Edric back to his office, he knows that there's more to the case of Lucian Rourke.
They might have apprehended Victor Hale the killer of Lucian Rourke, but given Lucian's background and the involvement of the mafia family from Kilmore, he's sure there are underlying connections if he can just find that significant connection.
and he does,
The mafia has covered their tracks well—expertly. But not well enough.
Not against him.
Edric has never been one to let things lie. His mind is wired for patterns, for details that others overlooked. Where some see coincidences, he sees structure. Where most would have hit a dead end, he sees a thread to pull.
And pull he does.
The first step is finding Victor Hale's communications. Eris Lorne has commissioned top agencies and appealed to AI security to erase much of his digital footprint in her rage after Lucian's death, but Edric doesn't need the original data—only its echoes.
Encrypted messages are never truly gone.
A recovered fragment here. A reconstructed algorithm there. It isn't long before he begins piecing together Victor's final months, and what he finds is methodical, deliberate manipulation. Someone has been nudging him along, carefully orchestrating every step.
That is all Edric needs.
He traces the origin points of those messages—not to their senders directly, but to relays, to proxy networks used by the mafia. It is a puzzle, but puzzles are his domain. Every layer of obfuscation peels back and reveals another hidden link, a name, a time, a place.
The deeper he digs, the clearer the picture becomes.
This hasn't been a simple hit. It has been calculated from the start.
And now, Edric has the names. The faces. The undeniable proof that the mafia has used Victor Hale as nothing more than a disposable pawn.
Not only does Edric find out the tangled webs of connection between the mafia and Victor Hale, but he also uncovers some disturbing facts about the factions that back up the mafia in Killmore and a conspiracy about another war against the AI once again.
Is this why the council of elites in the Solis Corps wants me to handle Lucian's case?
Edric leans back on his chair contemplating,
If the solid corps does have an underlying agenda about giving him this case, then that begs the question of how his aunt is involved in this case especially when she sends Lyra to accompany him.
He can only guess a reason for his aunt's actions since his aunt is unfathomable.
****
Once again he reviews the information he gathered.
Edric leans forward and looks at the glow of multiple holo-screens casting a cold, bluish hue across his sharp features. The evidence is all there before him—meticulously arranged, analyzed, and reconstructed. Each message, each strategic push that had led Victor Hale to kill Lucian Rourke, is a thread woven into a larger tapestry of control.
Victor Hale has always been a man of unwavering devotion—his entire existence orbiting a singular, untouchable star: Eris Lorne. His obsession is neither quiet nor reasonable; it is the kind of fanatical worship that makes him susceptible to suggestion, to control. The mafia family has seen it instantly, long before they ever needed him.
They have known that, given the right push, he will willingly become their weapon.
And so, they plant the seeds.
It has begun subtly. Rumors whispered in the right places. Carefully crafted messages were sent to Victor through anonymous channels. The mafia didn't tell him what to do outright—no, that would be too crude. Instead, they shaped his thoughts, gently steering his perception like a master sculptor chiseling away at an unfinished masterpiece.
They fed his insecurities. His paranoia. His desperate need to prove his devotion to Eris Lorne.
"Here's a man close to your Goddess, a position that should've been yours."
"Why is he close to her? What about you who devote so much time and effort?"
"He's Lucian Rourke a fugitive!"
"Lucian Rourke… doesn't deserve to be by her side."
"He leeches off of her light, dims her brilliance."
"How much brighter could she shine if not for him?"
At first, Victor only seethed at the idea. He raged in private, but he did nothing. That wasn't enough. The mafia needed him to act.
So, they escalated.
They ensured that Victor saw carefully manipulated footage of Lucian and Eris together—angled just right to suggest intimacy that wasn't there. They used their extensive connections to forge documents, making it seem as though Lucian had been siphoning resources, that he had been a hidden liability to Eris all along.
Then came the final stroke—the direct messages. No longer subtle, no longer whispers in the dark.
"If you love her, truly love her, shouldn't you be the one to cleanse her path?"
By the time Victor held the blade in his hand, he believed it had been his idea all along. That it was his divine duty to remove the parasite. That Eris Lorne would thank him.
The mafia never lifted a finger themselves.
