I’ll Stage It

I’ll Stage It
Enzo

The war room ran like the body of a machine—screens whispering, low light drawn thin by the afternoon sun. The hum of servers mixed with the faint clink of Dottie’s spoon against her mug. Nothing about the space was pretty. It was practical: steel, tempered glass, the smell of burnt coffee and control.

Dottie had been in there most of the week, claiming boredom but moving through his systems like she owned them. Enzo didn’t mind. When the woman who’d built half the city’s best survivors said she needed something to do, you gave her access and tried not to get in the way.
She leaned over the far table now, scanning manifests like they were recipes. “East dock gets its maintenance window tonight. Gino’s got coverage until midnight. Then we flip to Jake for the data check. The west port’s backlog’s still sitting on your desk.”

Enzo gave her a look. “You just get bored and decide to manage my empire for me?”

“You left the door unlocked,” she said, unbothered. “Don’t complain when someone useful walks in.”

He didn’t. Her version of meddling usually saved him three hours.
He glanced at the side monitor, rows of shipping data scrolling in neat precision. Ordinary. Until it wasn’t.
He caught the skip.
A double-entry—two identical container IDs but one timestamped five minutes later than it should have been. One manifest showed 312 containers inbound; the other logged 314 out.
His thumb paused on the trackpad.

That’s not drift.

Dottie looked up at the silence. “Problem?”

“Maybe.” He zoomed in, eyes narrowing. “West port manifest’s off by two.”

“Two?” she said, unimpressed. “Probably a scanning hiccup.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. The discrepancy was too clean, too neat—like someone had hidden behind precision.

“You’ll make Jake run it again?”

“Already did. He says it’s stable.”

“Then it’s not.”

He smirked faintly. “That’s what I said.”
He tagged the line for follow-up and let the anomaly sit in the back of his mind like a splinter.

Keep that thread. Threads pull curtains.

He switched feeds. Rafael’s facility came online on the central screen—quiet hum of the mats, bright overhead light. The shift from port data to her hit like oxygen.
Lola.
She was on the mat, taped hands, hair pinned in messy buns already half-escaping. Rafael circled her, motion slow, patient, precise. She dipped under his reach, moved in a clean line, grabbed his sleeve, and dropped him without ceremony.
Dottie followed his gaze. “You watching your girl again?”

He didn’t answer.
“Of all things,” he said finally, “why Judo?”

Dottie’s mouth curved. “Because it starts with not getting flattened. You make somebody’s weight your weapon, they stop thinking you’re small. Once she could do that, I started layering everything else.”

He flicked her a glance. “Everything else?”

“Everything,” Dottie said. “Bits and pieces stitched together until it made sense. Some from rings, some from alleys. Enough to keep her standing and make the other guy regret trying. I didn’t train her to win tournaments, I trained her to survive the kind of men who don’t play fair.”
On-screen, Rafael swept toward Lola. She caught his balance mid-motion and dropped him cleanly. He hit the mat laughing. She didn’t smile; she reset.
Dottie’s tone softened, just a fraction. “That’s why I started her in defense. You teach a fighter how to fall right and they stop fearing gravity. Everything after that’s just choices.”

Of course you started her there.

They watched in silence. Rafael called something; Lola answered with a half-smile and reset. The rhythm was smooth, until it wasn’t.
A flicker. A blink too long. Her shoulders stiffened for a heartbeat. Then she forced motion back into the world, like nothing had happened.
Enzo leaned forward. “Run that back.”

Dottie rolled her chair closer, rewound. “There. You saw it.”

“She hesitated.”

“Something hit her,” Dottie murmured. “Not the punch. A memory. But she didn’t fold. She took it, buried it, kept going.”

Lola finished the drill, calm as a machine.
Dottie set her mug down with a soft clink. “That right there worries me.”

He turned. “Why?”

“You ever watch animals before a storm?” she asked. “They go quiet. Not fear—knowing. That kind of calm only shows up when something’s coming.”

Enzo’s jaw flexed. “You think it’s connected?”

“I know it is.” She gestured toward the other monitors—the graphs, the manifests. “The air’s been weird for weeks. You feel it, I feel it. Hell, maybe she felt it first.”

On the secondary screen, the west port data blinked again—just one line, a tiny stutter that shouldn’t have been there. Enzo noticed it. Dottie noticed him noticing.
“What now?”

“Glitch in the tracking string,” he said, voice mild.

“Same shipment?”

“Yeah.”

Dottie’s eyes narrowed. “That’s twice.”

“Jake’ll fix it,” he said, but his tone had gone flat.

She took a slow sip of tea. “Or someone doesn’t want it fixed.”
He didn’t respond. Just tagged it again, different color.

File it under later. After she’s safe.

Dottie turned back to the main feed. “She’s good, too good to stay in controlled drills. Rafael gives her precision, Dom gives her pressure, you give her safety. None of that tells us what happens when the world stops following rules.”
He didn’t move, eyes still on Lola.

“She’s ready,” Dottie said finally. “You should test her. Real conditions. No warning.”

Enzo’s head turned. “You’re serious.”

“As a bullet,” she said. “She’s been coiled too long. That girl’s half feral when she’s bored. Give her something real to bite.”

He exhaled slowly. “You’d bet against me?”

“No.” Dottie’s grin pulled slow, equal parts pride and trouble. “I’d be on her. You’ve never seen that girl when the leash slips. If I’m the witch, she’s the demon I conjured and couldn’t put back. Push her hard enough and she doesn’t fight—she hunts. It’s not survival, it’s possession wearing muscle.”

She’ll meet the hit halfway and dare it to do better.

Enzo studied the screen—Lola rolling to her feet, eyes bright, body loose.

He said quietly. “I’ll stage it.”

“Good.” Dottie stood, mug in hand. “Take Gino. Jake’ll keep the feed clean. And don’t hold back—she’ll never forgive you if you do.”

Enzo’s mouth curved, small and dangerous. “That’s the problem,” he said. “She’ll enjoy it too much.”

And so will I.

Dottie laughed, dry and pleased. “Then it’ll be a fair fight.”
She headed for the door, pausing to nod at the flashing data feed. “Keep an eye on your numbers, Enzo. Ghosts don’t show up twice without reason.”

He didn’t answer. The door closed, the room humming back into its steady rhythm.
He stood there for a while, watching the frozen image of Lola mid-swing hair flying, mouth set, pure velocity in human form.
He reached for his phone.
Gino — second shift. Bring gear.
Jake — secure Rafael’s feed. No traces.
Then he paused, thumb resting against the glass.

She’s going to lose her mind when she realizes it’s me.
She’ll curse, swing, then kiss me just to prove she’s not mad.

He could already hear her voice: smug, breathless, alive.
He typed one more note into the encrypted file on the manifest discrepancy.
Tag: Marco / West Port / verify containers.
Then minimized it.
Later. After the test. After her.

He looked back at the screen one more time. Lola’s image glowed faintly in the dim light, muscles coiled, posture perfect.
“Alright, diavoletta,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and fond. “Let’s see what happens when the gloves come off.”

The feed flickered once, catching the glint in her eyes before cutting to black.