Fury and Fragility

The white walls of the hospital were too sterile, too quiet, too hollow for the weight in Gina's chest.

Dave lay unconscious, his torso wrapped in blood-stained gauze, the monitors around him beeping steady, but weak. A bullet had torn through muscle and grazed a rib, missing his heart by inches.

"Lucky," the doctor had said.

But Gina didn't believe in luck.

She sat by his side, refusing to leave, her hands wrapped tightly around his. His skin felt too cold. His breath too shallow.

She had seen soldiers die on marble floors, mercenaries bleed out on rooftops.

But this—this quiet war with death—was something else.

She bent close and whispered, "I didn't plan for you. But now I can't plan without you."

---

Outside the hospital, three black cars waited in a secure lane.

Houna stepped out of the lead vehicle, her face hidden behind a wide hat and dark veil. The guards flanked her, but she waved them away.

She entered the hospital through a side corridor, walking with purpose. Her cane clicked softly on the linoleum.

She met Gina in the hallway.

"No updates yet?" she asked.

Gina shook her head, expression hard.

"Then let's talk retaliation," Houna said.

---

Back at the estate, Gina's elite unit was already in motion.

Targets had been identified.

Shell companies owned by Richard.

Mafia safe houses funded through dummy investments.

Weapons caches.

All to be dismantled.

Gina's orders were clear: "Burn the scaffolding. Shake the empire."

A young analyst, shaking as he passed her the intelligence file, spoke up. "Ma'am, one more thing. We found a comm ping… from Elara."

Gina stiffened. "Play it."

The screen lit up.

A blurry transmission.

Elara's voice.

"You bleed well, Michaels. But I wonder—will you still have teeth when your heart stops beating?"

The feed ended.

Gina turned to Houna. "Activate our trackers. I want her traced through every plane, street cam, and sewer rat."

"You're not thinking clearly," Houna warned.

"I'm thinking clearly for the first time in years," Gina said. "She shot him. She doesn't get to walk away."

"Don't underestimate her," Houna added. "Elara is still hunting, even if she's hiding. But remember—this isn't just about vengeance. It's about the game."

"I haven't forgotten the game," Gina replied. "But I just learned how to cheat better."

---

At a shadow facility nestled in a canyon two countries away, Davina sat in the core war room, overseeing simulations and real-time surveillance. Her eyes, once filled with youthful curiosity, now glinted with cold purpose.

Her mother was under attack. Her father had nearly died.

Her world, her blood, her name—it all meant something now.

And she wouldn't let it crumble.

"We received intel that Lansing is meeting with a Balkan arms dealer," said her second-in-command, a younger operative named Sorin.

Davina nodded. "Track the route. Plant false leaks in the dealer's comms. Make Lansing walk into a trap."

Sorin paused. "You're running a full op?"

"I'm not running," Davina snapped. "I'm counter-striking. The girl you knew is gone. There's no room for softness now."

She stepped to the holographic map. "If they come for my family again, I'll burn the past down with them."

---

Later that night, Dave stirred.

One eye opened, groggy, unfocused.

Gina rushed to his side.

"Dave?"

He blinked slowly. "Hey… storm queen."

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

"You scared me."

"Just needed a nap…" he croaked.

She laughed softly, brushing hair from his forehead. "You took a bullet, idiot."

He tried to smile but winced. "Did we win?"

Gina's gaze darkened. "Not yet. But I'm about to change that."

He tried to sit up but groaned. "Elara—"

"She's still out there," Gina admitted. "But I got one on her. Slowed her down. She's wounded. And she's running out of time."

Dave gripped her hand. "Don't face her alone."

"I won't," she promised. "We're not alone anymore."

---

Night fell again over the city.

In the shadows, Gina's operatives hit their first target—a weapons vault near Lisbon. Silent. Precise. Gone in twenty minutes.

Richard Lansing woke to fire warnings and missing accounts.

His empire was bleeding.

Elara nursed her wound in a remote bunker, teeth clenched as she stitched her own flesh.

"You're good, Michaels," she muttered. "But I'm not done."

Back at the war compound, Davina initiated her own op—an encrypted message sent into the void.

"To the one who watches from the dark… the daughter of the storm is ready. Come find me."

And far across the sea, Nuel read the message.

He smiled.

The storm wasn't coming.

It had already arrived.