They simply pulled the right strings and let Victor Hale dance to their tune.
The mafia had played their part well.
And so, Edric sees something deeper now. This isn't just a singular case of manipulation. It is a method—one that could be replicated, refined, and perfected.
And if the mafia can do it so seamlessly, then who else is using the same techniques?
His fingers drum against the desk, his mind running simulations faster than his hands can type. The factions lurking in the shadows—the ones constantly maneuvering for power—how many of them are already utilizing such insidious tactics? He has always known of their existence, of their endless games, but he has never considered the possibility that they are manipulating events on a level even he has not foreseen.
What if they weren't just influencing their enemies?
What if they were guiding their own ranks?
The thought sends a slow, creeping chill down his spine.
He knows his organization is not immune to power struggles. He has seen rivalries flare up, and subtle shifts in influence. But what if some of those conflicts have been artificially stoked? What if certain key decisions, certain betrayals, have not been organic but engineered?
His mind flicks back to past incidents—disruptions that have weakened powerful allies, mistakes made by those too intelligent to have erred so easily. What if those have been deliberate? What if someone has been pulling the strings all along, waiting for the right moment to seize control?
Edric clenches his jaw.
If this is true, then there are ghosts in the system, architects of deception operating from within.
And if they have gone unnoticed for this long, then that means they were not just competent.
They are leagues ahead.
He exhales slowly, forcing his thoughts into order. He can not afford to let paranoia take root. He needs proof. He needs to dig deeper.
But one thing is clear—whoever has done this to Victor Hale has merely been the surface of a much deeper game.
And Edric isn't about to be played.
*****
The room is silent except for the rhythmic tapping of Cherry's fingers against her desk. Lyra stands across from her, arms crossed, eyes sharp with focus. The air between them is heavy with unspoken weight—Cherry's way of ensuring that Lyra absorbs the full significance of what she is about to say.
Finally, Cherry exhales and leans forward, lacing her fingers together.
"I read your report," Madam Cherry states as her focus is still on the tablet giving real-time information from various parts of the world provided by her agents.
Lyra quietly waits for Madam Cherry to continue because she can sense, there's more to this meeting than affirming her report. Perhaps her efforts aren't enough to gain whatever Madam Cherry wants when she assigns Lyra to help Edric.
Lyra with that thought frowns. As she is about to ask when Madam Cherry cuts her off,
"You're too caught up in the surface, Lyra," she declares, her voice smooth but firm. "Victor Hale may have been the one to kill Lucian Rourke, but you should know better than to think it's that simple. Nothing ever is."
Lyra furrows her brows. "I understand that there are hidden connections, but Victor—his obsession with Eris Lorne, his belief that Lucian was corrupting her—wasn't that enough of a motive?"
Madam Cherry tilts her head slightly, watching Lyra as though testing her understanding. "Hale was a zealot, yes. His obsession made him useful. But do you really think he came up with the idea on his own? That he just woke up one day and decided Lucian Rourke had to die?"
Lyra stiffens.
Madam Cherry lets the silence settle before continuing, her voice quiet but unrelenting. "No, someone led him to that conclusion. Subtly. Patiently. Carefully. The way a fisherman lures prey into a net."
Lyra's mind begins assembling the implications, gears turning as she processes Madam Cherry's words. "…The mafia family?"
Madam Cherry nods, satisfied. "They didn't need to pull the trigger themselves. That would be sloppy. Instead, they poisoned the well. Whispered in the right ears. Gave Hale the impression that killing Lucian was his own idea, that he was saving his so-called 'goddess' from a parasite."
Lyra clenches her jaw, frustration flickering across her face. "And no one noticed this manipulation? Not even Victor Hale himself?"
Cherry's lips curve into something resembling a smirk, but there is no humor in it. "Victor was brilliant enough to kill an elite, that's a fact. But even the best don't always see what's lurking beneath their feet until it's too late. Besides, manipulation works so well because it feeds the ego making it hard to question the self. And that's the real problem, isn't it?"
She leans back, watching Lyra intently. "If the mafia was involved in Victor Hale's actions, then that means this wasn't just a personal vendetta. It was orchestrated. Which begs the question—who benefited from Lucian Rourke's death? And why?"
