Maisie sat hunched on the edge of Gene's old couch, one leg tucked beneath her. The tablet on her lap still glowed, but she hadn't scrolled in minutes. Her eyes were fixed on nothing, lips slightly parted, listening to the breeze stirring the gauzy curtains. The suburb outside was excessively quiet if it were holding its breath.
Across the room, Gene stood at the window, arms loosely folded, gaze locked on the manicured lawns and still cars lining the cul-de-sac. Her posture was casual, but her jaw was clenched tight.
"So…" Maisie finally said, voice soft but cutting through the silence. "What do you think this is about?"
Gene didn't look back. She tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking toward the street like she was expecting headlights. "Hard to say," she murmured. "The White Angels don't call casual meetings. Something's moving."
Maisie leaned deeper into the cushions. "You've been acting weird since I got here."
Gene let out a dry laugh. "That's just how I act when I'm sober."
Maisie didn't smile. "You're hiding something."
At that, Gene turned. Her face was neutral, too neutral. "I know more than you, sure. That doesn't mean I know everything."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the one you're getting." Gene crossed the room and dropped into the armchair across from her, legs flopped to the side. Her posture was relaxed, but her eyes were tired.
Maisie narrowed her eyes. "Since when did you get all mysterious?"
Gene gave a lopsided smile, half-teasing, half-tired. "Since I figured out people dig less when you don't hand them neat answers."
They let the silence settle again. Outside, a drone buzzed overhead, then vanished into the distance.
Maisie leaned in, her voice low. "You've been around longer. Jack trusts you. So be honest, do you think we're doing the right thing?"
Gene's expression faltered, just briefly, before she looked away. "What I think won't change anything. You'll figure it out on your own soon enough."
Before Maisie could press, a knock came at the door.
Gene didn't flinch, but she didn't move right away either. She held still for one breath. Then two. Then she stood and crossed the room. Her hand paused on the latch just long enough to mean something. Then she opened it.
A man stood on the porch, in plain clothes, plain face, but with a tightly-wound stillness that screamed control. He looked like someone who never had to raise his voice.
"Genevieve Vance," he said, with a small nod. Then his eyes shifted. "Maisie Lennox."
Maisie nodded back politely, her mouth curving into a neutral half-smile. She'd met enough White Angels to know warmth wasn't part of the job description.
"We've been asked to speak with both of you," the man said evenly. "Not urgent. But it's time to align."
Gene stepped aside, holding the door open with a muttered, "That's our cue."
Maisie rose and followed them to the kitchen table. The man stepped inside like he owned the place. He pulled out a chair and sat, legs stretching out comfortably.
"Hello, Maisie," he said. His voice was low and British, curling around her name like smoke. Josh.
Maisie knew the type. Older than her, senior in rank. He always spoke like he was narrating a thriller—measured, whispery like he assumed the walls were listening. His features were forgettable by design: mousy hair, soft brown eyes, freckled nose. The kind of man who could slip in and out of crowds like vapor.
He'd once been a Dark Angel, part of the British offshoot that made the White Angels look tame. When that group crumbled under its violence, Josh defected. He claimed the same goal, to expose corruption and dismantle the elite, but in public, he smiled more. In private, he didn't need to.
Maisie leaned against the edge of the table, arms folded. "Hey, Josh. I came to talk about the rally in Seattle."
Josh exhaled, half-laugh, half-sigh. "Yeah, well. Here's the gist. We need five thousand more bodies on the ground by next week. Confirmed."
Maisie blinked. "Five thousand? In a week?"
"Yep."
"And what kind of people are we talking about?"
Josh didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his jacket, pulled out a slim black drive, and slid it toward Gene. She plugged it into her datapad and began scrolling without a word.
Maisie's eyes narrowed. "You want warm bodies or actual recruits?"
Josh's mouth curved into a lopsided smile. "Bit of both. Noise-makers, but also names. Some fresh data in our system wouldn't hurt."
Gene stayed focused on the screen. She didn't offer commentary. Maisie watched her, trying to guess what she already knew, and what she was choosing not to say.
Josh leaned back, fingers laced across his stomach. "You're sharp, Maisie. That's why we're bringing you in deeper. But keep an eye on Gene. She's got a few strings to pull you haven't seen yet."
Gene didn't look up.
Maisie ignored the tension crackling between them. "You mentioned recruits. What about Alucards? Are you hoping they'll show?"
Josh's eyes gleamed. "If we can get them."
Maisie stared. "You know that's nearly impossible. They're terrified. If they show up in public, they're signing their death warrants."
Josh shrugged. "Fear only works until someone pushes through it. One shows up, then another. They're still human at the core, pack creatures."
Maisie frowned. "And what's going to convince them?"
Josh smiled slyly. "The Director recorded a holographic message. Tailored for them. It'll stir something deep. Guilt. Anger. Hope. Whatever works."
Maisie tapped the table, jaw tight. "That… might work."
Josh leaned in. "It will. I trust the Director."
Maisie hesitated. "But if we're trying to look legit, why bring Alucards at all? Wouldn't that… undercut the message?"
Josh's smile darkened. "Not if we control the narrative."
Her stomach dropped. "You're trying to start something."
"Not start. Stoke. The right spark, the right crowd, chaos breeds clarity. People don't change because of facts. They change when they're afraid."
Maisie recoiled slightly. "You'd risk people getting hurt?"
