At the same time, deep below the city, the underworld pulsed like a living machine. Inside its largest mansion — a sprawling labyrinth of black marble and glass — the innermost chamber was quiet except for the sound of water striking tile. Angel stood beneath a cold shower, actual ice cubes melting against her skin as the steam curled around her.

She stepped out after a moment, water dripping down her neck, and pulled on a single silk robe before walking barefoot across the floor. In the corner, a workstation glowed dim blue, humming softly. A woman was already there, waiting — head bowed, holding out a glass of fresh juice.

Angel took it without a word, sat down at the desk, and booted up the system. The screen flared to life, streams of encrypted data flickering across it. She took a slow sip, eyes fixed on the display.

"I'm going for a deep dive," she said.

The woman froze, eyes going wide. "You can't. Not again. The last time you tried, your body almost fried from the overload — it was a miracle you made it back."

Angel didn't even glance up. "Nothing'll happen this time. I'm ready."

The woman shook her head. "No. Not without the Lord's permission. If something happens to you, he'll kill me before sunrise."

Angel reached out, catching her wrist before she could move away. Her voice stayed calm, steady. "I just need ten seconds. You can pull me out right after. Ten seconds won't kill me."

"Angel, I—"

"Ten," Angel repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument.

The woman hesitated, torn between fear and obedience, then finally exhaled and began setting things up. The helmet went on first, followed by the visor and a cluster of cables linking into her spine and wrists. Systems whirred alive around them, the air heavy with static.

"Ready," the woman whispered.

Angel closed her eyes. The lights flickered. Her body jerked once, violently — eyes flashing crimson before they rolled back. Then everything went black.

The woman blinked, confused. The system had powered down on its own. Not even five seconds had passed. She stepped closer, reaching for the main switch — but Angel's eyes snapped open again.

"Someone's trying to bait Xavier," she said quietly, her tone sharper than before. "I just got a ping from Krell."

The woman's face drained of color. "Krell? As in—"

"Yeah," Angel cut in, setting the visor aside. "No wonder I couldn't trace Victor. Krell's been covering him."

Angel rose from her chair, the cables and visor still faintly buzzing as she walked across the chamber. The lights flicked on one by one, revealing the full space — a perfect balance of luxury and lethality. Every wall gleamed with polished metal and deep velvet; one side was lined with weapon racks and data terminals, the other with a vanity and wardrobe that looked like something out of a dream. It was the kind of room that could belong only to someone who lived between war and glamour.

She made her way to the closet, pulling out her usual outfit — the one she had in several variations, same cut, different colors, each one similar enough to make her look like it was some kind of uniform and a casual outfit at the same time.

Behind her, the woman followed quietly, still looking uneasy. "Do you think Krell realized it was you he contacted?" she asked, voice hesitant.

Angel shrugged off her robe, changing without hesitation. "No," she said simply. "If he did, he would have already left Victor's side. And probably on his way to leave the planet by now."

The woman — Elira, as she was called — let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah… that sounds about right."

A while later, Angel finished dressing — fitted pants, a sleeveless top, gloves, her usual cold elegance restored. She checked the time; dawn wasn't far. Turning toward Elira, she stretched lightly and said, "I'm hungry. Get breakfast ready."

Elira nodded immediately. "Right away, my lady." Then she left the room, closing the door behind her.

Angel threw herself onto the bed, grabbing her holo from the side table. The screen lit her face as she scrolled through Xavier's profile — his latest live stream, recent uploads, posts, comments. Every time she saw some random account badmouthing him or spreading rumors, she sent silent orders to her network. Those users vanished from the net soon after, their profiles wiped, their existence erased.

"Worthless scums," she muttered under her breath. "Trying to stain my world."

Her hand drifted down unconsciously to her pussy as her mind flickered back to that night — Xavier's cock inside her, his breath against her neck, the way he didn't stop until she couldn't think straight.

Her face flushed. She caught herself, sighing and dragging her hand away. "What the hell's wrong with me…" she muttered, shaking her head. "This isn't like me."

A knock interrupted her thoughts. The door opened slightly, and a young maid stepped in, bowing her head. "My lady, Miss Elira asked me to tell you that breakfast is ready. She's waiting at the table."

Angel nodded, stood, and glanced in the mirror. She ran a hand through her hair, fixing a stray strand before heading out of the room — her expression calm again, like nothing had happened.

Angel walked the halls like a shadow that owned the place — guards standing stiff at attention, hands at their sides, heads bent so deep they never dared look up. Every salute was automatic, precise, practiced, like a machine reciting a promise. The mansion pressed quiet around her; even the carpets seemed to hold their breath.

A pair of carved double doors swallowed her steps and opened into a dining hall the size of a chapel. The table ran the length of the room, stacked with plates, steaming pans, and towers of fruit that looked staged just to flex wealth. Men in black stood at the corners, rifles rested but faces blank; they were there so nothing stupid would happen, and everyone in the room knew it.

Angel dropped onto the table like it was a throne rather than furniture, legs swinging over the edge, and Elira moved at once — pouring juice, sliding a plate in front of her, tucking a napkin so it looked like a courtesy and not fear. The servants moved with the same steady efficiency the guards displayed: eyes down, hands steady, no questions.

While she chewed, Angel looked up at Elira and asked, casual like she was checking the weather, "Who am I?"

Elira blinked, surprised, then answered because her mouth worked before panic could gag it. "You're the only daughter of the Galactic Mafia Lord. The name everyone fears. The one who makes rules the underworld remembers."

Angel nodded, swallowed, and asked another one. "If someone looked at me without permission… what happens?"

Elira didn't hesitate. "They die." Her voice was flat and practiced, like she'd said it a thousand times for a thousand different sins.

"And if someone shouted my name in public," Angel pressed, eyes tracking the way a guard's cigarette glowed at the far end of the table, "what then?"

"Burned," Elira said without flinch. "Not a choice. An example."

Angel toyed with a fork, watching steam rise off the food. "What if they touch me. Even one finger. What happens to them?"

Elira swallowed, words whispering out like a confession: "It depends. Shred them if it's disrespect. Fry them if it's betrayal. The Lord doesn't waste mercy."

Angel let out a short laugh — half wonder, half something that hurt. She looked at Elira like she was measuring the woman for a habit. Then she said, blunt as a blade, "So then why do I keep thinking about Xavier? Why do I want him to fuck me so hard I forget everything? Why do I want him to ruin me and still come back for more?"

Elira didn't answer. She kept her face steady and her hands steady, because she had to, because the rules of the room demanded it. But her eyes flickered once — a microcrack of sympathy, or shock, or fear.

Angel chewed, watched the reaction, and let it sit a beat too long. "If Father ever finds out," she said quietly, the sentence heavy with a threat of its own, "he'd—" She didn't finish. She didn't need to. Everyone at the table knew what the rest sounded like.

She cut through the silence with a grin that wasn't friendly. "He must never know." Then she ate again, like she always ended every dangerous conversation: by proving she was still in control.

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