Some people look at power. Others look through it.
Iris Cael hated elevator music.
It felt like a lie that knew it was lying. Much like the city that surrounded her—too polished, too artificial, too desperate to appear untouchable. Buildings like the Aetherium Spire were temples of modern myth: clean glass, cold light, sterile grandeur. And at the very top of it all sat a man whose silence made more noise than most people's wars.
But before one faced the throne, one had to pass the priests.
The elevator opened to a floor that smelled like tailored suits and expensively restrained tension. Floor 43—designated for "pre-executive evaluations." A polite euphemism for boardroom interrogation.
They were already waiting.
Six of them. Four men. Two women. Each perched in minimalistic leather chairs around a long, lacquered table, dressed in designer severity. A panel designed to dissect her before she even spoke. One sipped espresso. Another scrolled a tablet without looking up. The oldest among them tapped a Montblanc pen against a legal pad like he was timing a silent metronome.
"Miss Cael," the woman at the center said. She was poised, elegant, unreadable. "Please sit."
Iris did. Straight spine. Relaxed shoulders. The kind of posture that told them she wasn't a climber—they were just the staircase.
The questions came quick, clinical.
"Three firms in six years. Why the turnover?"
"I didn't stay where integrity didn't."
"You turned down a promotion at Ellory West. Why?"
"I'd rather be trusted than decorated."
"What makes you think you're ready for this ecosystem?"
"I've been ready. You're just late noticing."
The man with the Montblanc stopped tapping. Another leaned forward, amused.
"You think you're clever."
"I think I'm direct."
"You've never worked for a firm of this magnitude before."
"True. But large doesn't mean complex. Sometimes the biggest things have the simplest cores—they just wear more jewelry."
Silence. A flicker of something—annoyance? Interest?—crossed one of their faces.
Then the woman in the center leaned forward. "You've read The Black Ledger," she said.
Iris didn't blink. "Twice."
"That's not publicly circulated."
"I know."
No one spoke for a moment. A soft tension crackled beneath the surface.
And then—like a dropped coin in a cathedral—Marek entered.
No knock. No apology.
Just a quiet nod toward the panel. "She's needed upstairs."
A pause.
Someone finally asked, "By whom?"
Marek's face didn't move. "The Chairman."
You could hear the chairs stiffen. Even the woman in the center blinked.
Iris stood without hesitation. Didn't ask for directions. Didn't look back.
Now.
On the highest floor.
No receptionist. No assistant. Just her and the doors.
Marek's biometric scan unlocked them. The city's dusk glow spilled inside like a secret.
And there he was.
Aldrin.
Not the man from magazine covers. Not the philanthropic face from staged charity drives.
This was something else.
He didn't sit. He didn't smile. He didn't greet her.
He simply stood and watched.
The silence between them didn't beg to be filled. It commanded stillness. Iris stood her ground, spine tall, hands relaxed. She didn't fidget, didn't adjust her blouse or tuck her hair.
She just looked back.
Finally, Aldrin spoke.
"Iris Cael."
Her nod was crisp. "Chairman Aldrin."
"You've worked for three firms in six years. Never fired. Never quiet. Left each one just before collapse or acquisition."
"I don't enjoy waiting for the house to burn when I already smell smoke."
"And you think you smell it here?"
"I think I smell truth here," she said. "Even if it's ugly."
That earned her a faint, unreadable smile.
Then Aldrin moved—gestured toward the seat across from his desk. She sat, crossing her legs with fluid restraint. Marek remained at the back wall, arms folded like carved granite.
Aldrin leaned slightly forward, hands folded.
"Tell me, Miss Cael," he said. "What do you see when you look at a throne?"
Her eyes didn't blink. "That depends. Is someone sitting in it, or has someone just died in it?"
He let out a low breath, amused. "And if someone is still alive?"
"Then I wonder if they feel the weight of the crown, or if they've grown numb to it."
