CYRENE TEMPEST

  Cyrene sat in the corner of her music room, one leg tucked beneath her, a tall vanilla milkshake in hand—her comfort of choice on days that felt too loud, even in silence.

  The room around her was dark elegance—charcoal black walls, floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes, and matte-finish accents that drank in the light. Everything here was chosen for its ability to mute the world.

  Everything except the keyboard.

  The pristine white instrument stood alone against the far wall like it didn't belong—because it didn't.

  It wasn't curated or designed.

  It was memory.

  Her eyes hadn't left it in minutes. Not because she was about to play, but because just looking at it made her feel like she already had.

  Flashback – Seven Years Ago

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  .

  .

  Her father had called her into the living room that day with a conspiratorial grin. He stood behind the long curtain, humming off-key and terribly proud of himself. She remembered sighing, thinking he was going to attempt another magic trick with a deck of cards he could never shuffle properly.

  But he'd stepped aside and revealed it.

  The keyboard.

  Not just any keyboard.

  A pristine Kawai MP11SE, ivory keys polished to gleaming perfection, standing like an altar in the middle of their cluttered apartment.

  "Don't just stare at it," he said, tugging her gently by the wrist. "Go on."

  "But it's expensive," she whispered. "Where did you even...?"

  He silenced her with a look—the kind only a father who'd worked three jobs and skipped meals could give. "You dream big, Cyrene. I'll figure out the rest."

  That night, they sat for hours as he taught her the basics. Not just chords or scales—but how to feel each note. How to let the music translate everything she couldn't say out loud.

  She had been quiet, often too sharp for her own age. The neighborhood saw her as odd. The teachers saw her as threatening. But to him, she was just brilliant.

  And the keyboard had been his way of saying,

  "I see you. I hear what you're not saying."

  End of flashback.

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  .

  .

  The empty glass hung loosely in her hand, a slow trail of vanilla dripping down her wrist. She blinked, exhaled, and set it aside on the floor without care for the condensation staining the marble.

  Cyrene walked barefoot across the room. The silence stretched around her like a second skin, but she didn't mind it. Silence was clean. Predictable.

  She stopped in front of the keyboard, letting her fingers trail lightly across the keys. Not enough to press, just enough to feel the chill of the surface.

  A beat passed.

  Then another.

  She closed her eyes. Just for a breath.

  Then pulled away.

  There was work to do.

  And while the world didn't know it yet, someone had gotten close enough to stir her instincts.

  The Ghost had awakened.

  ___________

  Cyrene didn't return to her bedroom or her office. Instead, she descended the hidden staircase behind the hallway bookshelf—a passage only she knew existed. It led to the underroom, her private command center. The room smelled faintly of leather and fresh coffee, the air crisp with an underlying hum of cool air conditioning. Black glass walls reflected the glow of the numerous monitors that lined the far side of the room. They stretched across from one end to the other in a seamless curve—each screen alive with data, surveillance feeds, and global alerts. This was her sanctuary—a place where the chaos of the outside world couldn't reach her.

  She didn't turn the lights on. She didn't need to. The soft green light from the screens bathed her in an eerie glow, but it didn't bother her. It was the quiet of the room that brought the calm she needed, and it allowed her to focus.

  A retinal scan blinked green. Her voice echoed low in the space, just loud enough for the walls to hear.

  "Cipher Root. Access tier zero."

  There was a brief pause. Then, the system responded.

  The codes scrolled across the massive screen, flowing like a river of information, but Cyrene's eyes honed in on one particular set—data she had quietly implanted weeks ago, hidden from view, yet ready to wake when necessary. The servers scattered across the globe, processing billions of queries and transactions, now lay bare under her scrutiny.

  Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she monitored the diagnostics, her mind working in perfect synchronization with the machine. But it was the data from the server in Milan that caught her attention.

  The server she'd touched days ago. The one she'd silently upgraded without leaving a trace.

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  She wasn't surprised. She'd already known someone was on her trail—quiet, careful, persistent. The faint patterns, the slow creep of unfamiliar access logs. But now?

  Now they were getting bold.

  Her fingers drummed lightly on the smooth surface of her desk, a rhythmic beat that mirrored her thoughts. Cyrene leaned forward, her gaze narrowing at the data flowing across the screen. The firewall diagnostics were a dead giveaway—a pattern she knew too well, almost identical to her own work. It was a near-perfect replica of the upgrade she'd slipped in, a feeble attempt to mirror her exact movements. The server had been silently probed, studied, and now someone had attempted to mimic her upgrade.

