The glow of six massive, curved monitors illuminated the dark penthouse.
Eleanora sat in the center of the workstation. Her fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard, the keys clacking in a rapid, aggressive rhythm.
Lines of green code cascaded down the center screen as she attempted to breach the Long Island traffic control servers.
Suddenly, the screen froze.
A blaring red alarm sounded through the room's speakers. A massive, gold "V" emblem materialized in the center of her monitor, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Eleanora's hands stopped moving. Her fingers hovered over the keys. Her brow furrowed.
Devonte walked into the room, carrying a mug of black coffee. He stopped behind her chair, his eyes locking onto the glowing gold "V".
His posture stiffened. "Vaughan Security."
"Military-grade firewall," Eleanora murmured. Her voice was tight. "The traffic cameras at the intersection where Philip died were hijacked and encrypted by the Vaughan Group an hour after the crash," Devonte explained, his eyes scanning the secondary monitor. "Intelligence suggests the target vehicle in the crash was carrying a highly classified data chip intended for a Vaughan Group competitor, but the chip went missing post-crash. The Vaughan Group is likely securing the footage to conduct their own investigation into the asset loss. Philip was just collateral damage in their crossfire."
She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking under her weight. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a fresh strawberry lollipop, and popped it into her mouth.
"It wasn't a random hit," Eleanora said, the candy clicking against her teeth. "Someone powerful wanted him dead, and Vaughan is holding the footage."
She typed a few more commands, trying to find a backdoor. The screen flashed red again. Access Denied.
"I can't break this remotely," Eleanora said, her jaw tightening. "It's physically air-gapped. I need physical access to a top-tier Vaughan terminal."
Devonte set the coffee mug down. He reached over and tapped a few keys on the secondary monitor.
A highly classified medical file appeared on the screen, accompanied by a photograph of Fidel Vaughan. His face was sharp, his eyes dark and ruthless.
"Fidel Vaughan," Devonte read the dossier. "Current head of the Vaughan Group. He suffers from severe, chronic trigeminal neuralgia and insomnia. He has been searching globally for a cure for five years. His private medical bounty is currently at fifty million dollars."
Eleanora stared at Fidel's face on the screen.
Her pulse steadied. A cold, calculated plan formed in her mind.
"He needs a doctor," Eleanora said softly.
She stood up from the chair and walked across the penthouse toward the master bathroom.
She turned on the solid brass faucet. Ice-cold water rushed into the marble sink.
Eleanora cupped her hands, caught the freezing water, and splashed it directly onto her face. The shock of the cold made her gasp.
She grabbed a bottle of heavy-duty cleansing oil and pumped it into her palms. She rubbed her hands together and pressed them to her face, scrubbing violently.
The thick black eyeshadow, the heavy foundation, and the dark lipstick melted away, swirling down the drain in a dark, muddy stream.
She grabbed a clean white towel and patted her face dry.
When she looked into the mirror, the gothic outcast was dead.
The face staring back was breathtakingly beautiful. Her skin was flawless and pale, her cheekbones sharp, and her eyes held a chilling, predatory calmness.
She walked out of the bathroom and approached a biometric wall panel. She pressed her thumb against the scanner.
The wall slid open, revealing a high-tech armory and wardrobe.
Eleanora bypassed the casual clothes. She pulled a sleek, tailored black tactical trench coat from the rack and slipped it on. The heavy fabric settled over her shoulders like armor.
She opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of ultra-thin, sterile medical gloves. She snapped them onto her hands, the latex pulling tight over her knuckles.
Finally, she knelt and opened a temperature-controlled floor safe.
Inside rested a brushed silver briefcase. She lifted it by the handle. It was heavy, packed with custom-synthesized serums and her signature medical tools.
Spectre was online.
She walked out to the private underground garage.
Devonte was already waiting beside a heavily modified, matte-black Aston Martin. The engine was idling with a low, aggressive growl.
Eleanora opened the passenger door and slid into the low bucket seat. She rested the silver briefcase on her knees.
Devonte climbed into the driver's seat. "Fidel Vaughan's convoy just left the Vaughan Tower. They are heading north toward his private club."
Eleanora stared straight ahead through the windshield.
"Intercept," she commanded.
Devonte shifted the car into gear. The Aston Martin shot out of the garage like a bullet, tearing into the rainy Manhattan night.
