Prologue
There are days when the city makes you feel omnipotent—a god perched above the sweep of humanity, glass and steel and neon all arranged to worship your silhouette. Tonight is not one of those days.
The sliding door of my hotel balcony groans as I push it open, and I step into a wind so sharp it feels like a reprimand. I let it bite through the silk of my blouse, the old tweed blazer hanging heavy on my shoulders, the exposed skin of my shins above slouching boots. The skyline is a mess of trophies towering to the clouds, each lit up like a desperate contestant, flashing its credentials to the heavens. The network HQ across the street is the only honest one—it flickers between red and blue, not even pretending it's about anything but the show.
My phone pings before I've taken my first breath of the cool crisp night. I ignore it, and instead rest my hands on the balcony's edge, pressing hard enough to leave an impression. I used to imagine that, on nights like this, the entire city might tip and spill its secrets right into my lap.
But secrets aren't spilled. They're extracted.
I take off my glasses, wipe the lenses on the hem of my skirt, and peer down at the avenue below. Drunk interns tumble from ride-shares; some campaign staffer is getting a blowjob behind a dumpster, his body language a textbook case in the politics of power exchange. I count two news vans idling at the curb, satellite dishes angled for maximum drama. Above it all, my own reflection, a ghost across the window's black surface: short, black hair in a state of strategic chaos, eyes alert and exhausted, jawline tense enough to saw through rebar.
A high-pitched digital trill cuts through my reverie. I glance at the phone, see Sam's name, and swipe.
"Please tell me you're at least a little bit drunk," she says, no greeting required.
I squint at the skyline's haze and make a show of considering. "I tried. Hotel minibar said my card was maxed. Again."
"You need better vices."
"My mother suggested prayer."
Sam snorts—a sound I have missed. "Your mother also suggested you marry that guy from the Harvard mixer. What was his name—Ken Bot, the robot?"
"Correct. He went on to optimize hedge funds, then got arrested for optimizing a Ponzi scheme."
A pause. Sam always knows when I'm stalling. "Chen. You won. You're allowed to, I don't know, experience a positive emotion for more than four seconds?"
"I experience a full spectrum," I say, watching a police cruiser prowl past the lobby's revolving door. "Including 'relief it's over,' 'panic it'll all unravel tomorrow,' and my personal favorite, 'existential dread with notes of citrus.'"
Sam is silent for a moment, then: "Don't hang up."
I brace for the pivot. She only says this when she's about to dangle a carrot too heavy to hold.
She fills the pause with sound: muted TV in the background, the click of her typing, maybe the clatter of a spoon in her infamous mug of stress-tea. She's running late-night damage control from her own hotel, probably across the river, surrounded by color-coded spreadsheets and emergency scones.
"Okay, so. Remember how you said you wanted to disappear for a month and do nothing but read crime novels and eat discount pastries?"
I lick my thumb, trying to polish an imaginary smudge from my glasses. "No, but it sounds on brand."
"Cancel that. There's a thing. The kind of thing you'd hate, but that you'd hate to see someone else fuck up even more."
The city hums under me, a white-noise machine on the brink of overload. "You said I was off the grid for the rest of the year."
"Yeah, well, your grid has a new entry. I'm texting you the profile."
A second ping. The name flashes: ALEXANDERANDER BLACKWOOD, in all-caps, as if the letters themselves might try to wrestle me into submission.
I scroll down. Bullet points bloom in Sam's preferred style—pithy, brutal, no-nonsense:
* AG candidate, front-runner for Governor.
* Took down a cartel's kickbacks—hero status, minus the body count.
* Has a face that could launch a thousand #MeToo tweets, and the polls to match.
* Desperately needs a consultant who isn't afraid to call him an asshole.
"I'm not doing men right now," I deadpan, because it's easier than saying what I really think: that the name Blackwood makes my hands sweat, that his war-chief's charisma is exactly the sort of thing I vowed to avoid when I defected from academia to politics.
Sam is ready for this. "You're not doing men. You're interrogating them, weaponizing their flaws, and getting paid triple for the pleasure."
"That's what my mother said about teaching undergraduate ethics."
"I told you, stop quoting your mother. It's giving me hives."
I exhale, letting the cold air do its job. "Is this serious, or just a morbid social experiment?"
