The basement apartment in Brooklyn smelled like rotting wood and stale beer. Water dripped from a rusted pipe overhead, hitting the concrete floor with a hollow plink.

I shoved my tactical gear, the sniper parts, and the encrypted comms into a lead-lined safe hidden behind a loose cinder block in the wall. I locked it and pushed the heavy, moldy dresser back into place.

I stripped off the hoodie and put on a faded, threadbare t-shirt that hung loosely off my frame. I stood in front of the cracked bathroom mirror and rubbed a grey-toned powder under my eyes, making my skin look bruised with exhaustion.

I walked into the main room, turned on a bulky analog radio, and cranked the volume to mask the steady, controlled rhythm of my breathing.

I sat on the edge of the torn sofa, pulled my knees to my chest, and waited.

Across the city, inside the impenetrable walls of The Aerie, Apollo Buck was staring at a massive monitor.

He watched the grainy clinic footage on a loop. He saw my hunched, pathetic figure carrying his nephew.

He rubbed his chest. The Wyvern mark burned beneath his skin, a constant, irritating heat. He hated women. Their scent, their touch, their very presence usually made his stomach churn with violent nausea.

But as he watched the screen, he felt nothing but a strange, hollow curiosity.

Cole walked into the study and tossed a thin manila folder onto the desk. "The Nobody. Orphan. Evicted twice. Currently drowning in debt to the Russian mob. She's a ghost because she's too poor to exist."

Apollo didn't look at the file. He looked at the screen.

Down the hall, Jace's cries echoed. "I want the mint girl! I want her!"

Apollo's jaw tightened. He stood up, grabbing his coat.

Back in the basement, my ears picked up the heavy, synchronized hum of armored engines cutting off at the end of the street.

My heart rate didn't spike, but I forced my hands to start shaking. I grabbed a rusted kitchen knife from the counter and curled into a tight ball on the sofa.

Heavy boots thudded down the concrete stairs outside.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The door shook in its frame. Dust rained from the ceiling.

Before I could react, the door was kicked off its hinges. It slammed into the wall. Three men in tactical gear flooded the tiny room, their weapons drawn.

I let out a piercing, ragged scream. I held the dull knife out in front of me, tears instantly welling in my eyes and spilling down my cheeks.

Apollo stepped through the doorway.

He had to duck slightly to clear the frame. He looked around the squalid room, his upper lip curling in disgust. His dark eyes locked onto me.

"Put the knife down," he ordered. His voice was a low, vibrating growl that rattled my ribs.

I shook my head frantically, pressing my back harder into the corner. "I don't have the money! Please, just give me another week! Don't kill me!" I sobbed, my voice cracking perfectly.

Apollo frowned. He despised weakness. He hated the sound of crying women. Yet, the usual bile didn't rise in his throat.

He gestured to Cole. Cole stepped forward and held out a crisp check. The number written on it was astronomical. "For saving the boy," Cole said flatly.

I stared at the paper, my eyes wide with manufactured terror. I didn't reach for it. I shrank back further. "Is this a trick? Are you buying my organs?"

Apollo lost his patience. He stepped into the room, his expensive leather shoes splashing in a puddle of dirty water.

He closed the distance between us in two strides. The sheer physical dominance of his body triggered my combat instincts. Every muscle in my arms coiled, ready to drive the knife upward into his throat.

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, forcing my body to freeze.

Apollo reached down and grabbed my wrist.

His massive hand wrapped entirely around my arm.

The second his skin touched mine, Apollo froze. His pupils blew wide.

The constant, agonizing burn of the Wyvern mark on his back vanished. The violent noise in his head went dead silent. A wave of absolute, terrifying peace crashed through his veins.

He stared at my trembling hand, then up at my tear-streaked face.

I let out a whimper and dropped the knife. It clattered against the concrete. "Please don't hurt me."

Apollo snatched his hand back as if he had been burned. He took a staggering step backward, staring at his palm. His chest he heave.

He looked at me again. The disgust was gone. It was replaced by a dark, consuming hunger.

"Jace wants you," Apollo said, his voice suddenly thick and uneven. "You're coming to work at The Aerie."

I sniffled, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. I looked up at him through my messy hair. "Do... do I get room and board?"

Apollo stared at my tear-stained face. He didn't answer my question. He just turned his broad back to me and looked at Cole. "Pack her things."

Two bodyguards stepped forward and began tearing through the meager belongings scattered around the room.

I scrambled off the sofa and lunged for a beat-up canvas duffel bag in the corner. I clutched it to my chest, burying my face in the cheap fabric. "I can do it! Please, don't break my stuff!"

I was shoved roughly toward the door. I stumbled up the concrete stairs, bursting out into the cold night air.

The street was lined with black SUVs. The neighbors were peeking through their blinds, terrified.

The door of the center SUV flew open. Jace scrambled out, his little legs hitting the pavement. He sprinted toward me and slammed into my knees, wrapping his arms around my legs.

I let out a soft gasp, stumbling backward, but I immediately dropped to my knees and hugged him tight. I buried my face in his hair, rocking him gently.

Apollo stood a few feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His eyes were fixed on where my hands touched Jace's back. He was waiting for the revulsion to hit him. He was waiting for the sickness.

It never came. Watching me hold the boy only deepened the unnatural calm settling into his bones.

Cole stepped between us, holding a thick stack of papers bound in black leather. A gold pen rested on top.

"Non-disclosure agreement," Apollo said, his voice cold again. "You sign this, you belong to The Ninth Circle. You breathe a word of what you see inside my walls, and you stop breathing."

I stared at the dense legal jargon, blinking rapidly. I looked up at Apollo, my eyes wide and clueless. "If... if I sign this, will the men in the suits stop coming for my money?"

