The war room was carved in angles—sharp edges and colder truths. No windows, no excess—only the solemn hum of high-frequency strategy monitors and the steady pulse of empire-critical data. Here, light served no comfort. It illuminated consequence.
Aldrin entered first. His presence, though silent, shifted the gravity of the room. Behind him, Marek walked with measured steps—his tactical coat still damp from the city's breath. In contrast, already seated and framed by low ambient light was the man known only to a few as the Left Hand of the Crown.
Ainsworth.
Where Aldrin ruled with presence, Ainsworth wielded space itself. He didn't command the room; he redefined it. Dressed in tailored midnight gray, sleeves slightly rolled, one boot rested casually over the other knee. A tablet glowed in his hand, suspended mid-air as he flipped through lines of code, surveillance footage, and predictive combat models. He didn't look up. He didn't need to.
"You're late," Ainsworth said, calm as a whisper between the ticks of a clock.
Marek cracked a smile. "We were doing recon. Chairman needed air."
Ainsworth finally looked up, eyes like precision-forged steel. "The kind of air that glances too long at new recruits?"
Aldrin raised a brow, but didn't respond. Instead, he moved toward the head of the obsidian table—his table—where thirteen seats fanned in a crescent around the glowing projection of a divided city.
Only twelve were filled.
One remained empty.
A chair carved in darker material than the others. A throne of silence. Its curve was subtle, its placement precise—right of Aldrin's own. No dust gathered on its leather. No one so much as glanced at it. Yet its presence demanded reverence.
Aldrin's fingers hovered over the projection, his voice even.
"Dimitrius Renfield's syndicate has pulled three ghost towns into his net. Minor families are pledging loyalty. He's not just moving. He's absorbing."
Ainsworth flicked his hand, causing the map to ripple. "His eastern flank is brittle. They're greedy, not loyal. Cut their supply line, and they'll sell him out."
Marek nodded. "Our ghost teams can intercept. But... something else."
He tossed a dossier onto the table. It slid effortlessly, stopping before Aldrin.
Ainsworth narrowed his eyes. "Those are Renfield's new players. Not in the city's registry. Off-grid. No digital echo."
Aldrin's jaw tightened. "Outsiders."
"Worse," Ainsworth murmured. "Professionals. They've been bought, and they have no moral compass. This isn't territorial. It's personal."
The room fell still.
Marek crossed his arms, glancing at the vacant seat without turning his head. "She would've had a theory by now."
A moment's silence followed. Heavy. Respected. Not mourned—but acknowledged.
Ainsworth's voice dropped an octave, reverent and sharp. "She always saw three steps ahead. The board still tries to move as if she's not missing—but the Crown knows better."
Aldrin didn't respond. Instead, he tapped the projection. "Then we step five ahead. Position our players, tighten the circle."
The crown didn't waver.
The empty seat didn't whisper.
But the war had begun.
And everyone at the table knew—when she returned, if she returned—nothing would be the same.
The meeting dissolved into motion.
Not in chaos—but in calculated purpose. The kind of silence that follows a thunderclap and precedes the reckoning. Aldrin stood without flourish, his expression unreadable as he moved toward the adjoining chamber. The door hissed open with biometric approval, revealing a room that resembled more of an armory than an office extension.
Marek and Ainsworth followed behind, steps in sync though their energies opposed—one composed of street-forged grit, the other wrapped in cerebral precision.
At the center of the room stood a modular suit—tactile matte armor, embedded tech veins, and a reinforced coat that bore the muted crest of the Crown. It was sleek, shadow-dark, and utterly devoid of ornament.
Aldrin began suiting up in silence. Gauntlets first—carbon weave, magnetically sealed. Then chestplate—light but layered in impact-responsive fibers. Ainsworth flicked a wrist, activating a holographic HUD that synced with Aldrin's neural interface.
"Vitals: optimal," Ainsworth murmured. "Cognitive load at manageable thresholds. Just don't get poetic mid-strike."
Aldrin smirked faintly. "That's your job."
Marek tossed him a weapon—an obsidian shortblade etched with old sigils and smartsteel. "Wouldn't be a council without the blade, huh?"
"Feels wrong without it," Aldrin said, sheathing it over his shoulder. "This isn't just posturing anymore. Renfield made his play. Time to answer."
Ainsworth leaned against the counter, arms folded. "We let him believe he's ahead. That he's figured us out. Meanwhile, we place pressure points around his alliances. Whisper rumors of betrayal. Leak controlled intel. Create doubt."
Aldrin's gaze was distant for a moment, then sharp again. "We make his own people chew at his spine."
Marek nodded, slipping into his own gear. Unlike Aldrin's, his armor bore marks of prior fights—scars that told their own history. He checked his sidearm. "And if any of those mercs rear their heads in our zones?"
Aldrin's tone turned quiet, lethal. "Make examples."
They moved in fluid harmony. Warriors in suits—not for ceremony, but survival. Empire forged by blood and bound by will.
As they made for the corridor toward the underground transport vault, Ainsworth slowed his pace beside Aldrin.
"There's talk in the circles," he said, voice low. "Your name. And hers. The intern."
Aldrin didn't respond at first.
"Irrelevant," he finally said. "For now."
"She looks at you the way people look at storms," Ainsworth said, stepping away just as the elevator doors opened. "In awe. And afraid of being caught in it."
The three entered the transport, surrounded by muted steel, lit only by the soft glow of strategy interfaces and surveillance feeds lining the walls.
As the chamber descended beneath the city, Aldrin adjusted the glove over his wrist and looked ahead—not at the tactical data—but at the black steel doors that would open when they reached the underground hangar.
"You know your positions," he said. "I don't want survivors."
Marek smirked. "You never do."
"And Ainsworth…" Aldrin added, eyes still forward.
"Yes, Chairman?"
"Keep the board quiet. Feed them results. If they ask for blood, show them profit."
The descent stopped.
The doors hissed open.
And there, in the dim, the war machines waited.
Sleek. Silent. Ready.
So were they.
Because the war wasn't coming.
It had already begun.