"Serious as an ulcer," Sam says, voice flattening into her boardroom mode. "Blackwood's campaign is a reality show with the ratings of a public hanging. He's chewing through staff at record pace. The only reason they haven't called you themselves is because they think you're—"
I finish the sentence: "Too idealistic, too Asian, too much of a bitch?"
"Too smart to take the gig. Which is why I'm calling first."
I look at my own reflection again, this time through the lens of the Blackwood job. I see myself as a strategic asset, a data-point with an unusually high capacity for self-sabotage. I wonder if this is how predators select their prey—not for weakness, but for the thrill of the fight.
"Can I at least Google his recent disasters before I sign away my soul?"
"You're not going to Google. You're going to talk to him. Tomorrow at noon. I may have already accepted the calendar invite on your behalf."
I slide the door shut and flop onto the suite's overstuffed couch, letting the blazer ride up to expose my knees. My laptop is open, notifications blooming in the lower right corner—a dozen offers to comment on tonight's debate, six requests for an 'expert' op-ed, one passive-aggressive note from my ex-chair about how 'the academy would welcome your return.' I mark all as unread.
The TV behind me flickers with footage from tonight's afterparty, then cuts to a breaking-news crawl: INVESTIGATOR FOUND DEAD IN GARAGE. I lean closer, recognizing the name of the whistleblower who'd handed Blackwood his last victory. The anchors speculate with the giddy urgency of people who know blood draws ratings.
I think about secrets again, about what it costs to keep or reveal them. I think about my own: why I left the university, how it still clings to me like the smell of burnt coffee in the staff lounge.
"Chen? You still there?" Sam's voice is softer now, like she's afraid of what I might say.
I put the glasses back on. They're crooked; the left arm has never sat right since I dropped them in a garbage can during a bar fight two years ago. "Yeah, I'm here. Just enjoying my last few hours of unemployment."
"You're never unemployed. You're between disasters."
I almost smile. "How's your ulcer?"
"Pulsating. And I swear to god, if you don't take this, I will do it myself and tank the campaign out of spite."
"Tempting."
"Don't be an asshole, Chen. That's Blackwood's thing."
The call ends, but I stare at my phone for a minute. I want to call her back and ask if I'm really that predictable, or if it just makes her feel better to think so. Instead, I open my laptop and begin the rituals: three background checks, one deep-dive into Blackwood's social footprint, two burner X accounts to monitor the public's mood in real time.
I skip the op-eds and go straight to the comment sections—always a more honest thermometer of the body politic. They're as expected: a tangle of hate, lust, schadenfreude, and just enough sincerity to keep the lights on.
By two a.m., I have a working hypothesis: Blackwood's not afraid of losing. He's afraid of being irrelevant. The rest is detail.
I wash my face, brush my teeth, and arrange my clothes for the meeting the next day. I pretend not to notice my hands are shaking, or that my heart beats double-time when I see his photo again—eyes like cold mercury, smile like a trapdoor.
Just before I turn off the lamp, I pause in front of the window. The city is still awake, streetlights bleeding out into fog, my own reflection layered over it all. I practice a smile, the kind I'll wear tomorrow, and it looks both foreign and perfectly fitted to my face.
In the end, it's not about integrity or ambition. It's about inertia, and maybe, if I'm honest, the thrill of walking back into the fire after swearing I'd never get burned again.
I close the laptop. For a second, the glass is just a mirror: woman, city, storm. Then it's black, and I let the darkness settle over me like a promise.
Tomorrow, the world will come calling. Tonight, I dream of nothing at all.
Chapter 1: The Professor
They call it the war room because it smells like napalm and Red Bull, and because every morning someone finds a fresh casualty: a collapsed intern, a coffee-soaked pollster, the shredded remains of last night's messaging memo. I step in and all eyes swing my way, a silent census of who's still standing after last night's bloodletting.
It's eight a.m. and the air already shivers with fluorescent static. Thirty-odd campaign staffers jam into a space meant for fifteen, an organism of bodies and wifi, perspiration and ambition. The walls are lined with whiteboards, half-erased, bleeding slogans and expletives onto the furniture. The centerpiece—a battered conference table—hasn't been visible for weeks, buried beneath laptops, pizza boxes, stress balls, and one solemnly displayed photograph of Blackwood shaking hands with a child who has since, rumor claims, been repurposed as opposition research.