"And what about me?" he asked.
"I think you still feel it," Iris said. "I think that's what keeps you dangerous."
The silence that followed wasn't sharp—it was curious. Like a blade considering the worth of staying sheathed.
"You speak plainly."
"I've found it's the only way to be heard."
Aldrin glanced briefly out the window. "The last three who sat across from me tried to impress me with projections. Vision decks. Platitudes about loyalty and scale. You brought nothing but your voice."
She didn't apologize. "You already know I'm overqualified. I didn't come to flatter."
"Then why did you come?"
"To be where the story is written. Not read."
Aldrin studied her then. No twitch, no smile, no concession—but something in his gaze shifted. A subtle acknowledgment. A door not opened—but marked.
Behind him, Marek's phone buzzed. He checked it, frowned slightly, but didn't speak. Aldrin's eyes flicked toward him, then back to Iris.
"You're not here to climb," he said finally. "You're here to understand."
"Understanding is the only ladder that doesn't break under weight."
He stood then, smooth and deliberate, the motion shadowed by city light bleeding through the glass.
"Report to floor sixteen tomorrow. Marek will brief you. If you're lying—"
"I'm not."
"Then survive."
He turned away, but Iris didn't rush to leave. She stood, matched his stillness for a moment more, then gave a slight bow—just enough to show respect, never submission.
As the door sealed behind her, Aldrin remained staring at the skyline.
"She sees more than she says," Marek muttered.
"Good," Aldrin replied softly. "I'm tired of being seen by people who don't know how to look."
Behind the sealed doors of Aldrin's office, silence lingered like smoke. Marek hadn't moved. Aldrin's fingers traced the spine of a closed dossier on the desk—one Iris hadn't seen. One that bore no logo. No seal. Just a single character in red ink on the front:
鴉
The mark of the Crow's Ledger.
"She passed," Marek said eventually, tone dry but certain.
"She survived," Aldrin corrected. "There's a difference."
"She's sharp. Disciplined. She doesn't bluff—she commits."
"That's what worries me."
Marek tilted his head, folding his arms tighter. "Since when are you afraid of commitment?"
A half-smile tugged at the corner of Aldrin's mouth. "Since the last person I trusted nearly burned the whole empire down to prove a point."
Marek gave a low chuckle but didn't press. The air between them turned again—more private. More dangerous.
"She was watching," Marek said after a pause.
Aldrin didn't have to ask who she was.
Of course she was watching.
She always did.
From the shadows behind other names, other faces. Sometimes through a whisper in the blackmarket vaults. Sometimes through a signature on a deal that never quite made the headlines. Always with precision. Always with interest.
A central figure on board both the one that shimmers in the stars and hides in the void—I.V—had been in contact with her twice this month alone. Denied it, of course. But the data tags on her last secure call routed through Vanta-9, a known asset city of The Scarlett Queen .
That was her title in the underworld.
The one who dealt in truths no one admitted existed. A collector of secrets. A broker of disappearances. A woman who walked through the ruins of old regimes and left new ones blooming behind her.
And once—just once—his equal in all things.
Aldrin turned back to the window, watching the city writhe beneath the weight of its own ambition.
"She's still testing me," he murmured.
"She always tests what she loves," Marek said, almost too softly.
Aldrin didn't respond.
In the glass reflection, his eyes looked older than they should've. Not tired. Not worn.
Just... prepared.
Downstairs, in a nondescript black car with government-exempt plates, the board chair—the queen—sat in silence. The man beside her tapped a thin tablet, displaying a grainy audio relay of the Iris interview. Compressed. Encrypted.
I.V sipped her wine.
"Well?" the man asked.
"She saw more than we gave her," I.V said calmly.
"Too much?"
"No," she replied. "Just enough to become useful."
He raised a brow. "Do we need to place bets?"
I.V smiled thinly. "She already knows. She placed her bet weeks ago."