The subway ride to the Bronx took forty minutes.

The air in the car changed the further north they went. The smell of expensive perfume and coffee faded, replaced by the scent of stale sweat, cleaning chemicals, and old metal. Aine sat in the corner, clutching her purse.

When she stepped out, the skyline was different. No glass towers here. Just brick and fire escapes and graffiti that looked like scars on the buildings.

Aine walked three blocks to a building that was nothing more than a blackened skeleton. The windows were blown out, looking like hollow eyes.

She stood in front of the charred doorframe.

Run, Aine! Don't look back!

Her mother's voice echoed in her head. She could feel the heat on her skin, smell the acrid smoke of burning plastic. Her mother had pushed her out the window. She hadn't made it.

Aine reached out and touched the burnt wood. Ash coated her fingertips, black and greasy.

Her phone buzzed. A notification from the bank. The supplementary card Augustine gave her had been activated. The limit was higher than most people's annual salary.

Aine looked at the number. She felt nothing. No joy. No relief. Just calculation.

She turned away from the ruin and walked into a cramped internet café down the street. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Aine sat at a terminal in the back and logged into the dark web.

She typed a message to her Handler. Need a full identity package for The Onyx Room. High-end. Vocalist. Alias: Siren. Full anonymity required.

The reply came in seconds. Talley family is digging into the old birth records again. Watch your back.

Aine typed back: Let them dig. Dead people don't talk.

She left the café and headed to a thrift store two streets over. She didn't shop in the front. She went straight to the back room, down a flight of creaky stairs.

An old man sat behind a sewing machine. He didn't look up when Aine entered. He just pointed to a garment bag hanging on a pipe.

"Modified to your specs," he grunted.

Aine unzipped the bag. Inside was a vintage gown, reworked with silk and velvet. It was dark, mysterious, and looked like it cost a fortune. Alongside it was a custom-made Venetian mask, intricate silver filigree that would cover the top half of her face.

Aine went behind the changing screen. She stripped off the wrinkled dress from the morning and pulled on the gown. It fit like a second skin. She looked in the cracked mirror.

The girl from the Rust Belt was gone. The girl who slept in Augustine's bed was gone.

Aine practiced her smile. Not the cold smirk she gave Augustine. This one was softer. Fragile. Mysterious. The kind that made men want to save her.

Her phone buzzed again. It was Lazlo, the manager of The Onyx Room. Audition passed. You're on tonight. Big client requested fresh talent.

Aine knew who the client was. Julian Talley.

Across the city, in a glass office that touched the clouds, Mercer stood in front of Augustine's desk.

"She went to a ruin in the Bronx, sir. Then we lost her in a blind spot."

Augustine frowned, tapping a pen against the mahogany desk. "Did she use the card?"

"She bought high-end audio equipment and a vintage dress from a secondhand dealer. Also, a mask."

Augustine let out a scoff. "Of course. She wants to be a star. A gold digger with a microphone and a flair for the dramatic."

"Should we intercept?"

"No," Augustine said, standing up. "I want to see this train wreck personally. Prepare the car. We're going to The Onyx Room."

Backstage at the club, the air was thick with hairspray and nervous energy. Aine sat at the vanity, applying red lipstick.

She reached down to her thigh and adjusted the lace garter. Tucked inside, against her skin, was a micro-blade. Just in case.

"Five minutes!" the stage manager yelled. "Don't screw this up. Talley is in the VIP box."

Aine took a deep breath. Her heart rate slowed. Her eyes shifted.

She wasn't Aine anymore. She was Siren.

She stood up and walked toward the heavy velvet curtains. She could hear a laugh from the other side-a high, entitled laugh. Julian.

Aine clenched her fist, feeling the nails bite into her palm, then released it.

The lights flared. She stepped out.

The spotlight hit Aine like a physical blow.

It was blinding, white and hot, erasing everything else in the room. She turned her back to the audience. The dress was cut low, exposing the line of her spine. She stood there for a long beat, letting the silence stretch until it was uncomfortable.

Then the music started.

It wasn't the upbeat jazz they were expecting. It was a slow, haunting Irish ballad. The notes were minor key, heavy with loss.

Aine began to sing. Her voice was low, raspy.

In the VIP box, Julian Talley froze. He had a glass of champagne halfway to his mouth. He set it down.

Aine turned around slowly. The silver mask caught the light, fracturing her face into a hundred glittering pieces. She kept her eyes unfocused, looking just above the heads of the crowd. She looked like she was alone in the room, lost in a memory.

From the shadows of the opposite balcony, Augustine watched. He leaned forward, his elbows on the railing. His brow furrowed. She can actually sing?

Aine let her gaze drift. She swept the room until she found Julian. She locked eyes with him for exactly half a second. Then she looked away, widening her eyes slightly, like a startled deer.

Julian sat up straight. He pushed the blonde model next to him away. "Who is that?" he asked, his voice cutting through the music.

Aine finished the song. The last note hung in the air, vibrating.

For a second, there was silence. Then, the applause broke out. It was thunderous.

Julian stood up. He grabbed a massive bouquet of red roses from the center of his table-flowers meant for decoration-and marched toward the stage.

Aine took a bow. When she straightened up, Julian was there, at the edge of the stage. He thrust the flowers at her.

Buried in the red petals was a gold key card. A hotel room key.

Aine stared at it. The crowd went quiet. Everyone knew you didn't say no to a Talley.

Aine took a step back. She looked at the flowers, then at Julian, then at the floor. She shook her head, just barely. A tremor ran through her shoulders.

Refusal. Fear.

Julian's smile faltered. His hand stayed extended, looking foolish.

"Take them," he commanded, his charm slipping.

Aine backed away further, clutching her microphone like a shield. She turned and ran.

