They thought she’d flinch.
They thought she’d break.
They forgot what she built this empire on.
Eve walked into the gallery like she belonged there.
A clean black dress. Hair in a high knot. Pearl earrings.
Her face — the one the world never noticed — calm and forgettable.
The gallery was in Chelsea. One of Krane’s old wash fronts, now run by his “former” partner: Alan Meers.
Tonight, Meers was celebrating his sudden independence.
New funders. New alliances. A clear message: Krane’s time is over. The new crown is up for grabs.
Which made it the perfect place to draw Eve out.
So she came.
Because Eve didn’t run from traps.
She just made sure no one else walked out of them.
Marco sat two tables from the bar.
Watching her. Watching the room.
But his focus broke when she walked in.
Lyra.
She wasn’t wearing seduction like perfume.
She wore professionalism. Control. Precision.
Exactly the kind of woman Marco had always avoided.
But she sat beside him without invitation and said, “Marco, right? I’ve heard you’re loyal to a fault.”
His jaw tightened. “You got a name?”
She smiled. “Not one you’ll remember.”
He should’ve stood up. Should’ve walked out.
But instead, Marco leaned in.
Something wasn’t right.
And the only way to know what game this was… was to play it.
Nathan was tailing a man named Jonas Venn.
An ex-Krane fixer who’d suddenly resurfaced.
Venn was sweating.
Not from guilt — from fear.
He moved like a man being hunted.
Nathan watched him duck into a nondescript bookstore, out the back exit, through an alley—
Only to vanish.
Vanished like Eve did.
Vanished like someone taught him how.
Nathan picked up a scrap of paper from the alley floor.
It was blank… until he held it under the streetlight.
A message appeared, written in heat-reactive ink:
“You’re not the only one chasing ghosts.”
Nathan pocketed it.
And felt the noose pull a little tighter.
Inside the gallery, Eve reached Meers just as the lights dimmed.
Projectors came on. A show of digital art splashed across the walls.
Modern. Flashy. Empty.
Meers turned and found her beside him, holding a glass of wine.
“You’ve made quite the recovery,” she said.
He paled — just for a second. Then recovered. “Do I know you?”
“No,” Eve said. “But you knew Krane. That’s enough.”
He laughed too loudly. “Everyone knew Krane.”
“Not the way I did.”
She handed him a flash drive. He took it instinctively.
“What is this?”
She leaned close.
“Insurance. Or a death sentence. Depends on your next move.”
Lyra made her own move.
She passed Marco a folded note.
No name. No explanation.
“You don’t have to follow her into the grave,” she said.
Marco opened the paper.
Inside:
A photo of his sister. Alive.
But she was supposed to be dead.
Killed by one of Krane’s lieutenants.
One of the deaths that had driven Marco to Eve’s side in the first place.
“Where did you get this?” he demanded.
Lyra didn’t blink. “From people who want you to survive.”
Marco stood. Shaking.
But he didn’t leave.
Not yet.
Eve stepped outside just before the fireworks started.
The gallery went dark — a blackout triggered from the grid.
Doors locked. Phones jammed.
Inside, screams.
Eve didn’t flinch.
She already had what she came for.
Not the files. Not the leverage.
The reaction.
Because when you’re building a list of enemies, nothing says hello like burning their safehouses… while they watch.
She pressed a button on her watch.
Several blocks away, one of Meers’ new funder offices exploded.
She didn’t smile.
But she did say one word into the night:
“Check.”
At the same time, in a dark control room beneath the Hudson, someone else was watching.
Not Strauss.
Not Harper.
Not even someone Eve knew by name yet.
But they had her image.
They had footage Marco never knew he was in.
And they had one simple phrase typed into the operations log:
“Queen has moved. Knight compromised. Initiate endgame protocol.”
Baawa Unfiltered 