They mapped out distribution like surgeons planning cuts. Bits to pressmen, bits to unions, bits to clergy, bits to exiles who would scream into the net. Each piece designed to hurt a different tendon in the body of power. Each meant someone somewhere would lose safety. The first blow landed two nights later. A convoy seized accounts. A public official resigned under a cloud of denials and contradictions. The word "probe" appeared in papers and carried the smell of unexpected hope. People who had once slept through council scandals woke to shout. And then a child’s market closed because the family had been frightened by threats in the night. The ledger had opened a wound; men who lived upstairs in clean suits could not see the infection sliding down. Cain sat on a roof alone after that, watching smoke curl from a distant food stall. He thought of Peter and Declan and Nero and every name that had been strung through the city like beads. He thought of the ledger as both a weapon and a mirror. Below, the city continued to breathe. Above, the sea waited. Between them, men and women with bad habits and good intentions readied for the next part of the work. He had opened a throat. Now he had to make sure the hand that closed it belonged to no one who would choke the city to death. They would not stop. Not now. Not while anything remained worth exposing. The rain started before dawn, thin at first, then thick enough to wash the ash from the rooftops. Cain stood by the edge of the half-collapsed building, eyes following the gray horizon where the towers vanished into fog. The city looked half-dead, half-breathing—like it was deciding whether to wake or rot. Behind him, the others moved in silence. Roselle cleaned her weapon, again and again, the same ritual rhythm that meant she was thinking of killing or dying. Steve sat cross-legged near the dying generator, running diagnostics on what remained of the Grid fragments they had stolen. Susan’s cough had worsened—each fit sounded like a blade scraping down her throat—but she refused to rest. Hunter, as usual, said nothing, only stared at the faint blue pulse of the data drive like it contained the last heartbeat of the world. Cain finally spoke. "How many nodes remain?" Steve didn’t look up. "Three, maybe four. The council locked most of the east net. I can’t reach it without burning every relay we’ve got left." "So we move," Roselle said. Her tone made it sound like a prayer. "We take the next node before they shift their firewall." Hunter stepped forward, his coat soaked from the rain. "No. We’ve done enough for one week. They’re bleeding, but they’re hunting now. The council won’t make another mistake." Roselle laughed, bitter and sharp. "You think this city stops bleeding just because the killers need rest?" He glared. "You think I’m afraid of the fight?" Cain cut in before it could spiral. "We’ve already started a war none of us can end cleanly. We need precision, not noise." Susan smirked weakly from where she sat. "That’s what all madmen say before they level a city." Cain ignored her. His eyes were on the skyline, where distant drones drifted between towers like lazy vultures. "Daelmont’s not dead yet. The council will eat one of their own before admitting loss. And when they do, we need to be there to light the pyre." Hunter clenched his fists. "You’re talking about assassination." "I’m talking about consequence," Cain said flatly. Silence. The rain hammered harder, filling the gaps between their words. Steve closed his device, the faint whir of it fading into the storm. "If we take another target, we’ll lose half our backup routes. They’re tightening surveillance across the southern blocks. The moment we transmit another file, they’ll trace it." Roselle’s eyes gleamed under the dull light. "Then we don’t transmit. We deliver." Hunter turned toward her. "In person? You’ll be dead before you reach the central hub." "Maybe," she said. "But maybe not." Susan grinned faintly. "I like those odds." Cain finally turned to Steve. "Can you ghost her from the system long enough to reach the hub?" Steve hesitated. "I can try. I’ll need something big—something that’ll pull their attention." Cain looked toward the east, where the storm cracked white fire against the towers. His mind was already running ahead. "We burn the Grid’s failsafe. Force the council to guard the wrong wound." Roselle raised a brow. "You want to bait them with their own security protocol?" He nodded. "Exactly." Hunter exhaled through his nose. "You’ll draw their entire task force." "That’s the point," Cain said. "They can’t protect both." Newest update provıded by 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝⟡𝕗𝗂𝗋𝖾⟡𝕟𝕖𝕥 The plan was simple in theory, impossible in practice. Cain would lead a false strike on the eastern failsafe—a decoy meant to trigger the council’s defensive swarm. Roselle would infiltrate the central hub with Steve’s ghost signature while Susan and Hunter covered her exit. If it worked, they’d have full access to the Grid’s central control, the last piece holding the council’s surveillance power together. If it failed, none of them would see daylight again. Roselle looked at Cain, her expression unreadable. "If I die in there, make sure my name doesn’t end up in one of your damn ledgers." Cain almost smiled. "You’re assuming I’d bother writing it." Susan barked out a laugh that turned into another cough. Steve rolled his eyes. "You’re both lunatics." "Correct," Cain said, drawing his blade. "But we’re the only lunatics left who still give a damn." By nightfall, they were ready. The storm had turned the city into a maze of slick metal and drowned lights. Cain moved through the lower levels like a shadow carved from rain, his decoy signal bouncing between old relays. Every few minutes, the static hum of drones passed overhead, searching. His comm crackled faintly—Steve’s voice, tight and strained. "They’re biting. You’ve got six drones on your tail and at least one armored squad moving east." "Good," Cain replied. "Keep them chasing." Static. Then Hunter’s voice: "Roselle’s inside." Cain could almost see it—the hub’s core chamber, a nest of glass and steel, data conduits glowing like veins of lightning. Roselle would be moving fast, pistol in hand, cutting through the guards who hadn’t been diverted. Her breathing steady, her pulse cold.