She sprinted off the stage, into the darkness of the wings.

"Hey!" Julian shouted. Aine heard the flowers hit the floor with a wet thud. "Manager! Get the manager!"

Aine leaned against the brick wall of the backstage corridor, breathing hard.

"Are you insane?" Lazlo, the manager, hissed, grabbing her arm. "That was Julian Talley!"

"I..." Aine made her voice shake. "I don't do that. I don't sell myself."

"You work in a club, sweetheart. Everything is for sale."

The door to the backstage area banged open. Julian stormed in, his face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

"You playing hard to get?" He marched up to Aine and grabbed her upper arm. His grip was wet and clammy.

"Let go of me," Aine said, pulling back.

"I just want to talk," Julian sneered. "And maybe teach you some manners."

"Let her go."

The voice was ice cold.

Julian froze. They both looked toward the entrance. Augustine stood there. He wasn't yelling. He didn't have to. He just occupied the space, sucking the oxygen out of the hallway. Mercer stood behind him, looking bored.

"Augustine," Julian said, his grip loosening slightly. "I was just... getting to know the staff."

"You're harassing my employee," Augustine said. He walked forward, his steps echoing on the concrete.

Julian let go of Aine immediately. He smoothed his suit jacket. The hierarchy was clear. The Haynes family owned the banks that the Talley family used to launder their money.

"Just a misunderstanding," Julian muttered. He looked at Aine, his eyes lingering on the edge of her mask. "You have good taste, Augustine. She's... spirited."

He leaned in close to Aine. "We'll see each other again."

He walked out, brushing past Augustine.

The hallway cleared out. Lazlo scurried away.

It was just Aine and Augustine.

He walked up to her, crowding her personal space. He smelled of scotch and danger.

"Publicly rejecting him," Augustine said. "Was that to drive up your price?"

Aine looked up at him. She forced tears into the corners of her eyes.

"Not everyone is like you, Augustine," she said softly. "Not everyone thinks human beings have a price tag."

He stared at Aine. He opened his mouth to say something sharp, but stopped. He looked at her arm where Julian had grabbed her. There was a red mark.

He looked annoyed. Not at Aine, but at the situation. At the fact that he had intervened.

"Don't play with fire," he said.

He turned and walked away.

Aine watched his back. She reached up and wiped the tear from her eye. Her expression went blank.

Phase one complete.

The seaside terrace of The Onyx Room was windy. The salt spray coated the railing.

Aine stood alone in the corner, away from the heat lamps and the laughing crowd. Her dress whipped around her legs. She looked small. Lonely.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him.

Julian.

He was holding two glasses of champagne. He looked confident again. The embarrassment from the stage was gone, replaced by the thrill of the hunt.

"I was too forward earlier," he said, sliding up next to her. "Drink? As an apology."

Aine turned, pressing her back against the railing. She eyed him warily.

"Mr. Talley, please leave me alone."

"Call me Julian." He stepped closer. "Take off the mask. I want to see you."

"No. I'm not with him," Aine said. "I'm nobody's."

"Everyone belongs to someone." He put the glasses down on a table and moved in. He boxed her in against the railing. "You're shivering. Let me warm you up."

Aine looked down. Below them, the water of the harbor was black and churning. It was high tide.

She shifted her weight. She knew this spot. During her audition, she'd noticed the rusted bolt on this section of the railing. A little pressure was all it would take.

Julian reached for Aine's waist. His hand was heavy.

"Don't touch me!" Aine shouted.

She shoved him. It wasn't a hard shove, but she used the momentum to throw herself backward.

Aine hit the railing.

Crack.

The wood gave way.

Aine screamed. It was a genuine scream-gravity is terrifying, even when you plan for it.

She tumbled backward into the void.

"Siren!" Julian yelled.

Aine hit the water.

It was freezing. The shock punched the air out of her lungs. The cold was like a thousand needles stabbing her skin. She sank.

She didn't swim up immediately. She forced herself to stay under. One second. Two seconds. Three.

Up on the terrace, chaos erupted. Glass shattered. People screamed.

Julian stared at the black water. His face went pale. This wasn't a game anymore. If she died... the press... the police...

He didn't think. He jumped.

From the window of the VIP lounge above, Augustine watched the splash. He didn't move. He just tapped his finger against the glass.

"Idiot," he muttered.

Julian hit the water. He flailed until he found Aine. He grabbed her arm and hauled her to the surface.

They gasped for air, coughing up salt water.

Security guards were already at the dock, pulling them out. Aine collapsed onto the wooden planks, shaking violently. Her teeth chattered so hard her jaw ached.

Julian was panting, his expensive suit ruined. He stripped off his jacket and wrapped it around Aine's shoulders.

"Call an ambulance!" he roared at the guards.

Aine grabbed his wet shirt. Her fingers were blue.

"No," she wheezed. "No police... please... I can't lose this job. Please."

Julian looked down at Aine. She looked like a drowned rat. Pathetic. Fragile. And she was worried about her job after almost dying.

Something broke in his eyes. The predator vanished. The savior appeared.

"Get my car," he ordered the valet. "No ambulance. No police."

He scooped Aine up in his arms.

"You're not going to lose your job," he promised. "I've got you."

From the shadows, Sierrah, the headliner vocalist, watched with eyes full of hate. Her nails dug into her palms.

Augustine watched from the window as Julian carried Aine to his car.

"Should we stop them?" Mercer asked.

"No," Augustine said, turning away. "Let's see how long she can keep the act up."

Inside Julian's sports car, the heater blasted hot air. Aine curled into the passenger seat, wrapped in his jacket.

Julian looked at Aine. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I... I didn't mean for that to happen."

Aine looked at him through wet lashes.

Guilt, she thought. The strongest leash in the world.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the seat.