EARTH. SECURITY BUREAU HEADQUARTERS. CAMILLA'S OFFICE
On Earth, deep inside the fortified heart of the Security Bureau Complex, past glass walls armored with dynamic shielding and corridors lit in muted, clinical hues, Nicholas steps into Camilla's office with practiced certainty.
His footsteps echo like a low pulse, each one landing on polished black quartz as if he were walking not through a hallway—but along the edge of a precipice.
He carries a tablet. A report. But it's just a prop.
He knows Camilla prefers words spoken aloud.
To speak is to command.
To decide is to shape reality.
She sits behind a massive desk of reinforced steel and blackwood, her silhouette still as a monolith. Behind her: a panoramic screen displays Earth from orbit—clouds gliding silently across oceans lit gold by the sun.
The scene appears serene. But the air hums—charged, like the moment before a storm sinks into your bones.
She doesn't flinch.
Not a twitch.
But he knows: beneath the calm, calculation coils—cold, carnivorous.
Nicholas steps forward. He feels her gaze, like static from a live wire.
He's burned in that light before.
"Reviewing the case... and the motives of the diplomat who carried out the killing," he begins, voice steady but taut, "led nowhere."
The word killing hangs in the air like frost.
"We interrogated the suspect. He couldn't explain it. Said it came over him like a surge—sudden, uncontrollable, unnatural hatred. Scientists ran full diagnostics—neuroscans, molecular sampling, tox screens. No disorders. No psychotropics."
He pauses. The air thickens.
What is she thinking?
He imagines her counting his breaths.
Measuring... fitness.
Camilla's face does not change. Her silence presses like a vacuum.
He resists the urge to speak faster. Barely.
His fingers tighten around the tablet until the casing creaks.
"This wasn't random, Camilla. It wasn't coincidence. I'm convinced Mars orchestrated it. But how?"
His voice carries the edge of a challenge. A flare of the hunter in pursuit, sensing his prey falter.
She studies him.
"We'll find the answer, Nicholas," she says at last, her voice low—yet layered with a threat as quiet as a blade sliding from leather. "This isn't over."
She already knows her next move.
But I don't know—am I her pawn, or her queen?
"Who made contact with the diplomat before the killing?" Her voice sharpens, chills.
Nicholas steps closer. Her gaze is a scanner—piercing neural layers.
"At first, it looked routine," he says carefully. "The diplomat attended the gladiator games at Central Stadium. Footage analysis shows that during the event, three androids approached him."
Camilla raises a brow.
Her eyes sharpen—calculating algorithms of suspicion.
"Three?" Her tone is pure ice.
"If androids got that close, either security allowed it—or they were distracted. Was this part of the diplomat's plan?"
"That's just it—no." Nicholas shakes his head. "One of the androids—Ivan—provoked a scene in the VIP sector. Aggressive. It pulled the guards away. He was neutralized by Martian agents. The other two escaped. They tried to intercept, but they vanished."
Camilla rises.
Slowly. Precisely.
A motion that isn't movement—it's announcement.
"Who were they?" Her voice is lower now. The air pulses faster.
Nicholas activates his tablet. A face materializes in the air—emerging from lines, shadows, and fragments like something remembered from a half-lost dream.
"The woman used a false name—Marina," he says.
"But that was a mask. Her real name is Julia. Earth-born. Former owner of a neural engineering firm specializing in chip extraction and cognitive unbinding."
Camilla doesn't blink.
"There was a man with her," Nicholas continues. "An engineer named Alex. Took time to uncover his identity—they erased their trail so thoroughly it doesn't look like flight. It looks like an operation."
There it is—the fracture.
The vulnerable seam.
"Find them," Camilla says without raising her voice.
She turns toward the panoramic screen.
The sun has vanished beyond the curve of the planet.
Earth is drenched in the bruised crimson of orbital dusk.
Her silhouette is commanding.
Unyielding.
A storm, waiting to be named.
The world doesn't yet know that war has begun.
But she does.
And she will not let chaos dictate terms.
She will direct it.
Camilla doesn't move. Her gaze is fixed, yet distant—as if she isn't looking at the world, but through it. Through events. Through time.