  "So you're trying to speak my language now," she muttered under her breath, a wisp of a smile tugging at her lips. "Bold. But predictable."

  She studied the replication of her firewall structure. It wasn't an attack. Not directly. But it was clear that the person—or group—behind the intrusion wasn't simply probing the system. They were trying to understand it. To reverse-engineer it. To figure out who had orchestrated the upgrade.

  "Lucian's people, no doubt."

  She didn't need more evidence. The server had been one of the many linked to Lucian's network—a far-reaching web of infrastructure that stretched through the highest levels of the empire. She hadn't directly tampered with the mainframe, only one of its less critical branches. But even that was enough to catch attention.

  Her lips parted as she exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the details of the breach. They had caught her fingerprint, but only the faintest trace. No one else could've pulled it off with such precision. It had to be someone inside. Someone who knew exactly what they were looking for.

  "Not an amateur," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "But not extraordinary, either."

  The more she examined, the more she saw the careful approach. The firewall that mimicked hers wasn't a spontaneous reaction; it had been constructed piece by piece. They had to be working under pressure—no time to waste, no room for error. Whoever was behind this had enough knowledge to play the long game, but not the finesse to understand the entire picture.

  Cyrene's lips curled into a knowing smile. This wasn't someone playing with raw data—they were trying to piece together a puzzle they didn't understand.

  But that wasn't the real threat. The real threat was that Lucian had noticed.

  And that, in itself, was a problem.

  With a slight adjustment, she ran a mock-trace, just to confirm. The data packet looped, bypassing multiple layers of encryption. No leaks. No obvious errors. Someone had covered their tracks meticulously—yet it wasn't quite enough. The route led back through proxies, all carefully placed in neutral locations.

  "Cute," she said softly, her fingers now dancing across the keyboard in quick, deliberate motions. "You think copying me will teach you something."

  It had. But not in the way they expected.

  Her gaze sharpened, and her hands moved with fluid precision. She inserted a false sequence into the firewall's return signal—subtle, undetectable unless you knew what to look for. A variation of the firewall they had been studying, but altered just enough to look like an oversight. The kind of mistake that would draw anyone's attention who was desperate enough to chase it.

  She embedded it deep into the lines of code, an anomaly so carefully woven in that it would be almost impossible to discern as anything but an error. And, buried at the heart of it, she planted a simple message—a subtle challenge to the ones who thought they could outsmart her.

  "Nice firewall. Try harder."

  No signature. No source. No trace of its origin. Just a pulse. A ripple in the system that would linger long after the message was sent.

  A ghost's way of saying hello.

  Cyrene reclined in her chair, the hum of the room surrounding her like an ambient lullaby. The underground space was silent except for the faint noise of her servers running in the background, and the soft vibrations that could only be felt in the floor beneath her feet. It was a quiet sanctuary—a place where no one would find her, at least not easily.

  She'd spent hours executing her last change, a subtle little nudge in the system, and now she waited. The stillness felt almost suffocating, but there was something about the weight of the silence that kept her grounded. The time between actions was always the hardest part—the calm before the storm, the moment when all her plans started to take shape.

  Her fingers idly tapped the desk as she glanced at the screens in front of her. Data poured in, and for a moment, Cyrene lost herself in the rhythmic flow of it. She'd planted the seed, and now it was only a matter of time before Lucian's network would respond. She didn't have to be there when they did. She knew they would come for her—she had anticipated it. But the thrill wasn't in the waiting; it was in how she played the game.

  The sudden realization hit her: They were getting closer.

  Cyrene's fingers paused as her eyes scanned the incoming alerts, her mind sharp with focus. She could feel the pulse of the system, the delicate dance between her defenses and their attempts to breach them. Whoever had started mirroring her movements was thorough—almost too thorough.

  A slight frown creased her brow as she zeroed in on the anomalies. They weren't random, these patterns. This wasn't some careless hack or an automatic system response. Someone—someone good—was trying to follow in her footsteps, learning from her every move. But Cyrene wasn't worried. She wasn't the kind of person who panicked when she was under pressure. She'd been through this before, and each time, she came out on top.

  But now, there was a new player in the game, and this one wasn't an amateur. The precision was remarkable, a calculated mimicry of her strategies. Lucian's network? Or someone else closer to him?

