Chapter 10 – Sylvara
It’s been two days since Kieran dragged me bleeding into that safehouse. My thigh’s stitched tight now, healing clean, and the bruises on my ribs have faded to a dull ache. I’m back in my apartment above the dive bar, early evening light spilling weak through the blinds.
The room sits tense, cluttered with chaos. A green desk lamp throws sharp shadows across the walls, half-lighting the mess of papers and tech strewn over the table.
Wires twist like veins, some soldered fresh, others frayed. The air smells of burnt metal and suspicion, thick and stinging. I sit at the desk, alone, fingers itching.
Outside, humid heat presses against the windows. A thunderstorm grumbles over the Strip, low and restless, matching the storm brewing in my chest.
I hold the burner phone I lifted from Kieran’s jacket. He was out cold that night, sprawled on the safehouse floor, and I’d slipped it free. Now it’s mine to crack.
My hands move fast, precise, tearing it apart like it’s a live grenade. Maybe it is. I pop the casing, exposing its guts—circuitry glinting under the lamp.
Tools scatter around me—screwdrivers, pliers, a chipped mug half-full of cold coffee. My thigh twinges as I shift, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
I pry out the battery, then the SIM tray. Nothing obvious yet. My fingers dig deeper, peeling back layers, hunting for what’s hidden.
Then I find it. A tiny chip, embedded slick in the board. Not a standard tracker—too sophisticated, too quiet. I grab my loupe, leaning in close.
The casing’s clean. Too clean. But the code etched inside? That’s Veyra—no question. I know their patterns. Their encryption signatures are like fingerprints, and this one’s practically shouting in cursive. It’s not just a tracker—that part’s obvious. Standard locator ping, silent but steady. But there’s something else. A buried protocol. Nested deep, almost elegant—like a scalpel hiding inside a switchblade.
It’s a comms feed. A backdoor into Veyra’s internal channels. Not just watching me—this thing is listening to them. Which means whoever put it here doesn’t just want to track me... they want intel from the inside. They want to ghost through conversations, listen in on orders, maybe even reroute messages. That’s not a hitman’s tool. That’s a power play.
Rizzi’s cartel wouldn’t need this. They’d send another thug with a pipe and a warning. And the old guard? Veyra doesn’t plant bugs on their own people unless they’re ready to bury them. No—this is someone threading the needle. Someone who knows how close I am to cracking Rizzi’s ledger and wants to either get ahead of me—or set me up.
There’s only one person who fits.
Gia.
She’s the only one with the access, the motive, and the ego to pull this off. The comms signature matches her uncle’s encryption schema—old school Veyra but modified, dirtied up, cloaked just enough to suggest plausible deniability. And that burner Kieran’s been carrying? She gave it to him.
She knew I’d find it. She wanted me to. This isn’t just surveillance—it’s psychological warfare. She’s saying: “I see you. I’m always watching. And if I can plant this, I can plant doubt in your head too.”
Well done, Gia. You’ve got my attention. But now I’ve got yours too.
I plug the chip into a reader, fingers flying over keys. Lines of data scroll fast, green text on black. I backtrace the signal, narrowing it down.
Recent ping. Two hours ago. Triangulated near the casino district—Rizzi’s turf. My pulse spikes, loud in my ears like gunfire echoing down a memory. I sit back slowly, like moving too fast might trigger something worse. Something I can’t undo.
He said we were alone.
He promised no one was watching. That we were off-grid, ghosts working in the cracks between their networks. But this—this—is a live signal. Fresh. Close. And the device didn’t just track me... it whispered through the Veyra comms system the whole time.
He lied.
Whether by omission or design, Kieran let this ride in my pocket like a loaded gun. And now it’s pointed straight at my spine. Was it carelessness? Or did he think I wouldn’t notice? Maybe he thought I wouldn’t question him—not after everything. Not after the alley. The touch. The kiss.
The weight in my chest isn’t just betrayal. It’s shame. I let myself believe him. Let myself feel safe in the space we carved out of fire and blood. And now?
Now I’m just another mark who trusted the wrong hand.
I don’t need more proof. The code, the ping, the burn in my gut—it all lines up. Gia’s name is carved into every byte of that backdoor. But Kieran brought the phone into my world. And he didn’t warn me. That silence is louder than any confession.
We weren’t alone. We were never alone. And now the mask I let slip? It’s coming back up—fast, steel, locked in place.
I slam the laptop shut, chair scraping as I stand. My gun’s on the shelf, matte black and loaded. I grab it, checking the clip.
It snaps back with a click, solid in my hand. I set it beside the phone on the desk, barrel pointing at nothing. Yet.
Gia’s watching Rizzi—I’d bet my life on it. But she’s watching us too. Me. Kieran. Every move, every breath.