"Where are they now?" Her voice is cold. Inevitable.
"According to our intel," Nicholas answers, "they're hiding in the Sky City. Martian agents arrived, launched a raid—but failed. The engineer and his companion vanished. We're monitoring the networks, running covert scans. No hits yet, but the search continues."
They're not just fugitives, he thinks.
They're phantoms.
No footprints. No shadows.
Camilla turns slowly. Behind her, auroras begin to ripple across the orbital sky—lightwaves wrapping her in the halo of an impersonal storm.
When she speaks, her voice seems to rise from deep beneath the floor.
"This smells like a calculated provocation. The Outer Belt's been waiting for a spark—and now they have one. Mars has declared war on Mercury, and blood's already spilled. The truth hides somewhere among the runaways. Those two… they're not just witnesses. They're the threat. And the key. We have to find them before the Martians do."
Nicholas nods. Her words strike down his spine like a command line. He wants to be faster than the enemy. He wants to be first.
"Understood. I'll double the task force. We'll get to them first."
Camilla doesn't turn. But her voice slices back—sharper, more exact:
"No unnecessary force. Arrest them. Strip out the emotions. Make it clean. Precise."
A beat.
Then—something faint darkens her tone:
"And keep the weapons supply to Mercury flowing through our black channels. Everything secure on that front?"
"Fully. Routes are encrypted, signals steady. But—there's one more thing. Ivor is coming back to Earth."
A flicker. Her brow rises—first sign of interest all day.
"Good. Let him come. I imagine he has something to say."
Camilla glances at her watch. A flash of tension crosses her face—she's already late.
**
PRESS CONFERENCE
THUNDER BENEATH THE DOME OF TRUTH
A vast chamber drowned in light.
Cameras flare.
Drones hum.
Journalists buzz like flocks of hawks—hungry for a target.
At the semicircular table: guards, aides, sensors.
At the center—Camilla.
Unmoving.
Like the warhead of a dormant missile.
On the surrounding screens: breaking headlines race past like fire.
MARS DECLARES WAR ON MERCURY
ANDROID UPRISING?
DIPLOMAT MURDERED: WHAT IS EARTH HIDING?
Camilla lifts her head. The lights make her face smooth, almost too smooth—emotionless, flawless. And yet—
"It is with deep regret," she begins, sharp, clipped. But the usual steel is absent.
Only cold weight remains.
"—that I confirm: Mars has formally declared war on Mercury."
Silence.
The air itself holds its breath.
Cameras capture everything: the flicker of her eyelids, the tightness in her fingers, the ghost of doubt flitting across her lips.
"Earth maintains its neutrality," she continues. Each word lands like a bullet. "We will uphold order, peace, and legal continuity within the Inner Belt."
A forest of hands shoots up.
She points to a man in gray.
His voice trembles with outrage.
"How could this happen? This is a catastrophic failure of security!"
She waits. Not from fear.
From hunted control.
Let them howl. Let them burn themselves out.
"The investigation is ongoing. We are pursuing the truth. I ask that you refrain from assumptions and avoid panic. That, most likely, is exactly what the provocateurs intended."
But calm does not return.
Her words strike sparks.
Another journalist stands without permission—armband red, face flushed.
"For the first time in our civilization's history," he shouts, "we're seeing open war between humans and machines! And you're planning to just sit back and observe?!"
A ripple of electricity rolls through the room.
Androids among the press straighten.
Subtle shifts in posture.
They've sensed a threat.
Camilla feels it.
Even through her armor of poise.
A cold, foreign knot inside—not fear, but recognition.
The board has been overturned.
Someone is playing off the grid.
"This question lies outside my jurisdiction," she says flatly. "This press conference is over."
She stands.
Each step away from the table is measured. Clean.
She doesn't look back.
Cameras follow her silhouette—rigid, resolute, receding into shadow.
Reporters cry out.
Questions rise in static waves.
Security moves fast.
And still…
With every step she takes, something scratches within her.
Cracks form.
Not on the surface—but beneath.
For the first time, she's not in control.
Which means someone…
has already started playing without rules.