The counting isn't just a ritual anymore.
It's atrigger.
The stage automation system responds to a specific sequence of movements—a code I programmed into Ro months ago, accessible through the neural link embedded in my wrist cuff. Four blinks in a specific pattern. Four taps of my toe against the floor in a specific rhythm.
Activation confirmed, Ro's voice whispers through the earpiece I never removed - always wearing when I leave my house like a glittering accessory.
"But did you really underestimate me?" I ask, watching the confusion spread across their faces as the lights continue their erratic dance, "because I'm crazy?"
They share a look.
They don't understand.
They don't know what's happening.
They have no idea that they walked into my trap, not the other way around.
Something makes a loud sound—mechanical, grinding, the unmistakable noise of the stage's automated rigging system activating.
Golden cages begin to descend.
The bars are reinforced steel, close enough together that a grown man can't squeeze through, strong enough to hold weight far beyond what any performer would need. The cages lower over the rows of red velvet chairs secured for an audience, hovering just above the seats like some kind of avant-garde art installation.
The men are scrambling now.
Shouting.
Reaching for weapons.
Trying to figure out what's happening and how to stop it.
Too late.
Far too late.
I giggle.
High, bright, absolutely fucking unhinged.
"Well," I say, letting the manic glee color my voice, "you guys better hope either these men arrive in fifteen minutes, or I die."
The leader's face has gone pale.
Good.
He's finally understanding.
"For the outcome of this isn't going to end well."
I rise from the chair.
The ropes fall away—easily, effortlessly, because I dislocated both thumbs three minutes ago and have been slowly working free ever since. The pain is distant, manageable, nothing compared to what I've endured before.
My hands reach behind my back.
Find the familiar weight of my blades.
They never searched me properly.
