Chapter 8 – Smoke Without Fire

Zaria wore a dress that didn't belong to her. Black silk. Sleeveless. Thigh slit. The kind of thing meant to be looked at, not worn by a girl with murder on her mind.

Ares adjusted the mic near her collarbone, his fingers brushing against her skin. "Don't move."

She rolled her eyes but didn't flinch. The dressing room was cramped, filled with racks of designer clothes, a full-length mirror, and the low hum of an air conditioner that never quite cooled the space. Ares stepped back, scanning her up and down like a weapons check.

"You look like bait," he said.

"Good," Zaria replied. "He likes bait."

It had taken two days of digital forgery, whispers in back rooms, and one incredibly risky phone call to secure this meeting. Claude Rane, billionaire philanthropist and underground sociopath, would be attending a private art auction tonight in one of the oldest buildings in Prague. And thanks to a little help from an insider collector, Zaria had been added to the guest list.

As a featured artist.

She wasn't.

But her father had once said: "Truth only matters when it's not your weapon." Tonight, deception was survival.

Ares handed her a black clutch. Inside: a burner phone, lipstick taser, flash drive, and a single injection vial.

She raised an eyebrow at the needle.

"Poison?"

"Truth serum," he said.

Zaria let out a short, humorless laugh. "Still poison, just slower."

---

The gallery was old-world opulence: marble pillars, golden lighting, and a crowd that reeked of wealth and secrets. Zaria walked through the front doors like she owned the place.

The stares came instantly.

Some men gawked. Some women stared coldly. She ignored them all. Every step she took in her heels reminded her of the weight tucked in her bag, the flash drive burning like fire against her side.

Claude Rane arrived an hour later, with a glass of champagne in one hand and a silver-haired woman on his arm. He was taller than she remembered from the surveillance photos. Broad-shouldered. Perfect teeth. A smile too smooth to be real.

Zaria stepped into his path.

"Mr. Rane?" she asked, voice just the right amount of nervous.

He turned.

Their eyes met.

He smiled like a man who saw a gift he didn't deserve but would unwrap anyway.

"And you are?" he asked, his voice velvet.

She offered her hand. "Zaria. I'm exhibiting the piece in the center hall. The one titled 'Silhouettes of Silence.'"

His interest piqued. "You did that? I thought the artist was Russian."

"Does it matter?"

Claude chuckled. "Only when provenance becomes a problem. Walk with me."

She did.

They moved through the crowd like sharks slicing through minnows. Zaria kept her smile small and mysterious. Ares's voice came faintly through the mic in her ear. "Keep him talking. Don't let him touch your drink."

Claude led her to the far corner of the gallery where a massive painting hung: streaks of black and red, shadows of people screaming without mouths.

"Your work is disturbing," he said.

"Truth usually is."

He turned fully toward her. "You're too young to be this jaded."

She leaned closer. "And you're too old to still be getting away with murder."

The smile froze on his lips.

Zaria didn't blink.

"I know what Serpentum is," she said, voice low, almost casual. "I know about Mia. I know about the island. The auctions. The ships. The blood you rinse off with charity events."

Claude's face didn't change. But his eyes—his eyes darkened.

He motioned to a waiter. Took two drinks. Offered one to her.

She took it but didn't sip.

"You're very brave," he said. "Or very stupid."

Zaria tilted her head. "I don't believe in bravery. Only momentum."

He laughed. Actually laughed. "Your father would have hated me talking to you."

She set the untouched drink down. "He hated you long before I was born."

"You know what happened to him, don't you?" Claude asked, stepping closer. His cologne smelled expensive and ancient. "He wasn't killed by us. He died because he forgot the first rule."

Zaria raised an eyebrow.

"Never build a fire unless you're ready to burn with it."

She reached into her clutch.

He saw the move.

And smiled.

But it wasn't a weapon she pulled—it was a small, silver flash drive. She held it between two fingers like a coin.

"This has enough to erase you," she said softly. "Everything. The island. The tapes. Even your voice—ordering girls like they were food."

Claude's smile slipped. Just a fraction.

Then he chuckled again. "You don't get it. You think you're holding a blade. But that?" He pointed at the drive. "That's a compass. And it points both ways."

Zaria narrowed her eyes.

He leaned in. "If I go down, I don't go alone."

"I'm not afraid of you."

"You should be."

He turned and walked away.

Zaria didn't follow.

---

Ten minutes later, Ares was waiting for her at the back exit. He had one hand on the hilt of a knife hidden in his coat, the other tapping a rhythm on his thigh.

"Did he take the bait?" he asked.

Zaria's heart was racing. "He knows I have it."

Ares looked grim. "That means you're on the list now."

"What list?"

"The one where people don't wake up."

They got into the car. Zaria stared out the window, her reflection pale in the glass.

"We need to disappear for a while," Ares muttered, starting the engine.

"No," Zaria said.

He glanced at her. "No?"

"We go louder. We hit harder. No more hiding."

Ares shook his head. "He's going to retaliate."

"I want him to."

---

Later that night, Zaria watched the videos again. This time, she didn't look away. Didn't cry. Didn't break.

Mia's face appeared in one frame—barely visible. But her eyes were unmistakable. Scared. Fighting not to drown.

Zaria paused the screen.

"There's a girl in that room right now," she whispered.

Ares looked over. "You can't save them all."

"I just need to save one," she replied. "The rest will follow."

---

The next morning, a message was sent to six journalists. Five ignored it. One opened it.

It was a picture.

Mia. Chained. Screaming.

No text. No context.

Just the first spark of fire.

And fire—Zaria knew now—spread fast.