Time/Date: TC1853.01.18 (Dawn)

Location: Riverside Boarding House, Brenner Estate, Explosion Site

The city barely breathed in the hour before dawn. First vendors pushed carts through empty streets, their wheels clattering against cobblestones like hesitant heartbeats. Factory workers trudged toward shifts, faces still soft with sleep. Above the rooftops, the sky lightened from black to deep purple—that thin hour when night releases its grip but day hasn’t quite claimed victory.

Inside Cottage 7 of the Riverside Boarding House, furniture sat covered in dust sheets. No occupant. Hadn’t been for days. Just an empty room that Serenya didn’t know was empty, with a timer behind the maintenance panel counting down its final seconds.

00:00:10... 09... 08...

The spark mechanism primed. Gas concentration reached critical levels—the room had been filling for hours, colorless and odorless, waiting. Chemical accelerant vaporized into the saturated air.

00:00:03... 02... 01...

The explosion tore through Cottage 7 at exactly 6:00 AM with a sound that echoed across three city blocks. Not a clean boom—more like the world being ripped apart at the seams. The pressure wave punched outward in all directions, a wall of compressed air that rattled windows three streets away and knocked a delivery cart onto its side. Glass shattered in cascading waves—Cottage 7’s windows first, then the neighboring structures, then buildings across the courtyard as the shock wave rippled outward like a stone thrown into still water.

Dogs erupted into frantic barking. People screamed. Alarm bells triggered automatically, their shrill cries cutting through the sudden chaos.

Then silence. That ringing, hollow quiet that follows violence, broken only by the creak of settling debris and the patter of fragments still raining down.

Fire consumed what remained of the cottage—orange and red tongues licking toward the lightening sky, beautiful and terrible simultaneously. The explosion had been powerful enough to send chunks of brick and timber arcing through the pre-dawn darkness. A section of the roof landed in the courtyard fountain with a tremendous splash. Wood fragments embedded themselves in nearby walls. Twisted metal that had been door hinges, window frames, and furniture supports scattered across a fifty-foot radius.

The ground had shaken. People three blocks away felt it through their feet, that deep rumble that spoke of forces beyond human scale. Windows rattled in their frames. Dishes fell from shelves. A crack appeared in a warehouse wall two buildings over.

Heat washed outward in waves that left scorch marks on the packed earth of the courtyard. The pressure had blown out every window in the neighboring cottages—some inward, some outward, depending on angles and distances. Walls cracked but held, structural beams groaning but not breaking. The main boarding house weathered the blast with nothing worse than shattered windows and residents pouring out in nightclothes, terrified and confused.

They came stumbling into the pre-dawn chill, children clutching parents, elderly couples helping each other down stairs.

"What happened?"

"The cottage—it just exploded!"

"Was someone inside? Oh, by the Light—"

A woman in a faded nightdress stood frozen, staring at the burning wreckage where Cottage 7 had been. "I... I saw the lamp burning last night. Someone was in there. I’m sure of it."

Her neighbor nodded frantically. "The lights were on late. I noticed because I couldn’t sleep. They went on and off, on and off. Like someone studying."

The mechanical lamp system Raven had programmed, creating the perfect illusion of occupancy. Now serving as proof that the cottage hadn’t been empty when it exploded.

Children crying. Adults shouting. Someone screaming for help that couldn’t come fast enough.

Fire brigade bells clanged in the distance—already moving, already responding. Police patrols converged from multiple directions. Medical personnel scrambled. Neighbors tried to help despite having no idea what to do, confused and scared and desperate to feel useful.

"Gas leak!" someone yelled. "Must be the old lines—they’re ancient in this district!"

The explanation spread like the fire itself, person to person, mutating slightly with each retelling but maintaining its essential shape. Tragic accident. Aging infrastructure. The kind of thing that happened in lower districts where maintenance budgets were stretched thin.

Exactly as planned.

By the time responders arrived at 6:15, Cottage 7 was completely destroyed. Fire crews fought the blaze before it spread to the dry wooden structures nearby, their hoses spraying water that turned to steam against the intense heat. Police established perimeters, pushing crowds back with firm authority. A building inspector arrived to assess the structural integrity of the surrounding cottages, already making notes about foundation shifts and cracked support beams.

Everyone assumed a tragic accident. Everyone assumed aging infrastructure finally giving way under decades of stress.

Cannot identify remains. Too much fire. Too much destruction. If anyone had been inside—and witnesses confirmed someone had been, saw the lights, heard movement—they were gone. Obliterated by the explosion, consumed by flames that burned hot enough to char bone to ash. Would take days to process the scene properly, to sift through rubble for evidence.

Days they didn’t have.

The boarding house owner stood in shock, wrapped in a blanket someone had thrust at her. "That cottage was rented two weeks ago. Young woman. Quiet. Kept to herself."

Neighbors nodded, confirming. "Never saw much of her. Alone most of the time. Studying, I think. Her lamp was always on at odd hours."

All matching descriptions of Mara Brenner. All confirming that the target had been there. None knowing the cottage had actually been empty for days, the occupant a programmed illusion of lights and shadows, a mechanical system designed to deceive.