Apollo let out a harsh, mocking breath. "You stay inside my fortress, and no one on this earth will ever touch you again."

Jace tugged on my sleeve. "Please stay, mint girl. Please."

I let my lower lip tremble. I reached out with a shaking hand and took the heavy gold pen.

I pressed the nib to the paper. I signed The Nobody in the exact same messy, slanted scrawl I had used at the clinic.

Apollo watched the ink dry. A dark satisfaction gleamed in his eyes. He nodded to Cole.

"Put her in the car with the boy," Apollo ordered. He turned and climbed into the lead command vehicle.

I was pushed into the backseat of the SUV. The doors locked with a heavy, metallic thud. I pulled Jace onto my lap. He rested his head against my chest and closed his eyes.

The convoy began to move.

I leaned my head back against the leather seat. I stroked Jace's hair with my right hand. With my left hand, hidden beneath the folds of my oversized shirt, I peeled a micro-tracker the size of a grain of rice off my thumb and pressed it deep into the seam of the leather seat.

In the vehicle ahead, Apollo stared out the window. "Run her again," he told Cole. "Deeper."

"We did, sir," Cole replied. "She's a ghost. A few loan sharks looking for her, but no family, no friends. She's a blank slate."

Apollo closed his eyes. He could still feel the phantom coolness of my skin against his palm.

The convoy left the city, driving deep into the wealthy, isolated stretches of Long Island. The trees grew thicker.

I looked out the tinted window. I noticed the way the branches were pruned-cleared to provide perfect lines of sight for sniper nests.

My heart beat a slow, steady rhythm, but I kept my eyes wide, my mouth slightly open in feigned awe.

Massive black iron gates loomed ahead, a terrifying Wyvern crest welded into the center. The gates groaned open.

The convoy rolled into The Aerie. The most heavily fortified private estate in America.

I clutched my cheap duffel bag tighter. The terrified girl vanished from my mind. The hunter had entered the cage.

The convoy stopped beneath the blinding halogen lights of the glass security pavilion attached to the main house.

"Out," a guard barked, opening my door.

I scrambled out, clutching my duffel bag to my chest, my shoulders hunched so high they touched my ears. I stood in the center of the room, surrounded by men holding assault rifles.

An older man in a pristine tailored suit walked toward me. Arthur Pembroke, the head butler. His eyes swept over my cheap clothes and messy hair with absolute disdain.

"Confiscate her belongings. Full biometric scan," Arthur ordered smoothly.

A guard ripped the bag from my arms. I let out a pathetic whine, reaching for it. "There's nothing in there! Just clothes and... and mints!"

The guard dumped the bag on a metal table. Three ratty t-shirts and a tin of cheap mints spilled out. Arthur sneered and waved his hand.

"Step into the scanner," Cole commanded, pointing to a massive glass tube.

I shuffled forward, my head down. I stepped inside. A harsh blue light swept over my body, checking for weapons, wires, and explosives. The screen flashed green. Clean.

I stepped out, shivering.

"Fingerprints and iris scan," Cole said, tapping a digital pad on the wall.

My stomach tightened. The CIA database held my real biometrics. If my real prints hit his system, alarms would trigger instantly.

I took a step toward the machine, pretending to trip over my own feet. My shoulder slammed into a heavy metal trash can. It crashed to the floor with a deafening clatter, spilling garbage everywhere.

"Watch it, you idiot!" Cole roared, his hand dropping to his holster.

I dropped to my knees, sobbing loudly. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I'll clean it up!"

I scrambled on the floor, grabbing the trash. As my hands moved frantically, I pressed my right thumb and index finger against the inside of my pocket.

A micro-thin layer of chemical polymer adhered to my skin.

I stood up, wiping my tears, my hands shaking violently. I pressed my fingers onto the glass scanner.

The machine beeped. The screen lit up green. It registered the fake prints Zane had planted in the dark web database.

"Look at the camera," Cole snapped.

I widened my eyes, staring into the red laser. The specialized contact lenses I wore refracted the light, feeding the scanner a dead woman's iris pattern.

Green light.

Cole sighed in annoyance. "She's clear. Get her out of my sight."

Arthur grabbed my arm and dragged me down a labyrinth of hallways. "You will not touch the art. You will not speak unless spoken to. You will clean the east wing starting at six AM."

I nodded rapidly, keeping my eyes on the floor. But my peripheral vision was snapping mental photographs. Camera models. Blind spots. Patrol routes.

Arthur shoved me into a damp, windowless room in the basement. An iron cot and a small metal locker. He slammed the door, the lock clicking heavily.

I collapsed onto the thin mattress. I let out a loud, exhausted groan.

I lay perfectly still for ten minutes. I listened to the silence. No breathing behind the walls. No electronic hum of hidden microphones.

I sat up. The trembling stopped. My spine straightened.

I walked over to my confiscated belongings. I picked up the tin of mints. I popped the false bottom off with my thumbnail and extracted a microchip the size of a fingernail clipping.

I slid the chip into the side of my cheap digital watch. The cracked screen glowed blue.

Inside. Secure. I typed the encrypted message to Zane.

Five floors above me, Apollo sat in his dark study. He was staring at the live feed of my room.

He watched me lying on the bed, my back to the camera.

He unbuttoned his collar. The Wyvern mark on his spine throbbed with a dull, angry heat. He rubbed his chest, his breathing growing shallow.

He wanted to go down there. He wanted to grab my wrist again. He wanted that silence in his head.

He slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk, furious at his own lack of control. He hit the intercom. "Cole. Put two men outside the basement door. She doesn't leave that room until morning."