I sidestep a puddle of spilled cold brew and am about to slip into my chair, only to find it occupied by a junior media liaison in full meltdown. Her mascara is surrendering to gravity, and she's tapping at her phone with the frantic conviction of someone hoping to text themselves into a different reality. I tap the table with my knuckles—twice, just enough to cut through the drone.
"Morning, everyone."
Half the heads jerk up. The other half keep working, pretending not to listen, which is how you know they're actually listening harder.
Sam stands at the far end, arms folded, face arranged in a deadpan that borders on comic relief. She gives me a conspiratorial wink—so subtle it could be a facial tic, but I know her tells by now.
I scan the room, cataloging triage priorities:
- Fundraising lead is MIA, probably hiding under a desk or a nervous breakdown.
- Two comms interns are fighting over a printer; the loser will inevitably leak to the press.
- Three separate teams are prepping "exclusive" content for three mutually antagonistic media outlets.
The briefing packet in front of me is already obsolete, but I skim it anyway—ten-point font, bullet points that think they're clever. There's a fresh polling bomb from overnight: Blackwood down two, up in rural, hemorrhaging the youth vote. I make a mental note to source the raw data myself; the campaign's internal stats are about as reliable as a weather forecast written by fortune cookie.
My phone buzzes, a bee in my palm. The screen flashes: "Blackwood HQ. URGENT." I ignore it for now, slide the device facedown beneath a stack of sticky notes, and clear my throat.
"Okay," I say, voice pitched to neutralize panic. "Let's skip the ceremonial self-flagellation and move to action items. Marla, how are we on social tracking?"
A willowy analyst with bloodshot eyes perks up, launches into a breathless summary: trending tags, meme proliferation, an "ironic" TikTok that's actually moving numbers. Her summary is clinical, but the way she clutches her pen is pure triage. I nod, jot a quick note—her bullet points are the only ones worth keeping.
"Comms?" I volley next.
There's a tremor as the entire row of comms staff braces for impact. Their director, a man with the physique of a harried raccoon, sifts through a stack of media hits, looking for the page that won't embarrass him. "Uh, we've lined up spots on all the morning shows. Messaging is… holding. There's some pushback on Senator Sterling's last debate comment, but we're—"
"Is it true," I interrupt, "that she called her opponent, our candidate, a 'malfunctioning android with mommy issues' on live TV?"
He winces, but rallies. "Technically, she was misquoted. She said 'malfunctioning android with a deep-seated need for maternal validation.'"
The room laughs, a brittle collective exhale. Even in war, you need your morale officers.
I let the noise subside, then shift gears. "Rapid response team—how are we doing on the whistleblower story?"
This is the real crisis: a dead investigator, the press already circling like vultures with degrees in narrative construction. The team lead answers with a PowerPoint slide that pops onto the main screen: a spiderweb of names and affiliations, already outdated by the time it loads. She's mapped every plausible connection between the victim and Blackwood, down to distant Facebook friends. I half-admire the paranoia, half-despair at how little it will matter in the spin cycle.
I scribble "follow up—fact-check rumors—find a human angle" on my legal pad. I also doodle a small, angry cat in the margin. The habit persists from my grad school days, when taking notes was the only way to keep my hands from betraying my nerves.
As the team races through agenda items, I tune in and out, catching the underlying rhythm: panic, improvise, reassure, repeat. My own anxiety hums along with the fluorescent lights, but I project what the moment needs—a wall of unshakeable calm, punctuated by sarcasm and the occasional dead-eyed stare.
Halfway through a heated debate over ad buys, I sense a ripple in the room. All at once, everyone is looking at me, waiting for my ruling on the existential question of whether to double down on attack ads or pivot to "unity" messaging. I steal a glance at the untouched coffee on my desk—black, acidic, possibly still hot after two hours. I don't touch it. I don't need the chemical chaos right now.
"Go negative," I say, loud enough to kill further argument. "But not desperate. We want memorable, not meme-able. Three rounds of review before anything airs, and for god's sake, run it through legal first."
A flurry of nods, a flurry of activity. The machine revs back up.
My phone, sensing an opening, vibrates again: "Blackwood HQ. URGENT." I silence it with a practiced tap. If he wants to reach me, he can come through the front door like everyone else.
Sam approaches at a lull, sets a folder on the table with the gentle menace of someone placing a loaded weapon. "Debate prep for tonight," she says, sotto voce. "Plus a fresh batch of opposition research. You'll want to flag page five."
