Chapter 6
Callum
The screen flickers once, then snaps into crisp clarity.
There she is. Seraphina bloody Vex, floatin’ round her penthouse like the whole world owes her nothin’.
Moves like she hasn’t a care, like every breath she takes is hers alone to give—or not.
Barefoot across polished floors, silk pajamas hangin’ off her like sin dressed casual.
Hair all half-up, half-fallen, a mess that still looks deliberate. No tether. No lens.
Should piss me off. Does, too. Just not for the reasons it should.
She wanders into the kitchen, fills a pot with water.
Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t measure. Flicks the burner on with a lazy little twist of her wrist. Walks off.
Comes back once it’s boiling. Chucks in a fistful of dry spaghetti like she’s not countin’ on a schedule.
Music kicks on—slow, soft, no lyrics—and she starts choppin’ garlic like she’s got nowhere else to be.
I watch her drizzle in the oil, toss in the garlic, sauté like a feckin’ chef. Plates it all pretty, carries it off like she’s in some boutique bistro instead of preppin’ to poke around classified Blackdawn files.
She settles into her study, folds herself cross-legged in that bloody chair, pasta bowl in one hand, the other reaching for a notebook—real paper. Real feckin’ pen. The secure tablet just sits there, untouched, cold.
I narrow my eyes. What’re you playin’ at, love?
She scribbles fast, shorthand and odd little marks, things she clearly understands but most wouldn’t. Fork twirls, foot bounces. Her eyes don’t leave the page. She’s locked in. Like she’s chasin’ down ghosts no one else even knows exist.
And me? I’m watchin’ every second of it. Feckin’ hooked.
I’m meant to be methodical. Meant to watch, to wait, act only when needed.
That’s how I stay sharp. That’s how I stay alive.
But her? Seraphina bloody Vex, makin’ pasta in silk pajamas and writin’ state-level secrets on analog paper like it’s a grocery list?
That’s what splinters me right down the centre.
Maybe it’s the quiet defiance. Maybe it’s the way she stirs up danger without ever lookin’ like she’s braced for impact. I don’t know. All I do know? I’m not watchin’ her because I was ordered to. I’m watchin’ her because I can’t stop .
She leans forward now, brow furrowed. Re-reads somethin’ she just scribbled, then underlines it twice. I zoom in on the feed. Caught bits of it:
crosscheck facility rotation old transport access = redacted connection: K.R. (?)
Kellen Raye. Shite.
She’s gettin’ close. Too close.
It’s in the notes, the timestamps, the mirrored files she’s accessed. She’s triangulatin’ Facility E. And she’s startin’ to sniff out who’s pullin’ strings behind it.
My grip tightens round the stylus—nearly snap it, truth be told—but I force myself to ease off. Already broke one today.
She doesn’t know what she’s doin’. Not really.
She doesn’t know what Kellen Raye is . What he’s done. What he ruins .
If she steps into his world— She’s not walkin’ back out the same.
She finishes her meal, slides the empty bowl aside. Her eyes flick toward the tablet, but she doesn’t touch it. Just closes her notebook and leans back, one heel tucked on the edge of the seat. Silk and shadow and all kinds of feckin’ trouble.
“Don’t go to him,” I mutter. Low. She can’t hear me. Course she can’t. But I’m not sayin’ it for the mission anymore.
I’m sayin’ it because I want her to come to me instead.
I key in a command. The feed shifts. Angles change.
Decision’s already made. Didn’t wait for an order. Didn’t need one.
If she walks into Kellen Raye’s orbit— I’ll drag her out myself.