Lyra swallows hard. The scope of the situation is shifting in her mind, expanding beyond what she has originally thought.
Cherry taps her desk again, drawing Lyra's attention back. "That's why I'm sending you to Edric again. He's already on this trail, and if anyone can untangle these threads, it's him. You'll assist him in my place."
Lyra exhales, nodding. "Understood."
Cherry gives a slow, approving nod, but her gaze is calculating. "Good. And Lyra?"
Lyra meets her gaze.
"Don't just look at the facts. See what's between them. That's where the truth hides."
****
Lyra lays on her bed, staring at the ceiling and her mind refuses to keep still. The dim light from the city outside filters through the blinds, casting fractured patterns across the walls. She should be asleep—needed to be asleep—but Cherry's words echo in her head, unraveling her sense of certainty.
"See more than just the facts, Lyra. The truth isn't just in what's obvious—it's in the spaces between. The things left unsaid. The hands pulling the strings where no one's looking."
She turns onto her side, pressing her forehead against the cool fabric of her pillow. It is one thing to fight an enemy she can see, one she can strike, disable, eliminate. That is a battlefield she understands.
But this? This is something entirely different. A battlefield of whispers and unseen knives, of influence rather than firepower. Where the real threats aren't the ones openly standing in her way, but the ones shaping events from the shadows.
She clenches her hands into fists against the sheets.
Her combat skills have carried her this far, but here, in this world of conspiracies and deception, they feel insufficient. A well-placed bullet or a perfectly executed strike won't protect her from a war she can't see coming. Information is the weapon here. Perception is the armor.
And that terrifies her.
She has always thought that strength meant being able to fight, to endure, to win through sheer force of will. But now, she is beginning to understand—it isn't enough. Not here.
Lyra exhales sharply and sits up, running a hand through her hair. She can feel her heart beating a little too fast, her thoughts tangled in the weight of what lay ahead. She hates this uncertainty, this sense of being out of her depth.
But she can't afford to let it consume her.
Cherry has given her this task for a reason. She has to adapt, to learn how to see beyond the surface, to grasp the currents that moved unseen beneath the chaos.
Even if it means stepping onto a battlefield where her fists won't be the weapon that saves her.
Even if it means learning to fight a different kind of war.
She lays back down, staring at the ceiling once more, forcing herself to steady her breath.
Tomorrow, she will have to learn the battle with words.
****
Edric stands by the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, the city stretching far below him in a web of neon veins and restless movement. He's still awake for the revelations and great hidden implications heavy on his mind. A moment of silence around him a great contrast from the bustling nightlife in the city.
The faint hum of encrypted notifications on his device becomes a familiar background noise, but when his private channel lights up with a message from Cherry, he knows to pay close attention.
The message is short—characteristically so.
"The garden needs tending. Weeds grow where the soil is richest. Make sure to trim carefully—some roots hold more than just rot. Water what's worth keeping. The coming storm will make things shift. Be patient. Be thorough."
Edric's fingers tightens around the device. It seems that his aunt is willing to offer her aid for this task of his. And after reading her message, he understands that his aunt is already aware of the facts that he just uncovered.
Her foresight incredible deep, her sight, far reaching.
No wonder Aunt Cherry is so well renowned.
And with this message shows not only her power and wide scope of network, but most importantly her trust in him.
He smiles.
She isn't as ruthless as they say after all. I better not waste her good grace.
So he reads the message again, dissecting it.
The garden needs tending.
—The situation with the mafia needed handling. But this wasn't about brute force. It was about control.
Weeds grow where the soil is richest.
—The mafia had taken root in places of influence. They wouldn't just be criminals in the shadows; they would be embedded in power structures, feeding off corruption like parasites.
Make sure to trim carefully—some roots hold more than just rot.
—A warning. There were elements within the mafia worth using. If he cut too deeply, he might lose access to valuable intel. Some of them weren't just liabilities—they were assets.
Water what's worth keeping.
—He needed to manipulate the situation in his favor. Gain trust, and offer incentives where needed. Make them think they were in control, while he slowly bent them into a useful position.
The coming storm will make things shift.
—Something bigger was happening in the undercurrents. A power struggle? A new faction moving in? Either way, he needed to watch for signs.