I thumb through. Page five is a grainy screenshot from a closed message board: a string of lurid accusations, some so inventive I briefly admire the author's dedication to disinformation. I underline the only plausible line of attack and slide the folder back, careful to avoid smudging the print with my thumb.
"Thanks," I say. "You still good for the post-mortem?"
"Only if you're bringing the bourbon this time," Sam deadpans.
I almost smile. "You realize if we win, none of this will have mattered."
"Isn't that the point?" She shrugs. "If we lose, at least we get to blame the system."
The meeting devolves into a kind of organized chaos—people talking over each other, laptops open, phones glued to ears. I rise, stretch my back, and take inventory: the panic has receded, replaced by a low-grade, sustainable mania. Order has been imposed, if only temporarily.
On my way out, I pass the junior media liaison still parked in my chair. She's composing a tweet with the intensity of a surgeon threading a needle. I resist the urge to edit her copy—old habits die hard, but I'm trying to let the next generation fail on their own terms.
In the hallway, I finally check my phone. There are four missed calls and two texts, all from the same number. The second text is just an address, followed by a time: 11:30 sharp. No subject line, no context, no signature. The style is unmistakable—direct, efficient, borderline rude. I don't have to read between the lines to know it's Blackwood himself.
I run a hand through my hair, feeling the static cling, the faint residue of last night's whiskey and existential dread. I glance down at my outfit: the same "disaster academic chic" as always, though I've upgraded my blazer with a discreet lapel pin—my own small rebellion against campaign dress code. I straighten the collar, retuck the shirt, and head for the stairwell.
As I leave the war room behind, the noise recedes, replaced by the quieter pulse of anticipation. I'm about to walk into a room with a man who could end my career, my reputation, or both.
And, despite myself, I'm looking forward to it.
The senior aide finds me in the stairwell, mid-bite of a protein bar that tastes like compressed regret. She's new—too tall for the campaign's average, with the haunted look of a woman who's just realized she left something burning in the microwave. "Dr. Chen? He'll see you now."
She doesn't specify who. She doesn't need to.
We navigate a gauntlet of glass doors, through a corridor engineered to humiliate anyone caught in the wrong reflection. The decor is white-on-black, interrupted by an occasional blood-red campaign poster, Blackwood's face cut into a smile designed by focus group. There's no nameplate on the door; the space beyond radiates proprietary importance. The aide gestures, then peels off, leaving me alone in the outer sanctum.
The interior is deliberately unremarkable: a conference table the size of a surgical platform, chairs so ergonomic they border on masochism, one wall reserved for a live stream of cable news. I recognize the intent—to strip away comfort and distraction, to bare the space for the work at hand. I approve, on principle, but still file it under 'psychological theater.'
I barely have time to gather my thoughts before the inner door swings open.
He enters as if the room were constructed around him, and maybe it was. Alexander Blackwood: cheekbones that could slice paper, jaw tight enough to crack walnuts, lips that rest in a natural pout even when expressionless. His charcoal suit strains slightly at the shoulders, betraying the lean muscle beneath. When he moves, it's with the casual grace of a predator who's never needed to rush. His eyes, on approach, change from cold assessment to something molten—pupils dilating just enough that I catch myself wondering if it's for the light or for me.
He closes the distance, hand outstretched. "Dr. Chen," he says, savoring the syllables, "I'm told you're the best in the business, unless you're the one auditing the business."
I take his hand, which is both warm and firm, and allow myself exactly two seconds to analyze the grip before disengaging. "I audit everything," I reply, "especially compliments. They're the currency most subject to inflation."
He releases a controlled laugh, something just shy of genuine amusement. "I like that." He gestures toward the table, waits for me to sit before lowering himself into the opposite chair. It's a power move—let the opponent choose their seat, then own the space anyway. I respond by removing my glasses, cleaning the lenses, and affixing them with calculated slowness. The first move in any duel is to set your own rhythm.
We observe a mutual silence, punctuated only by the low drone of talking heads from the TV.
He breaks first. "I read your resignation letter," he says. "The real one. Not the sanitized version you sent your dean."
The only outward sign of my surprise is a blink, half a heartbeat slower than the rest. "I assume you've also read my student evaluations. They're more entertaining, if less accurate."
He smiles—a narrow, ambiguous thing. "They say you taught political psychology as blood sport."
