The first sign that something was wrong came as silence.
Wolfe Tower never slept—night or day, someone was always walking the halls, checking feeds, updating logs. But that night, as Yuna stepped out of the master suite at 3:17 a.m., barefoot and anxious, the corridors were still. No murmurs from security. No elevator hum. Just an unnatural quiet pressing in from all sides.
She tightened her robe around her waist and padded toward the surveillance hub.
It was empty.
The main monitor blinked on standby.
The chair was still spinning slightly.
Her heart dropped.
"Austin?" she called into the room, knowing full well he shouldn't be there—but still hoping someone might answer.
No one did.
Then a sound—soft, muffled—from the corner.
She turned fast.
A shadow moved behind the one-way mirror wall.
She approached slowly, pulse quickening.
"Hello?"
The mirror slid open, revealing a narrow corridor meant for maintenance access. It was rarely used. Only the high-clearance personnel knew it existed.
Inside lay a phone.
Yuna recognized it.
Alexander's spare—used for his most classified correspondences.
It was open to a message thread.
Only one new text:
"Turn on Channel 6."
Her fingers moved before her brain caught up. She reached for the remote on the wall and flicked to Channel 6, a niche investigative broadcast that specialized in political exposés.
What she saw made her knees buckle.
Live footage.
A woman standing in front of the Eastin Foundation.
No name. No Chyron.
Just a close-up shot of her face, covered in a black lace veil, standing next to a security agent holding an umbrella.
But Yuna knew that mouth.
That jawline.
That voice, when she spoke next.
"My name is Angel Wolfe."
Alexander's mother.
Alive.
And not just alive—he stood on live television, flanked by Eastin lawyers, giving what could only be described as a public resurrection.
Yuna backed into the wall, breath stolen.
She didn't need to hear the rest to know what was coming. But the words burned anyway.
"I faked my death to escape my son's violent spiral. I feared for my safety. I feared for my company. And I fear for anyone who now believes in him."
The screen split—showing an old photo of Alexander, standing before the smoldering ruins of a building after one of Wolfe International's earliest boardroom collapses.
Yuna didn't hear the rest.
She ran.
Down the corridor. Toward Alexander's private vault.
She found him inside, staring at the screen with the same numb disbelief in his eyes.
"Don't say it," he muttered when she entered.
"I won't," she said. "Because it's not true."
He turned slowly, lips pressed tight. "She didn't just come back from the dead. She came back with a dagger."
Yuna crossed to him. "She was working with your enemies long before this. You said it yourself."
"I thought she was protecting me."
"She was protecting something. Not you."
He looked down, his jaw twitching. "Do you know what it's like to build your entire identity on grief—and then find out it was a scam?"
She did.
She didn't say it.
Instead, she reached for his hand.
But he pulled away.
"I need air," he said.
She didn't stop him as he left.
Not this time.
She stood alone in the war room, screens blinking, her reflection warped in the glass.
Until the phone buzzed again.
1 NEW MESSAGE
Unknown Number
"The wolves are eating their own. You're next."
Alexander didn't go far. He ended up on the rooftop, rain drizzling lightly against the city's endless skyline. His hands gripped the railing, knuckles white.
He thought of the letter his mother had left. The one who promised she was protecting him.
What had it all meant?
Was it another manipulation?
Had she always been part of Eastin Holdings?
What if Yuna were?
The thought was cruel.
Unfounded.
But it didn't stop the doubt.
She had her secrets. He could feel them. And now, his mother—his actual blood—had gone public to say the very thing he had feared most since this began:
That he was dangerous.
That he was being played.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
He didn't turn.
"I said I needed air."
"I brought fire instead."
Now he turns to see Yuna standing there in a leather jacket, soaked through, holding a thin folder between two fingers.
"You're not going to like what's inside," she said.
He took it anyway.
Opened it.
Inside: a full transcription of a conversation between Victor Eastin and a man referred to only as Rook.
In it, Victor laid out the plan.
Frame Alexander.
Use Angel Wolfe's reappearance as leverage.
Rewrite the entire narrative.
Bury Yuna under mental health accusations again if necessary.
Alexander's eyes burned.
"How did you get this?"
"Through my mother," she said. "She's been hiding more than shame. She kept records. Maybe she wasn't brave then. But she's trying to be now."
He swallowed.
And the last page made him choke.
A single line from Angel Wolfe's handwritten notes, dated one year ago:
"If I ever come back, it will not be by choice. And if I speak against my son, it will be under threat. The Eastins will not allow me to live unless I become their voice."
Alexander exhaled. "They're controlling her."
Yuna nodded. "She's their next weapon."
He leaned against the railing.
"So what do we do?"
Yuna didn't blink.
"We take the stage."
The next night, the Eastins hosted an emergency press conference.
Victor and Elsa flanked Angel Wolfe like guards at a royal execution.
A podium. Cameras. Security.
The world watched.
Then the world shifted.
Because as Victor began to spoke, the screens behind him flickered.
And the feed changed.
To a pre-recorded message.
Alexander Wolfe, standing in a private library.
Beside him: Yuna.
Calm. Unbroken. Eyes direct to the camera.
"You've heard lies. So now, hear the truth."
Alexander stepped forward. "I was raised by wolves. One of them faked her death. The others tried to fake mine."
"They say we're dangerous," Yuna continued. "We are—to those who hide behind legacy and lies. But dangerous isn't the same as dishonest."
Behind them, footage played.
Angel Wolfe, in a hidden recording, whispering to her driver:
"They threatened me. Said they'd erase Alexander if I didn't help. I had no choice."
Then more:
Victor Eastin handing a file to Austin—marked "Operation Hollow Crown."
Austin laughing in a hotel suite. "She won't remember signing it. The sedation works. Just make sure the press gets the right story."
The press exploded.
Live.
Unfiltered.
Unrehearsed.
Victor shouted. Elsa tried to kill the feed.
Too late.
The world had already seen.
Angel Wolfe stared at the screen like a woman unraveling.
And then—mid-conference—she fainted.
The cameras captured every second.
Paramedics rushed forward.
David stepped back into the shadows, shaking.
And Austin?
He was already gone.
No one had seen him arrive.
No one saw him leave.
But in Yuna's private inbox that night, a last message arrived:
"I warned you not to remember. Now you've made yourself unforgettable."
Attached: a list of names.
Ten people.
All dead.
All tied to Glass Dove.
All with one thing in common.
They had tried to expose it.
And failed.
Yuna stared at the list.
Then at the ring on her finger.
"I'm not them," she whispered.
"I won't fail."
Downstairs, Alexander paced the edge of the command room.
"Angel's in Eastin custody. Victor's already pivoting—he'll say she's mentally unstable."
"We get her out," Yuna said.
"We don't have time."
"Then we make time."
Just then, the power flickered.
The screens died.
And every device in the room lit up with the same red symbol:
♜
The Rook.
A voice came through the system—distorted, mechanical.
"Checkmate's not when the king falls."
"It's when the queen no longer moves."
Yuna stared at the screen.
And for the first time in weeks—
She was afraid.