  She leaned forward, tapping a few commands on the keyboard, but she didn't hurry. She was no stranger to playing the long game. In fact, she preferred it. The thrill of outmaneuvering someone who was watching, learning, almost trying to become a shadow of her movements—now that was interesting.

  Her lips tightened as the thought occurred to her: This wasn't just about security anymore. This was personal.

  Cyrene's mind was already racing, analyzing the situation as she toggled through layers of encrypted data. The breach hadn't just left her with a trail—it had left them with a mirror image of her actions. The servers had been accessed in the same pattern she used, as if someone was replicating her every keystroke, following her blueprint exactly.

  She didn't need to be told—it was Lucian's doing. Or perhaps someone on his team. No one else had the skills or resources to mimic her movements with such finesse. The thought lingered, but Cyrene quickly dismissed it. She had a job to do, and thinking about how they were catching up wasn't going to help her now. She'd need to act.

  Her fingers danced across the keys, a plan taking shape. The gaps between her defenses weren't wide, but they were there—small, imperceptible cracks. Cyrene knew exactly where to strike. Her next move would be precise—deliberate—and, for the moment, untraceable.

  The system blinked as she ran the final checks. She wasn't making any rash decisions. Not yet. Cyrene had already learned the value of waiting, of letting the other party make their move first. But it was clear—whoever had followed her lead wasn't about to back down. It was time to take control again, to keep them guessing, to keep them on their toes.

  She glanced at the clock, a small smile playing on her lips. The chase was on.

  ___________

  They're trying to track me. Mimicking me.

  Cute.

  Let them think they're close. Let them crawl through every string of code, looking for something that was never meant to be found. The Milan branch is nothing but a polished carcass now. They'll come up empty and blame their tools.

  I need a break.

  I leave the underground room, making a quiet detour to my office. My laptop is exactly where I left it—closed, silent, loyal. I tuck it under my arm and make my way upstairs.

  The Cloud Room absorbs me the second I enter.

  It's always dark here—intentional. Every surface swallows the light: matte black walls, sleek black furniture, a floating bar that gleams only when it wants to. The air is warm, softly perfumed with traces of vanilla, oud, and burnt wood from past nights just like this one.

  I drop the laptop on the low table but don't open it.

  Instead, I walk over to the cabinet, open the small drawer, and retrieve the jar marked Velvet Burn.

  It's a private blend—rich, heavy, and dangerous in the best way. Smooth as silk when it hits the throat, laced with hints of dark cherry, cinnamon bark, and a honeyed finish that lingers like a secret.

  They don't sell this anywhere. You have to know someone who knows someone.

  I just make it myself.

  I roll with practiced ease—no rush, no mess. The flick of my lighter breaks the silence. The first inhale settles behind my ribs, warm and grounding. The second slows the world.

  Velvet Burn doesn't hit like a hammer. It creeps in, velvet-wrapped and slow, pulling at the edges of thought until everything softens.

  It doesn't dull me.

  It refines me.

  Jazz spills from the hidden speakers—something lo-fi and slow, low brass and vinyl static threading through the air like smoke. I sink into the cushions, exhale, and let the haze wrap around me.

  Here, I'm not the ghost, the architect, the one they fear but don't see.

  Here, I'm just still.

  A while passes. I lose track. My stomach growls, breaking the trance. I stub out the joint, pick up my keys, and head to my room to change.

  Comfort wins tonight.

  Black leggings that hug every curve.

  An oversized white hoodie that falls past my hips.

  Black and white All Stars—easy.

  Messy bun, the kind that looks unintentional but isn't.

  A sweep of rosy gloss.

  A mist of my vanilla perfume.

  The Audi hums to life beneath my touch. I take the city in silence, windows down, wind tangling with the jazz that still plays from my phone. At this hour, the streets belong to me.

  The diner is mostly empty—just a couple of night owls and a tired server who doesn't bother asking questions. I order pancakes, bacon, and a mint tea. It's always the same. No one recognizes me. They never do.

  I like it that way.

  Once I'm done, I slide back into the Audi, body relaxed, mind distant.

  Home greets me in shadows. I peel off the hoodie and leggings in the bedroom, drop them onto the velvet chair in the corner, and glide into bed—bare, unapologetic, free.

  The sheets are cool. My body melts into them, the last trace of Velvet Burn still sweet on my breath.

  Sleep doesn't ask.

  It claims me.