It came together in under an hour.

  The intelligence wasn’t airtight. No one truly believed this warehouse was the beating heart of Devil’s Den. But the A.A.A.P needed something they could point to—

  Results.

  After New York, after the panic, the fractures spreading faster than anyone could tape them shut, every branch above ground needed to look like it still had control. And Devil’s Den—innocent or not—was the perfect enemy to put on a poster.

  So when an address hit the board, even a flimsy one, the machine moved.

  Orders got signed without the usual chains of approval. Briefings were shortened into bullet points. Assets that normally wouldn’t be deployed together suddenly were. The U.S. Army wanted bodies on the ground to prove stability. The E.R.O wanted containment to prove competence. And the A.A.A.P wanted blood to prove dominance.

  The warehouse itself wasn’t expected to hold anything high-tier.

  No high-grade Veythari. No reality-shattering artifacts hidden in vaults. Just a forward base. A low-level storage point.

  A convenient target.

  But convenient didn’t mean pointless.

  Because if Devil’s Den operatives were inside, they’d be rounded up. Identified. Dragged into processing. Broken apart in interviews and cell blocks until names spilled out and networks mapped themselves. Whatever they carried—whatever small notes, call signs, minor relics, or coded data they held—would be seized and cataloged.

  And then the message would be sent.

  Not just to Devil’s Den.

  To everyone.

  They were making examples.

  Even if the target was small. Even if it was empty. Even if the real players were nowhere near it.

  The point wasn’t what they’d find.

  The point was showing the world that someone was still holding the leash—and that anyone caught in the wrong place at the wrong time was about to learn what happened when the leash got yanked.

  ———

  “Jessie! Come on already!” Daniel shouted up the stairs.

  “Daniel, if you don’t shut up!” Jessie yelled back from the bathroom, her voice bouncing off the tile.

  Another voice called up. “He’s not wrong! You’re taking forever!”

  “I’m making sure my hair stays!” Jessie snapped, leaning closer to the mirror. “You guys wouldn’t understand. And Kanye—you don’t even have hair!”

  Downstairs, both boys burst out laughing, the sound of it echoing up through the hallway.

  Jessie sighed, shaking her head as she stared at her reflection.

  She was short—barely brushing five feet—with warm tan skin that looked sun-kissed even in bathroom lighting. Mixed, white and Asian, with soft features that made her look younger than she actually was until she narrowed her eyes like don’t test me. Her brown hair was thick and slightly wavy, and right now she was fighting it like it was a living thing with its own attitude.

  Tonight mattered.

  Not just because it was a party.

  Because parties meant footage.

  Footage meant views.

  Views meant people finally recognizing her as more than “that funny girl who posts sometimes.”

  She adjusted the style again, twisting her hair into a half-up space buns look—two small buns high on either side of her head, with the rest left down in loose waves. Clean, trendy, and cute in a way that worked on camera from every angle.

  Jessie tilted her chin, checking the symmetry. Then she pulled two face-framing strands loose on purpose and smirked.

  Perfect.

  Her phone sat propped on the counter, front camera recording her. She tapped the screen, fixing her lip gloss and practicing her smile.

  Her heart was thumping with that pre-party buzz. That mix of nerves and excitement, like she was five seconds away from the best night of her life.

  Five minutes later she stepped out of the bathroom and into the hallway.

  The walls were painted a warm tan that made the space feel cozy even at night, and the wooden floors creaked just enough to remind you the house had history. Framed family photos lined the wall—Daniel’s relatives at graduations, birthday parties, awkward holiday group shots. Between them were random 80s album covers in cheap frames, like someone’s dad had decided nostalgia was a personality trait and committed to it fully.

  Jessie padded down the stairs, already feeling that excited buzz in her chest.

  At the front door, Kanye and Daniel were waiting like she was late for deployment.

