After Damien Left
The room was hushed, the dim morning light spilling in through half-drawn curtains. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was heavy, like air pressed between glass panes.
Nyra had fallen asleep. Not in a bed, but slumped over a small table by the window, cheek resting against her forearm, the faintest shiver trailing her fingers. Exhaustion had claimed her without permission, her defenses crumbling under the weight of sleepless nights and merciless truths.
Beside her, the diary lay open, blank pages fluttering softly as if breathing with her.
That's when the door opened.
Zayden stepped in quietly, his steps practiced, almost soundless. Sharp, meticulous, eyes scanning the scene with the kind of calculation reserved for high-stakes games. He wasn't alone.
Leaning against the frame, arms crossed, stood a woman—mid-thirties, sharp-eyed, poised in a tailored black suit. Her lips curved into a small, knowing smile as she followed Zayden's gaze toward the sleeping figure.
"So, do you really think she's innocent?" Zayden asked, voice low but laced with meaning. "Or is she just another player with a prettier mask?"
The woman's smile didn't waver. "She seems like a lost child, doesn't she? Fragile. Unaware. But you and I both know appearances lie. A cornered animal looks harmless too… until it's not."
Zayden's jaw flexed, but his expression remained composed. "Nolan's secretary came by Damien's office this morning. Snooping. Pretending to ask routine questions. But it was clear what they wanted to know."
"And what was the question of the day?" she asked, tilting her head.
"Where was she last seen? Conveniently, their concern was only about her 'wellbeing'." Zayden's lips curved into a humorless smirk. "But we both know Nolan doesn't send his people unless he smells blood in the water."
The woman straightened from the doorframe, stepping further into the room. Her eyes flicked to Nyra. "Did Damien say anything?"
"He told them exactly what they wanted to hear. That she was here. That she was under his 'protection'." The sarcasm in his tone was razor-sharp. "But make no mistake, they didn't leave satisfied. They're probing. Slowly. Carefully."
The woman chuckled softly. "Of course. For a man like Nolan, losing control is a personal insult. And if Nyra—" she paused, correcting herself, "—if Elara is seen as a loose end, it's only a matter of time before he stops sending secretaries and starts sending bullets."
Zayden glanced back at Nyra, watching the subtle rise and fall of her breath. "The question is… when the storm hits, will she break apart—or will she become useful?"
"She has potential," the woman admitted. "But potential without loyalty is a double-edged sword. If she still thinks with her heart, she's a liability. If Damien can cut that out of her… maybe she becomes an asset."
Zayden's gaze sharpened. "And if she can't be shaped?"
The woman's answer was simple. Cold. "Then she becomes a message."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the faint rustle of paper as the diary's pages shifted under a soft morning breeze.
"Keep your eyes on her," Zayden said, turning towards the door. "Not just during training. Watch what she writes. Who she stares at. When she thinks no one's looking."
The woman nodded. "Always do."
As Zayden stepped out, the woman lingered. She moved closer to the table, studying the sleeping girl. The innocence was there—palpable, almost tragic. But so was the crack beneath it.
"I wonder," she murmured to herself, brushing a stray hair from Nyra's face. "What will it take to turn you into a monster?"
With that, she followed Zayden out, the door clicking shut softly behind her.
As the two of them stepped out of the room, the corridor outside felt colder—more sterile. The woman's heels clicked sharply against the marble, but Zayden's steps were a quiet contrast, measured, deliberate.
He paused, turning slightly toward her.
"Stay with her," he instructed, his voice carrying authority without raising in volume. "When she wakes up, tell her to get ready. Damien wants her to meet someone."
The woman arched a brow, an amused glint in her eyes. "Babysitting, Zayden? That's not usually my task."
"This isn't babysitting," he corrected. "It's sharpening a blade. Whether she cuts herself or someone else—that's up to her." His lips twitched, not quite a smile. "You'll know how to handle it."
The woman gave a faint nod, her expression unreadable as she watched him walk away. Then, with a sigh of someone resigned to duty, she re-entered the room.
Later
Nyra stirred.
The fog of sleep clung to her like chains, heavy and reluctant. Her neck ached from the awkward position against the table, her body sore from exhaustion. But it wasn't the discomfort that snapped her fully awake—it was the weight of an unfamiliar presence.
Her lashes fluttered open.
Across the table, a woman sat. Poised, composed, one leg crossed over the other with predatory elegance. She wasn't staring at Nyra, not directly. Instead, her attention was on a newspaper she held, flipping through it slowly as if she owned the space.
The aura was impossible to ignore. Dominating. Sharp-edged.
Nyra's body tensed, heart skipping. For a second, she questioned if she was still dreaming.
"Good. You're awake." The woman's voice was smooth, clipped, with a faint rasp of authority that didn't need to shout. She folded the newspaper deliberately, the crisp sound loud in the otherwise quiet room. "I was starting to think you'd waste my entire morning."
Their eyes met.
There was no warmth in the woman's gaze. Only appraisal. Cold, clinical. As if Nyra were nothing more than an object to be inspected.
"Who… are you?" Nyra asked, her throat dry.
The woman smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Names are irrelevant for now. You can call me whatever helps you sleep at night. But if you must know—I'm here because Damien wants you to meet someone."
Nyra's stomach twisted at the mention of his name. She pushed herself upright, wiping the sleep from her face, trying to gather what little composure she had left.
"Meet who?" she asked warily.
"That's above my paygrade to answer." The woman uncrossed her legs slowly, standing up with the grace of a blade being unsheathed. "But here's what you should understand: this is not a request. Get up. Get yourself presentable. The clock's ticking."
Her words left no room for argument.
Nyra's fingers curled into fists beneath the table, but she nodded. There was no other choice.
As she stood, the woman's lips curved into a razor-thin smile.
"Good girl. You're learning."
Without another word, she stepped aside, giving Nyra the path toward the bathroom.
But her eyes followed every step. Calculating. Waiting.