Elara had always believed monsters wore power like armor.
Now she realized the most dangerous ones wore it like skin.
The Council wasn't retreating.
It was recruiting.
Two days after the Ashlist leak, three new names emerged on the Council roster.
Young. Untarnished. Camera-friendly.
Handpicked to look clean.
Men and women with perfect records, shiny degrees, spotless shoes.
"We are refreshing leadership for the new era," the press statement read.
"These fresh voices will help restore trust."
Elara scoffed.
"Fresh voices," she said, tossing the tablet onto the couch. "Same strings. Same puppeteers."
Khalid glanced at the names. "We don't know them. Yet."
"We will."
NUMA had taught her one thing:
To kill a machine, you don't unplug it.
You feed it something it can't process.
So Elara fed them names. Real ones.
The replacements weren't as clean as they looked.
The youngest had ties to a defunct security firm—one responsible for "handling" student protests in 2019. Another had been cited in a quiet sexual harassment case, swept under by family influence.
And the third?
A name Elara recognized.
Mayowa Ikenna.
A boy who once told Amara, "You're too loud for a girl."
Now he sat on national TV talking about "ethics reform."
Elara smiled, sharp and slow.
She was ready for him.
They moved operations again.
Too much traffic around the bookshop. Too many near misses.
This time, they hid in plain sight ,a co-working space on the Mainland, renting a room under a tech startup shell company.
Young coders walked past them daily, sipping energy drinks, minding their own business.
Perfect cover.
But Elara was changing.
More calculated.
Less afraid.
She didn't flinch when people stared.
Didn't blink when drones hovered.
She walked with purpose now.
The daughter of a dictator, wearing her sister's rage like a crown.
That night, they ran their first targeted strike.
Khalid called it Project Threadburn.
They laced a press interview with metadata pointing to Ikenna's secret offshore files.
Journalists picked it up like sharks in blood.
The footage went viral before morning.
Within hours, #EthicsMyAss trended on every major platform.
By sunset, Ikenna released a statement:
"I was young.
I made mistakes.
I've learned."
But the damage was done.
Sponsors pulled out.
The Council's credibility cracked.
And Elara?
She added another name to the Ashlist — in red.
Khalid leaned over her shoulder as she drew a line.
"One down," he said.
Elara didn't look up. "Two more."
"Do we leak everything?"
"No," she said. "We drip. Like acid."
They moved fast.
The next target was FunmiAluko, the polished publicist newly appointed to handle the Council's reputation.
What they found?
Not scandal.
But strategy.
Emails planning social media distractions. Buying hashtags. Planting pro-Council influencers.
It wasn't dirt.
It was war.
So they used it.
Leaked one email chain to an activist page known for calling out fake outrage campaigns.
Within twelve hours, Aluko's name was trending — for all the wrong reasons.
Her followers turned.
And so did the press.
One headline read:
"The Council Isn't Cleaning House, It's Repainting It."
Back in the co-working safehouse, Elara sat by the window as the sky turned orange.
"We're not just burning names anymore," Khalid said quietly.
She didn't reply.
Because he was wrong.
They weren't burning names.
They were burning perception.
One narrative at a time.
But the Council wasn't stupid.
With every file they dropped, surveillance tightened.
Phone pings came faster.
IP masks glitched more often.
Elara knew it wouldn't be long before the walls shifted again.
Before someone found them.
Before the next move had to be blood.
Later that night, Khalid found her writing something by hand.
Not a note.
A name.
Her own.
In red.
"Elara?"
She looked up.
"If I fall," she said, folding the paper, "burn this name with the others."
Khalid swallowed hard. "You're not falling."
She smiled.
"I'm just getting started."