  Daniel wore a clean Nike Tech Fleece hoodie and jogger set, the kind that looked casual but still screamed I paid attention to what I bought. He was a decent-size Latino dude with rough black hair that never stayed neat no matter how hard he tried, and a face that always looked like he had something to complain about even when he was having fun.

  Kanye stood next to him, hands in his pockets, relaxed.

  He was mixed too—Asian like Jessie, but with a Swedish mom, which gave him lighter features that made people underestimate him until he opened his mouth. He wore a hoodie that read DEFY THE ODDS across the chest and matching joggers, finished with designer sneakers so clean they looked like they’d never touched a sidewalk.

  His head was shaved completely, giving him this accidental gangster vibe.

  Which was hilarious, because Kanye was the furthest thing from that.

  Daniel looked Jessie up and down and scoffed. “If you had to take a shit, you could’ve warned us.”

  Jessie gasped. “Daniel!”

  Kanye shook his head like he was disappointed in humanity. “Girls don’t shit.”

  Daniel stared at him. “Bro… we been through—”

  “Come on,” Kanye cut in, peeking out the window. “The Uber’s almost here.”

  Daniel’s eyes narrowed. “You gave the address,” he snapped. “That was the one rule it said—”

  “I got us two blocks away,” Kanye replied instantly. “Relax.”

  They stepped outside, the cool air hitting Jessie’s skin, and as they walked down the front path the headlights of an approaching car turned the street gold.

  Kanye watched it pull up and asked bluntly, “You sure this isn’t a human trafficking trap?”

  Jessie rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Of course it isn’t, dummy!”

  Kanye shrugged. “Just saying. With Cali and New York… plus the odd way the government been acting, maybe—”

  “No theories tonight,” Daniel cut in, firm. “Not tonight.”

  Jessie smiled anyway, stepping toward the curb as the Uber slowed. “Besides,” she said, glancing between them, “that’s why I brought you guys.”

  They looked at her.

  “You guys are gonna keep me safe.”

  They looked at each other.

  Jessie’s smile faded just a little. “Oh… you won’t?”

  “We gotta discuss payment,” they said at the exact same time.

  Jessie groaned. “I hate both of you.”

  They rode in silence.

  Well—verbal silence.

  All three of them were texting like their thumbs were in a race, screens lighting up their faces in the dim backseat glow. The car smelled faintly like pine air freshener and someone else’s cologne.

  Jessie kept her phone angled down, pretending she wasn’t watching the timer in the corner of her screen like it was a countdown to her future.

  Her channel had started to grow.

  Four months ago she’d posted her first real vlog with shaky confidence and too many jump cuts. Now she was sitting at around 3,000 followers—not huge, not viral, but real. Enough attention to get comments from strangers. Enough to have people recognize her username in live chats. Enough to get a couple DMs from small influencers asking to collab.

  And collabs were already lined up.

  But she needed something bigger.

  Not just another “fun night out” video.

  She needed a moment. A push. Something that made people click and stay—a stable community, not just random views.

  This party was that.

  It had been sent out through a handful of emails, mentioned in Discord channels, whispered across group chats and weird invite-only corners of the internet. You were allowed to bring two people and the hype around it was insane.

  It wasn’t truly hidden.

  But it was hidden enough.

  And if Jessie was one of the few influencers who actually got in? If she documented it? If she played it right?

  Her place in social media would be secure.

  She could finally stop feeling like she was begging the algorithm for scraps.

  Thirty minutes passed before the Uber slowed and pulled up near an unfamiliar block. The driver pointed ahead like he didn’t want to linger.

  They stepped out into the night.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Kanye stretched like an old man, arms high over his head. “Ughhh… my back.”

  Daniel looked around, eyes scanning the street. “Kinda vacant.”

  “We’re two blocks up,” Kanye said, waving a hand. “Give it a chance, my brotha.”

  “Sure…” Daniel muttered, unconvinced.

  Jessie didn’t even wait for them to finish.

  She was already walking ahead, phone up, camera rolling, voice bright and controlled like she’d practiced it.

