Zara's, spittle flying. "You're nothing! A whore he picked from the gutter!"
The insult, raw and vicious, ignited a spark of cold fury in Zara. Her composure, honed by weeks of relentless training, snapped. This wasn't about the syndicate or the trust; this was personal. As Mina lunged again, Zara brought the hilt of the dagger up, not the blade, and slammed it into Mina's jaw. The impact was sickeningly solid. Mina cried out, a strangled gasp, stumbling back with a hand clapped to her face, a trickle of blood already visible between her fingers.
The two guards, meanwhile, had recovered and were closing in, their movements more coordinated now. One lunged for Zara's dagger hand, the other aiming to pin her. Zara twisted, her small frame surprisingly agile. She remembered Lady So-Yeon's warnings about the tunnels being a place for the family's hidden routes, and how knowledge of them could be a weapon. Just behind the ruined vault panel, partially obscured by shadow, was a narrow, unlit crevice in the wall – a passage too small for the burly guards, but just wide enough for her.
She feigned a desperate lunge towards the main tunnel entrance, drawing the guards' focus, then, with a burst of adrenaline, she spun and plunged into the dark crevice, squeezing through the tight opening just as the guards' hands grabbed at empty air.
"She went that way!" one guard bellowed, trying to force his broad shoulders into the narrow gap. It was useless.
"Get her!" Mina screamed, her voice hoarse with pain and rage. "She can't escape!"
Zara scrambled through the claustrophobic passage, her heart hammering against her ribs, the sounds of shouting and frustrated grunts fading behind her. The passage was dark, disorienting, but she trusted Lady So-Yeon's map. It led upwards, snaking through forgotten service routes, parallel to the main convention hall. She could hear the muffled roar of the crowd above, punctuated by a rising crescendo of confused shouts and gasps. The deepfake. It had begun.
She emerged into a dusty, unused storage room, the air thick with the smell of old furniture and disuse. A faint light filtered through a high window. She scrambled towards a locked service door, desperate to find an exit, to get back to Ragnar.
As she burst through a final door, she found herself in a deserted, dimly lit backstage corridor, far from the main hall's entrance. The sounds from the main stage were now clear, horrifyingly clear. A cacophony of shouts, gasps, and furious exclamations erupted from the main hall.
She reached a vantage point, a small service window that looked directly into the convention hall. The scene before her was chaos. On the massive screens flanking the stage, a deepfake image of Ragnar, distorted and malevolent, was being broadcast. He was shown in a dark, illicit setting, seemingly confessing to heinous crimes, to betraying syndicate allies, to a cold, calculated plan to absorb rival families using their weaknesses. It was meticulously crafted, the voice, the mannerisms, sickeningly convincing.
The syndicate heads, once composed and attentive, were on their feet, a furious uproar sweeping through the hall. Some pointed at the screen, others at the real Ragnar, who stood on stage, his face a mask of furious defiance, his voice, now trying to cut through the din, unheard. Director Ahn and his Shadow Wolves were already moving, trying to cut the feed, but it was too fast, too widespread. Mae-Yeon, Zara saw, was sitting at her table, a serene, triumphant smile playing on her lips, her eyes fixed on the unfolding spectacle, her victory in plain sight.
Zara's heart plummeted. She had stopped the Trust from being drained, but the deepfake was unleashed. Ragnar was being publicly crucified. He was alone on that stage, facing the fury of an entire underworld. And then, as her eyes scanned the hall, she saw it. Not just the uproar, but a subtle, coordinated movement near the main exits. Figures, unfamiliar to her, but clearly not part of Ragnar's security, were beginning to quietly form a blockade. This wasn't just a disgrace. This was a move to physically contain Ragnar, to prevent his escape, to ensure his downfall was absolute. The deepfake was the noise, the distraction. The true peril was the impending trap, and Ragnar, magnificent in his defiance, was about to be utterly overwhelmed, Zara realizing with a chilling certainty that her survival in the tunnels was meaningless if she couldn't somehow, against impossible odds, find a way to break through the surging chaos and reach him before he was utterly consumed.