Be patient. Be thorough.
—A reminder. This wasn't a battle won with brute strength but with strategy. Impulse would cost him; precision would give him everything.
Edric exhales slowly, letting the weight of the message settle in his mind. Cherry isn't just advising caution—she is setting the stage for something larger. If he plays this right, he won't just gain leverage over the mafia—he'll uncover the deeper threats lurking beneath them.
His lips curl into a faint, knowing smirk.
Message received.
Edric is still poring over Cherry's first message, mentally dissecting every phrase, every implication when his device chimes again. Another encrypted message. This time, it's shorter—far shorter.
"Lyra will be assisting you again."
That is it. No metaphor, no layered instructions. Just a single, unadorned statement.
And yet, it strikes him deeper than her carefully constructed first message.
Edric stares at the words, fingers motionless over the device. His mind, so accustomed to peeling apart deception and hidden meaning, can't help but latch onto what isn't said. No justifications, no reasoning. Not even a reminder of Lyra's capabilities or why she is the right choice.
Just the cold, irrefutable fact that Cherry has decided this.
That she knows something.
Edric clenches his jaw, his grip tightening.
What does she know?
The question coils in his mind, unsettling and unrelenting.
His own feelings has been… controlled. Logical. Or at least, that is what he told himself. But his aunt—Cherry, with her terrifying ability to perceive everything—has sent this message as if it is an inevitability.
What is she hinting at? As if she knows something that I don't?
And that unsettles him more than any hidden enemy ever can.
His thoughts betray him. The memories surface unbidden—Lyra's sharp but quiet presence, the way she moves with unwavering resolve, the way she doesn't hesitate to act for her goal even if that means inciting Edric's anger, the way her eyes shine with brilliance and triumph knowing her actions are worth the effort, and...
I'm drawn to her, I...
Edric exhales sharply, setting his device down. He refuses to entertain the thought further. Affection—attachment—is dangerous. If Cherry has noticed something, then it means he is slipping, letting something show.
Yet… his lips quirks in a faint, humorless smirk.
Damn her. She really sees too much.
****
Cherry sits in her dimly lit office, her desk clear of distractions. She can hear the unending sound of notifications from her tablet and other communication devices. And yet, there she is, looking outside the window—silent.
A glass of untouched whiskey rests beside her hand, condensation pooling onto the polished wood. She isn't the type to drown in sentimentality, but tonight, as she overlooks the city that once failed to protect Eris Lorne, her mind wanders to the past.
Eris.
The woman is a force—brilliant, and ruthless when needed, but grief has a way of corroding even the sharpest minds. Cherry has seen it in Eris before.
When Eris barely escapes with her life after being smuggled out of this city like nothing more than a commodity. She has been furious then—furious at her captors, at the audacity of her rivals, but most of all, at herself for being vulnerable enough to let it happen.
Cherry has helped her, not out of kindness, but because she saw something in Eris that reminded her of herself. That unyielding determination to carve out a place in a world designed to break them. She has ensured that every person responsible for Eris's kidnapping had been crushed—meticulously, mercilessly.
It was not enough.
Revenge wasn't the only thing that Eris wants,
She wants Lucian Rourke to live in a world that wouldn't hunt him like an animal. She wants a future for him, a place where he won't have to keep looking over his shoulder. Cherry has seen that devotion in Eris's eyes, the way she has wielded it like a blade—silent, sharp, and utterly unrelenting. Like the way she, Cherry, herself looked at Fum once...
And now, Lucian is gone, like Fum.
Cherry leans back in her chair, fingers steeples as she stares at the encrypted messages from Edric.
She isn't doing this for Eris. But she also is.
Letting Edric take the lead on unraveling Lucian's death is her way of ensuring it is truly put to rest. Not just for justice, not just to dismantle the intricate schemes surrounding it, but because Eris Lorne—a woman too brilliant to be shattered by grief—deserves to have this chapter closed.
And if Edric is perceptive enough, he will realize that Cherry isn't just testing him with this case. She is giving him something more—an understanding of what it meant to ensure someone's legacy isn't erased in the shadows.
Cherry finally reaches for the whiskey, swirling the amber liquid before taking a slow sip.
This is the best way to support Eris now. Not with words. But with results.