  “Okay guys,” she whispered into the lens, excitement bouncing under her words, “we’re almost there. The spot isn’t far from here! This is the one everyone’s been talking about…”

  Jessie spun the camera toward herself as she walked, the streetlights catching her face in soft flashes.

  “Okay—outfit check,” she said excitedly, backing up just enough to get a full-body shot.

  She popped one hip and lifted the phone higher.

  A fitted crop top hugged her frame, paired with a short pleated skirt that bounced with every step. A light jacket sat open over her shoulders like a statement instead of warmth, and her accessories were simple—small hoops, a layered necklace, and nails that matched her gloss. The whole look screamed cute, confident, and I belong wherever I’m walking into.

  She grinned at her reflection on the screen. “Don’t play with me. I ate.”

  Behind her, Daniel and Kanye watched for a second before shaking their heads like disappointed parents.

  “You’re doing the most,” Daniel muttered.

  “Always,” Kanye added.

  Jessie just laughed and kept walking.

  They jogged to catch up, falling into step beside her.

  Jessie turned the camera outward again, speaking like she was already in front of ten thousand people. “Alright y’all, we’re on the way to the party right now. And yes—before you ask—I brought everybody’s favorite duo with me.”

  She swung the camera to Daniel and Kanye.

  Daniel threw up a lazy hand sign. Kanye gave a bored little nod like he didn’t care, which somehow made it funnier.

  “Everyone loves you guys,” Jessie continued, smiling wide. “Like, my views literally spike when you're with me. Especially when it’s both of you.”

  Daniel scoffed. “We should get paid.”

  “We should get royalties,” Kanye agreed.

  Jessie ignored them. They’ve been friends since middle school. So the vibe tonight was gonna be perfect.

  She turned the camera back to herself, eyes bright.

  “Alright. Let’s see if the hype is real.”

  The street they’d been dropped on was half-awake. A few bars glowed farther down the block, music leaking out in muffled bass thumps whenever the doors opened. Cars rolled past slow, headlights sweeping across cracked sidewalks and patched-up pavement. A handful of people moved with purpose—some in groups laughing too loud, some alone with their heads down, hoodies up, hands in pockets like the night might bite them if they looked too friendly.

  A couple girls in heels hurried by, gripping their phones like lifelines. A man pushed a bike with a busted chain, muttering to himself. Two dudes posted up near a corner store, arguing softly while smoke curled into the streetlight.

  It wasn’t dangerous exactly.

  But it wasn’t comforting either.

  Kanye suddenly slowed and pulled out his phone. “I gotta text my mom.”

  Daniel looked at him like he’d just confessed a crime. “Bro… you’re twenty-two.”

  Kanye didn’t even blink. “Yeah. And she likes to know I’m safe.”

  Daniel laughed. “You text your mom every time you leave the house?”

  “I text her when I’m going somewhere weird.”

  “This ain’t weird,” Daniel said, waving at the empty block like it proved his point.

  Kanye held up his screen. “We’re literally walking to a ‘hidden party’ in a warehouse two blocks away. That’s weird.”

  Jessie was already filming, camera angled just enough to catch both of them.

  “Hold on,” she whispered into the lens, grinning, “because they’re arguing again.”

  Daniel leaned closer to Kanye. “You sound like somebody’s auntie.”

  Kanye snapped back, dead serious. “And you sound like someone who ends up missing on the news.”

  Daniel barked a laugh. “That is crazy.”

  Kanye shrugged. “I’m just saying—if I get kidnapped, my mom’s gonna find me first.”

  Jessie covered her mouth, trying not to laugh too loud.

  They reached the next corner and paused, Jessie pulling up the address on her phone. The vibe shifted instantly. She scanned the street numbers, then looked up slowly.

  Right in front of them sat a warehouse.

  Not a club. Not a house. Not even a sketchy little venue trying to pretend it wasn’t sketchy.

  A real warehouse.

