CHAPTER 4: THE FRACTURE IN THE FOUNDATION
The scent of jasmine was a poison. It didn't belong in the Cinder-Box. It didn't belong in a room that smelled of rust, wet concrete, and the cheap copper of a portable heater. It was too sweet, too clean, and it screamed of a past they had all agreed to bury.
Orissa sat on the floor, the polished cedar box resting in her lap like a live grenade. She hadn't moved since she closed the lid. Across the room, Ivy was hunched over her laptop, her glasses reflecting a waterfall of green code as she ran a localized "ghost sweep" of the apartment's perimeter.
"Nothing," Ivy muttered, her voice sharp with frustration. "No physical trackers. No active infrared pings. No audio bugs in the vents. O, unless he's got a satellite focused specifically on this zip code, he shouldn't have known we were here."
Beatrix, who had been pacing the small square of the kitchen, stopped. She looked at the wooden box in Orissa's lap, then up at Orissa's pale face.
"He didn't need a satellite, Ivy," Beatrix said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, low register. "He didn't follow the car. He followed her."
Orissa's grip tightened on the box. "What is that supposed to mean, Bea?"
"It means we've spent ten years building a fortress around our identities, but you left a back door wide open," Beatrix snapped. She walked over, towering over Orissa. "That flower. That box. That's not a threat, Orissa. That's a conversation. He's talking to you, and he's doing it over our heads."
"He found a property that belonged to my father," Orissa countered, finally looking up. Her brown eyes were hard, but there was a flicker of something guilt, or perhaps memory that she couldn't quite hide. "He's been cataloging our families' assets for a decade. He predicted I'd come here. It's logic, not... whatever you're implying."
"Logic doesn't explain how a courier dropped that off five minutes after we arrived," Ivy chimed in, turning her chair around. Her expression was uncharacteristically grim. "O, we're a team. The 'Vow of Poverty' means we don't have secrets from each other. But you didn't tell us he spoke to you at the Gala."
"He didn't speak to me!" Orissa stood up, the box sliding off her lap and hitting the floor with a hollow thud. "He was on the mezzanine. I was on the floor. We didn't exchange a single word."
"Then why did he call you Orissa in that note?" Beatrix stepped closer, her eyes narrowed. "Why does the King of Oakhaven know the name of a girl who supposedly died in a fire ten years ago? Unless... you never really stopped being his 'little ghost.'"
The air in the room turned brittle. The bond between the three of them the only thing that had kept them alive in the shadows of the world cracked.
"I haven't seen Sam Lutanza since the night they dragged my father away in chains," Orissa hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of rage and heartbreak. "I hate him more than you do, Bea. You lost a lifestyle. Ivy lost a future. I lost everything. I lost the person I thought he was."
"Then prove it," Beatrix challenged. "Throw the flower away. Burn the note. And tell us exactly how we're going to hit the Summit without you freezing the next time he looks at you."
Orissa looked at the jasmine flower lying on the floor. The white petals were already beginning to bruise in the stale air of the Cinder-Box. She wanted to stomp on it. She wanted to grind it into the floorboards until the scent was gone. But her hand moved to the pocket of her hoodie, where the note was tucked away.
"The Cinder-Box is drafty... see you at the Summit."
"We don't hit the Summit yet," Orissa said, her voice regaining its icy professional edge. "If we go now, we're walking into his home on his terms. We need to remind him that we aren't the children he remembers. Ivy, find out who Sam's lead architect is for the new data center. If he's tracking us through the city's infrastructure, we're going to take the city away from him."
The Oakhaven Records Office – 10:00 AM
Detective Elias Miller didn't care about jasmine flowers or teenage heartbreaks. He cared about paper.
He sat in a windowless room in the basement of the city archives, surrounded by boxes of charred files from the Lutanza Lab fire. His eyes were bloodshot, his tie loosened. On the table in front of him was a high-school yearbook from ten years ago.
He turned the page to the 'S' section.
Sam Lutanza: President of the Science Club. Most Likely to Succeed.
Next to him was a girl with chestnut hair and a smile that looked like it could light up the entire city.
Orissa Thorne: Honor Society. Most Likely to Change the World.
Miller traced the girl's face with his thumb. He looked at the grainy security still of the "Isabella Vane" woman from the Gala. The jawline was the same. The way she held her shoulders like she was carrying the weight of the sky was identical.
"Sir?" A young officer entered, holding a tablet. "We tracked the silver coin's composition. It's not standard silver. It's a high-purity alloy, identical to the ones used in the laboratory equipment at the old Thorne-Lutanza facility."
Miller didn't look up. "They're using their fathers' stolen silver to brand their victims. It's poetic. It's also a trail."
"There's more," the officer continued. "We checked the survivor list again. There were three girls who went missing from the foster system six months after the fire. Orissa Thorne, Beatrix Rossi, and Ivy Vance. They didn't just run away, sir. They vanished. No school records, no medical visits, no digital footprint for a decade."
Miller finally stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. "They didn't vanish. They were forged. They've been training, waiting for the right moment to come back and reclaim what was taken."
"Should we bring Sam Lutanza in for questioning? He was close with the Thorne girl."
Miller laughed, a dry, bitter sound. "Question Sam Lutanza? In this city? He owns the air we breathe, kid. No, we don't talk to Sam. We watch him. If Orissa Thorne is alive, she isn't going to the police. She's going for him. And when she makes her move, we'll be the ones holding the handcuffs for both of them."
The Cinder-Box – Nightfall
The tension in the apartment had settled into a cold, professional silence. Ivy was back at her screens, her face pale but determined. Beatrix was cleaning her sidearm, the click-clack of the metal the only sound in the room.
Orissa stood by the window, looking out at the distant, glowing spire of the Lutanza Tower. She felt the weight of the note in her pocket.
Sam wasn't just a target anymore. He was a gravity well, pulling her back into a version of herself she had tried to kill. He knew her weakness he knew she was sentimental. The jasmine, the box... he was trying to soften her before the final blow.
"I found him," Ivy said suddenly, breaking the silence. "The architect. His name is Lukeyour uncle, Ivy. Sam kept him on the payroll after the fire. He's the one who designed the security grid for the entire city."
Ivy's voice cracked on the word uncle.
Orissa turned, her eyes flashing. "Then that's our move. We don't go to the Summit as guests. We go as the ghosts of the people he betrayed. We're going to pay your uncle a visit, Ivy. And we're going to find out exactly how Sam is watching us."
Beatrix stood up, holstering her weapon. "And what about the note, Orissa? What about the 'invitation'?"
Orissa reached into her pocket, pulled out the cream-colored card, and held it over the glowing coil of the space heater. She watched as the heat curled the edges, the elegant handwriting turning black and crumbling into ash.
"The invitation is declined," Orissa said, her voice like iron. "If Sam wants to see me, he's going to have to find me in the dark. And in the dark, everyone looks like a victim."
But as she watched the ash fall to the floor, she couldn't help but wonder: If he knew where the Cinder-Box was, does he already know we're coming for the architect?