In the eastern wing of Zilla, the hotel's private restaurant glowed with warm chandeliers, its velvet curtains drawn against the night. The room was reserved for only the most powerful families in the country, the kind of people who had shaped Anglora's future for generations.
At the center table sat the Luther family. The head, Old Sir Patrick Luther, still carried himself with the authority of his days in command, though his back had begun to stoop. By his right was his son, Frederick Luther, a decorated ex-Admiral Brigaider, and the elegant woman seated by his left, his daughter-in-law, Lady Selene Jereom, a renowned pianist whose presence added polish to the gathering.
Just across them, the Anderson family sat. Sir George Anderson, patriarch of one of the nation's largest real-estate dynasties, presided with an amused dignity. His daughter-in-law, Marie Anderson, poured wine with gentle hands, while his granddaughter, Miller, sat quietly, a young woman with soft eyes and a face that seemed untouched by the ambition and ruthlessness around her.
Laughter, clinking glasses, and easy banter filled the room. But outside, leaning against the glass-paneled wall of the restaurant entrance, stood a man who had no desire to join them.
He was tall, with a slim but honed frame that spoke of years of discipline. His jet-black hair caught the light, cropped in a military cut that made his features sharper still. But it was his eyes, cold, steely grey that arrested attention. They were eyes that seemed to look through people rather than at them.
Major General Axel Luther.
At just thirty, he had become one of the youngest generals in Anglora's history, a soldier whose campaigns were studied in the academy, whose aura made lesser officers stand straighter without realizing it. Tonight, however, in his grey tee and black cargo pants, he looked more like a predator on the edge of civilization than a decorated commander.
He glanced at the restaurant's gilded doors, then back to the city skyline. He already knew why his grandfather had called him here: another marriage alliance, another political arrangement dressed as family tradition. He had no patience for it tonight.
His phone buzzed in his palm. Grandfather. The call pulsed on the screen. He didn't answer. Instead, he typed: Good night, Grandpa. Then walked away
Inside, Old Luther glanced down at the message. His smile froze. His hand, moments ago raised in a toast, lowered as though the wine had soured. He forced a brittle laugh, but the light in his eyes dimmed.
Meanwhile, in the north wing, another drama unfolded.
Winter had already turned the suite upside down. Her hands moved with trained precision, searching the desk drawers, checking the bedframe, slipping open the minibar and even testing hollow-sounding panels along the walls. Benjamin had insisted the new military prototype was disguised as a simple flash drive. If so, it could be hidden anywhere.
Finally, a glint of something unusual caught her eye near the bookshelf. She crouched, reaching for it.
Click.
A sound at the door.
Winter froze, her pistol sliding into her hand as naturally as breath. She spun, sight lined up.
The door opened.
And there he was.
Axel stepped inside, gaze falling immediately on the disarray. He didn't flinch when the barrel of her gun leveled at his chest. His expression remained unreadable, though his sharp eyes flicked across the room, cataloguing every detail in seconds, including her stance, her breathing, the distance between her and the window.
"Hands up, Major General," Winter ordered, her voice steady.
He raised his hands slowly, but his composure didn't shift an inch. It unsettled her. This wasn't the reaction of a man caught off guard at all.
Her mind raced as she wondered how he'd bypassed Raymond.
She didn't wait for an answer, she edged toward the window, keeping her gun fixed on him. "Craig," she muttered into the comms.
"On the way, ma'am," Craig's calm voice replied.
That single flicker of distraction was all it took.
Axel moved.
One second he was still, the next he had closed the gap like a shadow. His hand struck her wrist, disarming her, and in the same motion he drove her down. Winter's breath left her as her chest hit the floor, her arms yanked behind her back with practiced precision. His knee pressed into her spine, pinning her like prey.
"Coming in here with such mediocre skills," Axel said, voice low, sharp as a blade.
Winter clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a retort.
With quick efficiency, he bound her wrists with his own cord. It should have been over until...
The window suddenly exploded inward.
A drone smashed through the glass, releasing a thick plume of smoke into the suite. The sudden chaos forced Axel to release her as his instincts recalibrated.
Winter didn't hesitate. She launched herself toward the shattered window, lungs burning with the acrid haze. For an instant, it looked like she'd leap to her death but below, Benjamin's car screeched into position.
She landed hard across the roof, rolling into the open backseat as Benjamin accelerated away.
Gasping, Winter twisted to glance back.
Axel stood at the broken window, his silhouette framed by curling smoke. His face was unreadable. But then, as their eyes met across the distance, a smirk spread across his lips.
It creeped Winter out and her stomach dropped. She suddenly didn't feel like the Victor anymore.
She didn't even notice Raymond slumped unconscious in the front seat, his gaudy jewelry glinting uselessly under the streetlights.