  Metal siding. Wide doors. Just a building that looked like it belonged to forklifts and shipments—not influencers and hype.

  Jessie’s smile tightened with excitement.

  Kanye stared at it. “Yeah… texting my mom was the right decision.”

  Daniel swallowed. “Nah. This is definitely a human trafficking trap.”

  Jessie lifted the camera higher, eyes shining. “This is it,” she whispered.

  And suddenly, the night felt a lot bigger.

  “Maybe we should—”

  Before Kanye could finish whatever he was about to suggest, Jessie snapped her fingers and pointed.

  “Look.”

  A small group—maybe six or seven people—were moving toward the side of the warehouse. One girl laughed as she walked, another guy checked his phone like he was following directions, and they all disappeared around the corner of the building.

  Jessie’s eyes lit up.

  “See?” she said triumphantly, already backing away with the camera. “Y’all are just some big babies!”

  “Jessie—” Daniel started.

  But she was already running.

  She took off toward the side of the building, skirt bouncing, phone held steady like she was a professional even while sprinting.

  Daniel cursed under his breath and jogged after her. “You’re gonna get us killed for content!”

  Kanye ran too, shaking his head. “This better be worth it, bro. I swear—”

  Jessie didn’t slow down.

  ———

  “Warum zur H?lle müssen wir diese lahmen Kinder babysitten?” Xila hissed under her breath.

  (Why the fuck do we have to babysit these lame ass kids?)

  “I wouldn’t call them kids,” Recardo replied, voice calm. “Considering they’re about your age. And your not babysitting.”

  “Ach, halt die Klappe,” Xila shot back.

  (Oh, shut the hell up.)

  She leaned harder against the railing, gaze dropping to the lower level of the warehouse where the party churned like a living thing—bodies packed tight, neon lights slicing through haze, music thumping so hard the metal under her boots vibrated with each bass hit.

  Xila looked exactly like trouble drawn into a person.

  Short, choppy blonde hair spilled across her face in uneven layers, covering one eye like she couldn’t be bothered to let the world see all of her. The eye that was visible was sharp and red—half-lidded, bored, and dangerous all at once. She wore an olive military-style jacket with a stiff high collar and gold buttons, the fabric fitted like she’d never tolerated loose clothing in her life. A patch sat on her chest, worn and scuffed with history. Black gloves covered her hands. Her arms were crossed, muscles defined from training that wasn’t for sport. Even standing still, she gave off the kind of presence that made people instinctively step out of her way.

  “It’s what the Den Mother agreed to, Xila,” Recardo continued. “Can’t do much about it.”

  Xila clicked her tongue, eyes narrowing. “Und was ist mit dieser Entscheidung, die mein hitzk?pfiger Cousin getroffen hat, Recardo?”

  (And what about the decision my hotheaded cousin made, Recardo!?)

  Recardo only shrugged.

  Long black hair fell neatly over his shoulders, framing romantic features that might’ve made him look soft—if not for the sharp intent behind them. His dark teal eyes watched the chaos below without urgency, like the party was nothing more than weather. He wore a tailored black suit that didn’t belong in a warehouse full of sweat and bodies, yet somehow made the whole place feel like it had stepped into his territory.

  “If you’re asking whether it’s wise,” Recardo said smoothly, “no.”

  Xila’s visible eye twitched. “Endlich,” she muttered.

  (Finally.)

  “But it is necessary,” Recardo added.

  Xila’s head turned sharply toward him. “Notwendig?”

  (Necessary?)

  Recardo didn’t flinch. “Devil’s Den needed noise. A distraction. Something loud enough to draw eyes away from what actually matters.”

  Xila glanced back down at the dance floor.

  People were laughing. Recording. Drinking. Showing skin. Chasing clout like it was oxygen.

  And somewhere in that mess—three who thought they were walking into the biggest moment of their lives.

  Xila exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. “L?cherlich,” she said.

  (Pathetic.)