My mind spins, a tangle of wires and fire. Was this always the plan? Keep me close, keep me blind? I pace, boots thudding on warped wood.
The lamp flickers, shadows jumping. Papers crunch under my feet.
I stop, staring at the phone’s guts. Two days ago, he stitched me up, held me steady.
I flex my hands, forcing the tremble out. My side aches where the bruises linger, but I’m past that. Healing fast, like always.
The girl I was at fourteen claws up inside me. She trusted no one, survived on scraps and instinct. That girl kept me alive.
This one—softened by Kieran, by his promises—might not. I shove the thought down, hard. No room for it now.
I sit again. The phone’s chip sits there, mocking me. Veyra-coded, Gia’s fingerprints all over it.
Did he know? My head throbs, questions piling up. I grab a soldering iron, twirling it between my fingers.
The heat’s off, but I feel it anyway—anger burning low, ready to flare. I set it down, picking up the chip instead.
I roll it in my palm, small and cold. It’s a key to their world, and I’ve got it now. But it’s also a blade, pointed back at me.
Thunder rumbles closer, shaking the glass. Humid air seeps in, sticking to my skin. I wipe my brow, eyes on the desk.
Papers scatter—blueprints of Rizzi’s routes, server logs I cracked last week. All of it feels tainted now, shadowed by this.
I lean back, chair creaking loud. My thigh protests, stitches pulling, but I ignore it.
Kieran’s face flashes in my head—those steady eyes, that promise. “We’re close,” he said. Close to what? Betrayal?
If he lied about this, what else is he hiding? The question gnaws, bitter and relentless. Do I even want the answer?
I’ve got her signal now. I can turn it back, track her moves. My fingers itch to start, to flip this on her.
But Kieran—he’s the wildcard.
I stand again, pacing to the window. The blinds rattle as I peek out. Vegas glitters below, neon cutting through the haze.
The bar’s quiet tonight, no drunks shouting up. Just the distant growl of thunder, rolling in like a warning.
I turn back, eyes on the gun. It’s loaded, ready. I’m not running—not from Gia, not from him.
I sit at the desk again, chair groaning. The chip glints under the lamp, a tiny bomb I’ve defused. For now.
I grab a pen, scribbling the ping’s coordinates on a scrap. Casino district—Rizzi’s backyard. Gia’s circling tight.
She’s got eyes on him, on us. My jaw tightens, teeth grinding. I drop the pen, fingers curling into a fist.
The storm’s closer, thunder rattling the walls. I set the gun down, barrel aimed at the door. Waiting.
Gia’s out there. Rizzi too. And Kieran—wherever he is, he’s got answers I need. Answers I’ll take, one way or another.
The door creaks open, a slow whine like it’s spilling guilt into the room. Kieran steps in, boots tracking mud across the floorboards. His shirt sticks to him, drenched, and a bruise spreads dark across his jaw.
Sweat and gunpowder cling to him, a sour tang that hits me hard. His eyes find me in the half-light, cutting through the green glow of the desk lamp.
I don’t move. Don’t blink. My hands stay rooted to the table, fingers digging into the edge. The fridge hums low, a faint pulse in the quiet.
I snatch the burner phone—its innards still exposed—and throw it down. It slams onto the table, skidding with a sharp clatter, breaking the stillness.
“Tell me what this is,” I say, voice like a knife’s edge. “Before I put a bullet through your skull.”
His jaw locks tight, not hiding, but bracing. He stands there, mud dripping, water pooling at his feet, eyes holding mine steady.
“I deserve that,” he says, voice soft but clear. He takes a breath, deep and slow. “Gia’s not just watching Rizzi.”
I wait, arms crossing tight over my chest. My nails bite into my skin, leaving sharp little marks. He steps forward, boots leaving wet prints.
“She’s building her own empire on his bones,” he says, voice dropping. “Side ops. Off-books. Personal. And lethal.”
My fists clench harder, rage boiling up fast. “She’s not sanctioned?” I ask, words clipped, sharp enough to cut.
“Not by Dante,” he says, shaking his head slow. “Not by anyone with a chain of command. She’s playing god with knives no one sees coming.”
I stare at him, breath catching in my throat. The lamp flickers once, shadows dancing across his face—bruised, worn, unyielding.
“And you?” I snap, stepping closer. My thigh twinges, stitches pulling tight, but I push through it. “Where do you stand in this?”
He doesn’t look away, doesn’t falter. “I’ve been watching her. Reporting to Veyra. Feeding bits of data.”
His words hit like stones, sinking heavy in my gut. I take another step, boots loud on the warped wood. “Tracking shadows while you used my work to draw the snakes out.”
