I look up at him, my ice-blue eyes still shimmering with the thrill of the hunt.
"She was trying to embarrass me. She deserved it."
"She did. And now every man in this room is terrified of you. They don't just see a beautiful woman anymore; they see the woman who can read their sins in their pulse. You’ve done exactly what I needed. You’ve made us the most dangerous pair in the building."
He stops near a balcony overlooking the sunken dance floor, his hand moving from my back to grip my waist, pulling me a fraction closer.
"But the night is young. And now that you've neutralized the competition, it's time to start the real work. The Collector is watching from the corner. He’s the one who holds the keys to the vault."
Deimos guides me through the shifting currents of the ballroom, the crowd parting for him. My skin is still buzzing from the confrontation with Aris. For the first time, the weight of the midnight-blue dress doesn't feel like a costume, it feels like armor.
He leads me toward a secluded alcove lined with heavy velvet curtains. Sitting in a high-backed leather chair, surrounded by a small circle of sycophants, is a man who looks more like a museum artifact than a human being.
This is Silas Hale, known to the Elite simply as The Collector. He is skeletal, with skin like yellowed parchment and eyes that seem to see only the price tag on everything they touch. He glances at Deimos. He is the first one so far whose eyes meet his first.
"My favourite hitman," Silas rasps, his voice like dry leaves skittering on stone.
"I heard you found something... rare. A woman with a mind as sharp as its silhouette."
Deimos doesn't sit. He stands behind me, his hands resting heavily on my shoulders. It is a silent claim of ownership that radiates a protective heat.
"I don't deal in commonalities, Silas," he says, his voice a low, steady anchor.
"Dr. Emerson isn't just a guest. She’s the reason I’m still breathing. She sees the trajectory of a strike before the lead even hits the air."
Hale leans forward, his watery eyes narrowing as they settle on mine.
"A pathologist who predicts the living? How paradoxical. Tell me, Doctor, what do you see when you look at this room?"
I take a slow, measured breath. I don't look for their jewelry. I look for the biological truth.
"I see a room full of galloping cardiovascular disease and untreated neurosis," I say, my voice professional.
I point a single, manicured finger at a bloated shipping magnate nearby.
"That man has a bilateral carotid bruit. He’ll have a stroke before the next fiscal quarter."
I turn my attention back to Hale, leaning in just enough to let him see the ice in my eyes.
"And you, Mr. Hale? You’re suffering from a localized tremor in your right hand. It’s not Parkinson’s. It’s heavy metal toxicity, likely from that lead-glazed decanter you favor. If you don't change your habits, you won't live to see your next acquisition."
The circle goes deathly silent.
He pulls his hand back, his face pale. Then, slowly, a thin, yellowed smile stretches across his lips. He looks at Deimos with genuine respect.
"You weren't exaggerating," Silas states loudly.
"She sees the clock ticking inside the body. A treasure indeed."
I feel Deimos lean down, his lips ghosting against my ear as he addresses him.
"I need the ledger from the '94 shipment, Silas. And I want the Doctor to be the one to verify the seals. If there’s a hint of a lie in those pages, she’ll smell the rot before I even open the cover."
Hale signals to his guards, and they pull back a heavy velvet tapestry, revealing a thick steel door.
As we step into the private corridor, the music from the ballroom becomes a dull, distant thud. The air here is colder, smelling of ozone and old paper. Deimos doesn’t let go of me; his hand is firm on my arm, a constant, grounding heat against my skin.
"You’re doing perfectly, Madeline," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.