  Recardo’s gaze stayed steady. “Pathetic things are useful,” he replied.

  The music surged again, bass shaking the railing.

  Xila’s arms tightened across her chest.

  “Besides,” Recardo added, voice low under the pounding music, “we need other avenues for money. You’d be surprised how many connections you lose when you’re blamed for a city’s fallout.”

  Xila’s jaw tightened.

  “Aber wir waren das nicht,” she snapped.

  (But we didn’t do that.)

  Her red eye narrowed as she looked down at the warehouse floor again—at the sweating bodies, the flashing lights, the influencers filming like nothing in the world could touch them.

  “Und niemand wei?, was Crimline sich dabei gedacht hat,” Xila continued, venom in every syllable.

  (And no one knows what Crimline was thinking.)

  She spat the next words like they tasted foul.

  “Diese dumme Schlampe,” she hissed. “Wenn ich sie nur in die Finger kriegen k?nnte…”

  (That stupid bitch. If I could just get my hands on her…)

  “Relax,” Recardo said, calmly. “Events like this keep us off the grid. It gives us money. Keeps us functioning.”

  Xila scoffed, shoulders rolling as if she could shake the frustration off her skin.

  “Das klingt für mich eher so, als würden wir die ?ffentlichkeit als Schild benutzen,” she muttered.

  (Sounds to me like we’re using the public as a shield.)

  Recardo’s lips twitched.

  Then, unexpectedly, he laughed—soft and brief, like he hadn’t meant to.

  “You’re not wrong,” he admitted.

  Xila’s eye flicked toward him sharply. “Oh?”

  Recardo leaned on the railing beside her, suit unbothered by the grime, tone still smooth. “It’s ugly. But it’s effective.”

  “Gibt’s irgendein Wort über die Ratte… Ashara?” Xila muttered, her voice low and sharp.

  (Any word on the rat Ashara?)

  “Ich h?tte die sein sollen, die hinter ihr hergeht.”

  (I should’ve been the one to go after her.)

  Recardo didn’t look away from the crowd below. “Crimline was more suited for the operation because—”

  “Und wie hat das funktioniert?” Xila cut in immediately.

  (And how did that work out?)

  Her jaw flexed, anger slipping through her composure like a blade.

  “Jetzt haben wir die verdammte Kirche im Nacken,” she continued, voice rising.

  (Now we’ve got the goddamn Church up our ass.)

  “Der Den war noch nie so schwach.”

  (The Den has never been this weak before.)

  “Und ich schw?re—”

  “Please relax.” Recardo’s voice turned stern, cutting through her rant. “You’ll ruin the party. And the host—annoying bastard that he is—helps our cover.” He glanced at her. “And he pays on time. I’d rather not soil the relationship.”

  Xila scoffed. “Eine Basis als Party-Hub zu benutzen ist dumm.”

  (Using a base as a party hub is stupid.)

  “We don’t have much here,” Recardo said simply.

  Xila’s eye narrowed. “Dann warum sind wir hier?”

  (Then why are we here?)

  Recardo finally turned to her fully, expression almost amused. “I thought you, me, Chezzar, and Denten could use a break.”

  Xila stared at him like he’d just told her the sky was green.

  Recardo chuckled softly. “Enjoy the party, Xila.”

  She huffed, crossing her arms tighter. “Das ist so bescheuert.”

  (This is so stupid.)

  A beat passed.

  Then she sighed, and looked at him sideways. “Hast du eine Zigarette?”

  (Do you have a cigarette?)

  “I have a cigar,” Recardo replied.

  Xila held out her hand without another word.

  Recardo reached into his jacket, produced a cigar, and placed it in her palm.

  She didn’t thank him.

  She simply turned and walked past, boots clicking against the metal as she headed toward the roof access.

  Recardo watched her go, eyes calm.

  Xila pushed through the door and disappeared upward—away from the music, away from the crowd, away from the stupidity.

