C6

The glass walls of the Moretti Command Center overlooked the Kingdom of Leonas, a sprawling grid of neon and steel that breathed at my command. But inside my own skull, the rhythm was off.

A low-frequency hum vibrated in my marrow—the "Nero" identity, my core instinct, was scratching at the door again. It was becoming harder to keep the machine separate from the man.

"Hand over the credentials, Russo," I said, my voice grating like stones on metal. "You’re looking far too eager to attend a high-society funeral for common sense."

Dom didn't flinch. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the reddish-brown of his hair caught in the city’s glow as he tapped the Voss invitation against his palm. "Am I that transparent, Zane? Or are you just getting better at reading the board?"

"You're predictable," I countered, leaning back. The leather of my chair creaked—a human sound in a room full of digital silence. "You’re obsessed with finding a permanent partner. You think a 'match' is the cure for your chaotic energy."

"I'm not the only one who needs an anchor," Dom said, his playful mask slipping. He stepped into the light, his gaze sharpening. "You’re twenty-five. You have a mandate. The Empire needs an heir to solidify the bloodline, and you need a frequency match before you go completely off the rails."

I felt the Nero pulse—a surge of cold, sociopathic rage—at the mention of my volatility. My jaw tightened until it ached. "I’m aware of my obligations. Why do you think I tolerate Natalia?"

Dom let out a long, weary sigh. "Because she’s safe. And because your Nero identity barely notices she’s in the room. You’re settling for a strategic alliance because you're afraid that if you actually look for your equal, you’ll find a mirror for your own shadow instead."

"Time isn't a luxury, Dom," I hissed. The monitors on my desk flickered, reacting to the spike in my bio-metrics. "Every fiscal year, the identity gets more aggressive. If I don't find a woman who can stabilize my psychological profile soon, I’ll lose my humanity to the code. I’ll become a ghost in my own shell."

Dom’s expression hardened. He knew the stakes. If I flatlined into a permanent state of rage, the Moretti line ended in a bloodbath.

"Just this once, Zane," he muttered, holding the card just out of my reach. "Go to this gala. It’s the last time you’ll operate as a free agent before you sign your life away to a marriage contract with a woman you don't even like."

I weighed the tactical advantage. My Nero side was restless; it wanted a hunt. I held out my hand. "If I go, we drop the interrogation regarding Natalia. She serves her purpose."

"A temporary ceasefire," Dom quipped, finally relinquishing the heavy, gold-embossed card.

I scanned the script. "Seraphina Voss," I read, the name tasting like cheap sugar. "Give me the intelligence."

"Mid-cap Syndicate," Dom said, shifting back into professional mode. "Competent borders, decent tech patents, but zero vision for global expansion. They follow the rules because they’re afraid of the people who write them."

"And the girl?"

Dom gave a short, dry laugh. "A spoiled corporate princess. The internal memos are... colorful. Rumors of 'disciplinary methods' involving the lower staff. Borderline abuse, but the Voss family has enough hush-money to keep the courtrooms empty."

I raised an eyebrow. "And you’re suggesting I walk into this snake pit?"

"At least go for the scenery," Dom pleaded, leaning against the obsidian desk. "I’ve been in this command center for months. I’m desperate for a drink and a change of pace. There isn't a woman in this Empire who still finds me charming."

"What you really mean," I said, standing up and adjusting the line of my suit, "is that you’ve burned every bridge in the city and need a fresh crop of associates to annoy."

"That too," he admitted, entirely unabashed.

I looked back at the city. My Nero identity hummed, a predator catching a faint, distant scent on the wind. It wasn't interested in a "princess." It was looking for the ghost I’d heard about—the one patching the Voss encryption.

"Prepare the motorcade," I ordered. "We’ll see what the Voss family is hiding behind all that gold leaf."