Josh's face went cold. "Do you think the people running this city give a damn about clean hands as long as the floor looks polished? This rally it's a test. For us. For the public. For what comes next."
Maisie said nothing. She didn't have to.
Josh's voice softened, almost conversational. "Right footage goes viral. Right panic spreads. Suddenly, lawmakers fast-track that bill to restrict Alucard's movement. No one asks questions. They just feel safer."
She swallowed. "Is that what the Director told you?"
He didn't meet her eyes. "Not in those words."
Maisie clenched her fists under the table.
This wasn't a protest.
It was a trap.
"A trigger," she whispered.
Josh smiled faintly like a teacher pleased that a student was catching up.
Maisie's voice was low. "What can they even do?"
"Exactly what we need them to," he said.
Maisie stared. "You're not just exposing corruption. You're replacing it."
Josh tilted his head. "That's the goal, isn't it?"
She didn't answer.
He sat back, stretching again. "I didn't always roll with this lot, you know. Back in Britain, I worked with the Dark Angels."
Maisie raised an eyebrow. "I thought they were enemies."
"Used to be. Then both sides lost too much blood. Now we collaborate. The White Angels needed soldiers. The Dark Angels needed purpose. We found… common ground."
Maisie's skin prickled.
Common ground. Between reformers and extremists.
Between order and chaos.
And she was in the middle of it.
Not leading.
Not even following.
Just caught in a storm someone else had already mapped out.
──✦──
"Alright, we have the plan down?" Josh asked, his tone clipped and confident. Like this was just another game of strategy, he was used to winning.
Maisie nodded, slowly and cautiously. "Yeah. We gather as many Alucards as we can for the rally." She paused. "And you want me to bring Igor?"
Josh arched a brow, as if the answer was obvious. "Especially him. A mind like that doesn't come along often. He's sharp, sharper than most humans I know."
Maisie didn't respond right away. Her gaze dropped, jaw tightening. Igor. There was always something just slightly off in the air around him, like standing too close to a static field. Too focused. Too precise. He didn't just follow orders, he studied them. "He's... not like the others," she murmured, more to herself than to Josh. "If he turns, it won't be like flipping a switch. It'll be like waking something up."
Josh scoffed. "Then let's hope he wakes up on our side."
Maisie inhaled through her nose, slow and measured, and let the breath slide out through barely parted lips. Igor. Just the sound of his name made something in her chest clench. "That might make things... complicated if something goes wrong," she said at last, her voice clipped, the warning buried beneath the polished edge of etiquette.
Josh shrugged, annoyingly flippant. "Only if you treat him like a liability instead of a tool."
That word, tool, hit harder than she expected. She didn't argue. Couldn't. Because wasn't that what Igor was supposed to be?
And yet… something about the thought made her skin crawl. She'd spent years convincing herself he was nothing more than a finely tuned mechanism. Predictable. Passive. As thrilling as a locked door. But lately, she'd caught herself watching him too long. Waiting for some shift beneath the surface. There was something in his stillness now that didn't feel like obedience. It felt like restraint. Like a breath being held.
She remembered the night she'd told him, half drunk, half daring, that he looked more human than most of the people at her father's gala. He hadn't blinked. Just nodded and resumed clearing wine glasses.
But something had lingered in the air after. Something she couldn't quite name.
Maybe she didn't want to.
Maisie had heard a certain word used before, about him, efficient, like that was all that mattered. And Igor was that, to an unnerving degree. Never late. Never wrong. Never tired.
But she'd always suspected it wasn't just about skill. It was about control. And Igor, with those silent eyes and perfect stillness, was the kind of control people mistook for compliance.
Her gaze flicked toward Josh, already absorbed in the next message flashing on his pager. This plan couldn't afford to crack. It needed discipline. Obedience. Precision. Igor had all of that.
But it also needed something harder to measure. Intention. Will. A soul that still burned, even quietly.
And Igor? She knew he had one. That was the problem. It was there, somewhere beneath the surface, buried but burning. And sometimes, when their eyes met, it looked right back at her.
Maisie sat up straighter, pushing down the unease that twisted in her gut. Fine. She'd use him, just like everyone else. Just like she was expected to.
But she couldn't stop the thought echoing in the back of her mind: What happens when he stops letting himself be used?
And worse, what if she was the one who taught him how? There was guilt in that question, sharp and cold. But something else too, quieter and far more dangerous.
She didn't want to see him as more than what he was supposed to be.
But she did.
She snapped open her pager and typed the command without ceremony:[IGOR, BRING THE CAR AROUND. IMMEDIATELY.]
Her voice, when she spoke aloud, came out sharper than she intended. "Igor, bring the car around."
In the car, Igor didn't miss a beat. He marked his place in the worn paperback he had read more times than he could count, 1984, and slid it into a hidden compartment beneath the dashboard of the transport vehicle. A place he'd hollowed out himself, long ago. Somewhere no one else ever seemed to look.
He moved in silence, his expression unreadable. It always was.
Maisie didn't glance his way as she descended the steps two at a time, her strides purposeful, clipped. Her ponytail bounced behind her like a metronome set to emergency. Her father used to say she had a gift for urgency. But today, it felt less like a gift and more like a clock ticking down to something she couldn't quite name.
As the door slammed behind her, the only sound left was the soft purr of the car engine, already warmed, already waiting.
And Igor, eyes trained ahead, hands steady on the wheel.
Ready. Always ready.