  On the roof, the town stretched out like a glittering circuit board. And far off in the distance, like a scar the world refused to look at too long, New York’s skyline sat broken against the horizon.

  Even from here, it didn’t look real.

  Xila leaned against the railing and exhaled cigar smoke through her nose, eyes narrowed.

  Crimline.

  Of course it had to be ego. Of course she had to swing first, prove something, make herself the center of the damn board. What else could’ve caused this kind of spiral? Now Devil’s Den was cornered, hunted by governments and enemies and—worse—by the Church.

  And her cousin wanted to wait.

  Recardo didn’t agree with Abigail’s decision either, she knew that. But the Den Mother’s word was law.

  That was how the cult stayed together.

  Order. Hierarchy. Fear.

  But maybe it was time to change.

  Xila took another slow puff, letting it burn her lungs, letting the pain calm her.

  If she’d been sent after Ashara, she could’ve done it alone.

  No spectacle. No failure.

  And losing Latch Baby, Crestlock Vale, and Waxjaw?

  Not optimal.

  There weren’t many Veythari in the world. Devil’s Den’s biggest advantage over every other cult, every other organization, wasn’t money or weapons or propaganda.

  It was numbers.

  Veythari numbers.

  And ranks.

  Most of their people were A-rank. A rare thing in a world where most got to B-rank and stopped.

  Xila leaned forward, resting her forearms on the rail, staring at the town like she might strangle it.

  Life was changing too fast.

  And she hated being on the back end of it.

  After this, she’d look for Ashara herself. Not ask. Not wait for a directive. And she’d talk to her cousin about making moves.

  Because staying still was a death trap.

  The roof access door burst open.

  Chezzar stumbled out like he’d been shoved by something invisible, eyes wide, lips moving as his fingers twitched.

  “Five-sixty… five-sixty-one… five-sixty-two… five-sixty-three…”

  Xila’s jaw tightened.

  Chezzar was a white man in a black hoodie, bright yellow pants, and cowboy boots that looked like they’d been stolen from a costume shop. His fashion was a personal insult, but that wasn’t what bothered her right now.

  He was acting odd.

  Odder than usual.

  “Was ist los, du kleine Schlampe?” Xila snapped.

  (What’s wrong, you little bitch?)

  He didn’t answer.

  “Five-sixty-four… five-sixty-five…”

  Xila pushed off the railing and stalked toward him, boots hitting concrete with purpose.

  “Was ist los?!” she barked again.

  (What’s wrong?!)

  “Five-sixty-six… five-sixty-seven…”

  Her anger flared hot.

  She slapped him.

  Hard.

  Chezzar blinked like he’d been yanked back into reality.

  “Xila—shit—sorry, I’m—”

  “Warum panikst du?” she demanded, voice sharp enough to cut.

  (Why are you panicking?)

  Chezzar swallowed, eyes darting like numbers were crawling across the sky. “The numbers,” he blurted. “They told me to watch the police and—normally they show up, they always show up, like clockwork, like a pattern and a rhythm and—”

  Xila slapped him again.

  He flinched.

  “Zum Punkt.”

  (Get to the point.)

  Chezzar’s breathing turned ragged. “The numbers—” he choked out, “they’re saying a large group of negative numbers are approaching.”

  Xila’s eye narrowed.

  “And… a couple prime numbers.”

  Xila froze.

  Prime numbers meant Veythari.

  Her lips curled.

  A smile—sharp and satisfied—spread across her face as she lifted the cigar to her mouth and took one last slow pull.

  She exhaled the smoke like a blessing.

  “Geh,” she told him, voice suddenly calm.

  (Go.)

  “Sag es Recardo.”

  (Tell Recardo.)

  Chezzar didn’t need to be told twice. He bolted back through the door, practically tripping down the steps.

  Xila stayed where she was, resting her arms on the railing again, staring down at the street beneath them.

  Her grin darkened.

  So this was how they wanted to play.

  Okay.

  Now she finally had an excuse to ruin the party.