"Only to those who thought the syllabus was optional."
Another silence, but it's warmer now. He shifts in his seat, leans forward just enough to suggest confidence rather than aggression.
"I need someone who can win ugly," he says. "Not for the campaign. For the aftermath."
I weigh my options: play coy, or play along. My curiosity wins. "The aftermath?"
He steeples his fingers, looks past me for a moment, then back. "The easy part is winning the vote. The hard part is surviving what comes after. They're lining up already—old money, new enemies, the ones who don't care about rules as much as outcomes. If I play this straight, they'll have me out within a year. Or worse: co-opted so thoroughly I'll forget why I started."
It's the most candid speech I've ever heard from a man in his position, which means either he's telling the truth or he's rehearsed the lie to the point of religion.
"And you want my help because…?" I leave the question unfinished, let the ellipsis do the work.
"Because you're not loyal to anyone. Not the party, not the donors, not even to me. You're loyal to the logic of the game." He leans in, voice low and surgical. "You want to see how far you can push it before it breaks."
I'm not sure whether to be insulted or flattered. Instead, I laugh—a small, sharp sound that hangs in the air like a thrown knife. "You make it sound so pathological."
"Call it what you like. I need a pathology that's not afraid to bite its own hand."
We move through the next minutes in rapid exchanges—parrying over polling strategies, social engineering, the fine art of making enemies look like volunteers. He probes for my limits, I feint and counter, both of us enjoying the friction more than the content. At some point, he rises to pour coffee, black and unsweetened, and returns without asking if I want any. It's an insult and a compliment in one: he knows I don't need it.
The conversation circles back to the current crisis. He leans closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper that forces me to incline toward him. His cologne—something expensive with notes of cedar—fills the narrowing space between us. "The whistleblower's death creates an opportunity," he says, fingers tracing invisible strategy lines on the table, occasionally brushing mine. Each contact sends electricity up my arm. His plan unfolds with seductive precision: weaponize the scandal against our opponents, then reclaim the moral high ground while they tear each other apart. When he looks up, catching my gaze, his mercury eyes hold mine with such intensity I nearly forget to breathe. "Classic negative sum," I murmur. "Everyone bleeds, but we're the only ones who brought bandages."
I raise an eyebrow. "So the ends justify the means, as long as you're the one keeping the ledger?"
He lifts his mug, sips. "Everyone keeps a ledger. Some just hire better accountants."
It's so perfectly on-brand I have to suppress a grin. Instead, I lean forward, matching his posture. "If I take this on, I have full autonomy. No interference. And I don't take orders—only advisories."
He regards me over the rim of his cup, the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. "You drive the ship. I decide the destination."
I consider, and for the first time since entering the room, I feel a pulse of genuine excitement. This is what I missed: the chess, the brinkmanship, the thrill of knowing that a single word, well-placed, could topple a titan.
He sets his mug down. The sound is deliberate, final.
"Good," he says. "My chief of staff will send you what you need. First crisis call is in fifteen. Until then, enjoy the view."
He stands, and for a moment, I think he might say something personal. Instead, he collects his phone, scrolls through a barrage of notifications, and walks out without a backward glance. The door closes, silent as a confession.
I sit there for another minute, running through the conversation in forensic detail, looking for the flaw, the trick, the move I might have missed. My hands are steady. My pulse, less so.
On my way back to the war room, I catch my reflection in the glass. My dark hair falls in waves I've always considered too wild for politics but secretly love. The glasses frame eyes that look kinder than they feel—deep brown with flecks that catch the light when I'm intrigued. My lips, fuller than I acknowledge, rest in their habitual skeptical curve. I allow myself a moment of tenderness for this body that carries my ambitions, noting how my blouse clings just enough to remind me I'm not only mind, but flesh that hungers too.
The staffers are already at work, the campaign organism eating itself alive as usual. Sam is waiting by my desk, expression expectant. "So? Was he everything you hoped for?"
I weigh my answer, then offer a smile with more teeth than warmth. "He's worse," I say. "Which means he's perfect."
Sam laughs, then passes me a fresh briefing packet. I crack it open, already strategizing, already addicted to the next move.
This is how it starts. Not with a bang or a ballot, but a single, simple calculation: how far am I willing to go, and will I know when to stop?
I suspect the answer is no. And that's what makes it so much fun.
Continue the complete story on Kindle, releasing 10/22/25