Chapter 811
The Helios Convention Center was a glass cathedral of capitalism. Security was tight, but Lucian’s team was tighter. We slipped in through the service entrance.
I stood backstage, my heart hammering against my ribs. I wore a white suit—armor.
“Five minutes,” the stage manager said, looking confused as to why I was there, but too intimidated by Lucian to ask.
Liam stood beside me, adjusting his tie. “You ready to blow up the world?”
“Only the bad parts,” I said.
Alistair was positioned near the emergency exit, leaning on his cane, scanning the crowd with a predator’s intensity. He gave me a nod.
I walked out onto the stage. The current speaker—a CEO of a social media giant—stopped mid-sentence. The crowd murmured.
𝗕𝘦 𝗽a𝘳𝗍 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝗎𝗿 𝗰о𝗆m𝘶𝗻𝘪t𝘆 о𝗇 𝗀а𝗅𝘯оv𝗲𝗅𝘴.𝘤𝘰𝗺
“I apologize for the interruption,” I said into the microphone, my voice steady. “But there is no future of technology if we don’t fix the present corruption.”
The screen behind me changed. Parker had hijacked the feed. It didn’t show a product demo. It showed a web—a complex, red lattice of financial transactions.
“This,” I said, pointing to the screen, “is the K-Syndicate. A criminal organization that has been rotting our city from the inside out.”
The crowd gasped. Murmurs rippled through the hall. Cameras flashed.
“They traffic in weapons. Drugs. People. And they are led by a system known as the Architect.”
I clicked the remote. Names appeared on the screen—politicians, judges, CEOs.
“These are their enablers.”
Suddenly, the lights flickered. The screen went black.
“Cut the feed!” someone shouted from the wings.
“They’re hacking us!” Parker yelled in my earpiece. “They cut the mainline!”
“Dead man’s switch engaged!” Parker shouted a second later.
The room was suddenly illuminated not by stage lights, but by the glow of ten thousand smartphones.
“Check your phones!” I shouted to the confused crowd. “The truth is already in your hands!”
Phones started pinging—thousands of them. A symphony of notifications.
Then the doors burst open.
Men in tactical gear stormed in. Not police. Mercenaries.
“Everybody down!” they screamed.
Panic. Chaos. People screaming, running.
“Skye, get off the stage!” Liam tackled me just as bullets chewed up the podium.
We rolled behind a speaker stack.
“They’re here,” Liam panted. “The Architect sent a hit squad.”
“We need to get to the extraction point,” Alistair’s voice crackled. “Roof. Now. I have the elevator secure.”
We ran through the backstage corridors, dodging staff and fleeing guests.
We burst onto the roof. The wind was howling.