My voice wavers, just a crack. He nods, slow and deliberate, owning it. “You used me,” I say, spitting it like venom. “Like everyone else.”
“I played everyone,” he says, voice calm but firm. “Until you.”
Those four words stop me cold. My blood freezes, locked in place. I hate how much I want them to be true, hate the pull they have.
My chest tightens, not with fury now, but something softer—risky. I step closer still, close enough to smell the rain and grit on him.
“You think confession changes anything?” I ask, voice low and biting. My hands twitch, itching for the gun, but I hold back.
“No,” he says, raw and simple. “But it’s all I’ve got.”
We stand there, locked in the dark. The fridge hums on, a thin thread beneath our breathing—loud, uneven, filling the room.
I don’t budge. Neither does he. The air grows thick, heavy with truth we can’t un-say, with fire we can’t snuff out.
My eyes trace his face—mud-streaked, bruised, open in a way I haven’t seen. Two days ago, he patched me up, kept me alive. Now this.
The phone sits between us, cracked wide, its secrets laid bare. Veyra code, Gia’s game, his deception—all knotted in that tiny chip.
Thunder rolls outside, rattling the windows hard. Humid heat seeps through the cracks, sticking to my skin, fueling my anger.
I break the quiet first. “We finish this,” I say, voice like steel. “Then we disappear. Together.”
He nods, a slow tilt of his head. “Or not at all,” he adds, locking eyes with me, sealing it.
We’re not allies. Not lovers. Not enemies. We’re something else—forged in fire, betrayal, and the wreckage of what’s left.
The lamp steadies, green light pooling on the table. Papers scatter around us—maps, logs, plans I built, now shadowed by this truth.
My fists unclench, palms stinging where my nails dug in. I step back, boots scraping, giving us room but not breaking the thread.
He stays put, hands hanging loose. Mud drips from his boots, pooling dark, marking where he stands in this mess.
I turn, grabbing the gun from the desk. It’s cold, heavy, real in my hand. I check the clip again, fingers steady now.
“You fed her my work,” I say, not facing him. “Every step I took, she tracked.”
“Not all of it,” he says, voice low. “Just enough to keep her chasing.”
I spin back, gun still in hand. “Chasing what? Me? You? Rizzi?”
“All of us,” he says, stepping closer. “She’s greedy. Wants the whole damn game.”
My laugh comes out rough, scraping my throat raw. “And you handed her the pieces.”
He doesn’t argue, just watches me. The bruise on his jaw darkens, spreading under the lamp’s glow. “I kept you out of the worst,” he says.
“Did you?” I ask, voice climbing. “Or did you just keep me in the dark?”
His jaw shifts, but he stays quiet. The fridge hums louder, or maybe it’s my blood, rushing hot in my ears.
I set the gun down, barrel aimed at the wall. My hands tremble once, then settle. “You should’ve told me,” I say, low and hard.
“Would you have listened?” he asks, voice steady. “Or would you have walked?”
I don’t answer. Can’t. Two days ago, I leaned on him, trusted him. Now I’m picking through the rubble of that.
The room closes in, walls tight with clutter—tech, wires, the phone’s guts—a map of how far I’ve fallen.
Thunder cracks again, sharp and close. Rain picks up, drumming the glass, a steady beat against the storm inside me.
I sit, chair creaking under my weight. “She’s got her empire,” I say, eyes on the table. “What’s ours?”
He steps to the desk, leaning on it. “We’ve got Rizzi on the ropes,” he says. “One push, and he’s finished.”
“And Gia?” I ask, head tilting. “She’s not just watching anymore.”
“She’s next,” he says, voice hardening. “After Rizzi, we turn it on her.”
I nod, slow and deliberate. “Together,” I say, testing it out. It feels heavy, real, fragile all at once.
“Or not at all,” he repeats, locking it in place. His hand rests near the phone, mud-streaked fingers still.
We’re not what we were. Not partners, not strangers. We’re carved out of this—fire, lies, and whatever’s left standing.
The lamp glows steady, green light washing the mess. My gun sits ready, a promise I’ll keep if it comes to it.
I look at him, really see him—bruised, soaked, standing there like he’s got no more cards to play. Maybe he doesn’t.
My chest aches, not with rage now, but something deeper, sharper. I hate it, hate him, hate how much I need this to hold.
He meets my gaze, unflinching. Rain pounds harder, a roar outside. We’re bound now, tied tight by this moment.
I grab the phone’s chip, rolling it between my fingers. “We finish this,” I say again, voice firm. “Then we’re gone.”
He nods, a single sharp motion. “Or not at all,” he says, sealing the pact.
We’re not allies. Not lovers. Not enemies. We’re bound by fire, betrayal, and the knowledge that we have nothing left but each other—and whatever reckoning waits next.