Chapter 64
Raymond POV
“Say it again,” I say. “Slow.”
Camille doesn’t look up from the screen. Her fingers pause mid-stroke over the tablet, jaw tightening like she’s deciding whether to argue or comply.
“The footage was released in three waves,” she says, deliberately this time. “First the civilian deaths. Then the supposed unit markings. Then the eyewitness accounts.”
I nod. “And?”
“And none of them line up.”
Around us, the command room hums low and tense — generators, murmured voices, the occasional clatter of equipment being moved too fast by people pretending they aren’t scared. Outside, rain hammers the roof hard enough to feel personal.
I lean closer to Camille’s screen. “Show me the signatures again.”
She pulls up the weapons data. Clean overlays. Numbers don’t lie — not when you know how to read them.
“These casings,” she says, tapping the image, “were fired from an older Virex platform. Adriana’s forces retired those six years ago. Maintenance cost too high. Reliability issues.”
I glance at the secondary screen. “But the footage shows our insignia.”
“Paint,” Camille says flatly. “Cheap overlay. Wrong compound. Wouldn’t survive field conditions longer than a day.”
I let out a slow breath through my nose.
So Damian didn’t just want blood.
He wanted confusion.
Across the room, voices rise — two commanders arguing in low, sharp tones. One of them storms out. Another doesn’t follow.
Trust breaking in real time.
I straighten and scan the room. Faces I know. Faces I don’t. Eyes darting, whispers cutting off when I move closer.
“How many have pulled support?” I ask.
Camille doesn’t hesitate. “Officially? None. Quietly?” She tilts her head. “Enough to matter.”
I swear under my breath.
Adriana stands near the back wall, arms crossed, listening but not speaking. No interruptions. No corrections. She’s letting this be mine.
That alone tells me how bad it is.
I turn back to Camille. “Timing?”
“Textbook,” she says. “The massacre breaks just as Adriana secures three new corridors. Before the aid convoys arrive. Before anyone can verify.”
I nod slowly. “So this isn’t about turning the world against her.”
Camille looks up at me. “No.”
“It’s about speed,” I finish. “Reaction time. Who panics first.”
Damian’s favorite game.
I step away from the table and raise my voice just enough to carry.
“Everyone listen.”
The room stills, tension snapping tight.
“This footage is manufactured,” I say. “We have proof. Weapons, paint, timestamps. We will release it — but not all at once.”
Murmurs ripple.
“We control the pace,” I continue. “Anyone who can’t wait for verification is free to leave. No retaliation. No names.”
A dangerous thing to offer.
A few people exchange looks.
One person slips out quietly.
I don’t stop them.
After the room disperses into controlled motion, Camille exhales hard and rubs her face. “That was bold.”
“It was necessary.”
She studies me for a second. “You’re getting good at this.”
“I hate that,” I mutter.
Her mouth twitches despite herself. “Yeah. Me too.”
I turn — and find Adriana watching me.
Not assessing. Not calculating.
Just watching.
We step into the adjoining corridor, quieter, dimmer. The door slides shut behind us, muting the noise.
She speaks first. “You handled it well.”
“I shouldn’t have had to,” I reply.
“No,” she agrees. “But you did.”
I lean back against the wall, exhaustion catching up all at once. My shoulder still aches where shrapnel never quite healed right.
“This is what he wants,” I say. “Not loyalty. Not fear. Hesitation. If we slow down, even for a second—”
“He gains ground,” she finishes.
Silence stretches.
I glance at her. She looks… steady. Not distant. Not cold. Just contained.
That scares me more than anger ever did.
“I’m worried about you,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t flinch. “I know.”
“I mean—” I push off the wall, turning fully toward her. “I see how fast you’re adapting. How easily you make calls now that used to keep you up at night.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I’m not accusing,” I add. “I’m scared of losing who you were.”
For a long moment, she says nothing.
Then, softly, “I am too.”
I blink.
She meets my eyes — really meets them. No armor.
“I don’t stop because if I do, people die,” she continues. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. Or that it doesn’t cost me something every time.”
I swallow.
“I just don’t have the luxury of showing it,” she says. “Not right now.”
Something in my chest loosens — just a fraction.
“Okay,” I say. “Then don’t carry it alone.”
She studies me, expression unreadable, then nods once.
“We traced the weapons,” she says, shifting back to business. “Camille told me.”
“To a shell company,” I reply. “We’re still digging.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Who owns it?”
I pull up the file on my wrist screen and angle it toward her.
“Three layers deep. Offshore. Clean enough to fool oversight. But the first registered director?” I pause. “Selene’s former logistics chief.”
Her lips press thin.
“So Damian’s using her ghost,” she says.
“Yes,” I answer. “And daring you to say her name out loud.”
A flicker passes through her expression — grief, anger, something unfinished.
“He’s running out of moves,” she says finally.
“No,” I correct gently. “He’s changing the board.”
She exhales, slow and controlled. “Then we adapt faster.”
She turns to leave, then stops.
“Raymond.”
I look up.
“Thank you,” she says. “For holding the line.”
I watch her walk away — back into the noise, the weight, the role only she can play.
Then I look back at the screen, at the shell company records still scrolling.
Selene’s past.
Damian’s present.
And the future he’s trying to force on all of us.
I open a secure channel and start pulling every financial thread connected to that name.
Because smoke only works if you don’t know where the fire started.
And I intend to find the match.