The police captain surveyed the scene with grim professionalism, his breath misting in the cool morning air. "Appears to be a gas leak. Old infrastructure—a common problem in this district." No suspicion in his voice yet. Just weary acceptance of urban decay claiming another victim.

Fire chief agreed, studying the blast pattern with experienced eyes. "Explosion pattern consistent with natural gas ignition. Probably been building for hours. These old lines..." He shook his head. "Disaster waiting to happen."

No immediate suspicion of foul play. Nothing to suggest anything beyond a tragic accident.

Perfect cover for murder.

Except the victim wasn’t there.

The sun rose fully now over the destroyed cottage, smoke still billowing skyward like a funeral pyre. The spring morning turned the smoke golden at the edges, beautiful and terrible. The crowd watched, whispering among themselves, some crying for a stranger they’d never met.

"Someone must have died in there."

"Poor soul never had a chance."

"Just trying to study for her exams..."

News already spreading through the district, rippling outward through communicator networks and gossip chains. Word traveled fast in cities—faster still when tragedy struck close to home.

***

Garrick Brenner had been awake since four o’clock, sitting behind his shadowwood desk despite exhaustion gnawing at his bones. Ninety years old. Should’ve been sleeping. But how could anyone sleep when waiting for confirmation that a problem had been permanently solved?

The clock showed 6:45 when his communicator buzzed. Heart jumped despite expecting it.

Finally.

He read the message three times, hands not quite steady despite the satisfaction warming his chest.

Gas explosion, Riverside Boarding House, Cottage 7, 6:00 AM. Complete destruction. Casualty likely but unconfirmed pending forensic examination. Investigation proceeding as accident. Witnesses confirm lights were on in cottage last night. Occupant presumed inside at time of detonation.

It’s done.

She’s dead.

Problem solved.

Relief flooded through him like physical warmth, melting the tension he’d carried for days. He stood, poured himself amber liquid despite the early hour, and watched it catch morning light streaming through the windows. The liquor burned going down, a reminder that he was still alive, still winning, still the patriarch who’d built an empire from nothing.

Ninety years building this family. Ninety years protecting the Brenner name. And now—finally—the threat was gone. Amara was safe. Imperial marriage is secure. Everything is falling into place.

We’re safe.

For a moment—just a heartbeat—he allowed himself to acknowledge what line he’d crossed. Murder. Cold-blooded, premeditated murder of a seventeen-year-old girl who’d done nothing except exist as a threat to his family’s carefully constructed lies.

Then he crushed the thought beneath decades of ruthless pragmatism. Survival isn’t pretty. Power requires sacrifice. Weak men hesitate and lose everything.

He activated the estate communicator. "Edmund. Isolde. My study. Now."

Voice steady. Controlled. But couldn’t quite hide satisfaction humming beneath the words.

Edmund arrived first, and Garrick saw immediately that his son hadn’t slept either. The younger man rushed in with face pale and eyes haunted like he’d spent the night staring at ceilings—or perhaps at the ghosts of choices he couldn’t unmake. His hands shook slightly as he gripped the back of a chair.

"Is it...?" Edmund couldn’t finish the question. Couldn’t quite bring himself to ask if the murder he’d arranged was complete. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

Garrick nodded, watching his son’s face carefully. "Explosion this morning at six o’clock. Cottage destroyed. She’s gone."

Edmund sank into the chair like someone had cut his strings. Relief and horror and guilt warred across his features in a way that made Garrick wonder—not for the first time—if his son had the stomach for what power really required.

"Serenya?" The name came out strangled.

"Safe. Everything went perfectly." Garrick kept his voice matter-of-fact, business-like. As if they were discussing a shipping contract rather than patricide. "The device functioned exactly as designed. The scene reads as a tragic accident. No evidence of foul play."

But Edmund wasn’t looking at him anymore. His son stared at nothing, eyes unfocused, and Garrick recognized that look. Knew what memory was playing behind those eyes.

Eveline.

His first wife. Serenya’s real mother. The woman Edmund had married out of duty rather than love, but had learned to like, to respect. A good woman by all accounts—refined, intelligent, kind. She’d given him three children before Selene orchestrated her "accident."

And now Edmund had asked that same daughter—Eveline’s daughter—to commit murder. Had turned her into exactly what Selene was. A killer. A monster wearing a human face.

"I can still see her," Edmund whispered, voice raw. "Eveline, I mean. The way she looked at Serenya when she was born. So much love in her eyes. She wanted... she wanted our daughter to be better than us. Better than the games and schemes and—" His voice cracked. "What have I done to her child? What have I made her become?"

"You saved her life," Garrick said firmly, crushing sentiment before it could take root. "Eveline’s daughter would’ve been destroyed when the DNA testing revealed the swap. The Lin and Long families would’ve had her executed for fraud. You gave her a chance to survive."

"By making her a murderer." Edmund’s laugh was bitter, broken. "Eveline must be screaming in whatever afterlife exists. Her gentle daughter, planting explosives to kill someone. All because I was too weak to stand up to Selene, too cowardly to protect my own child from becoming—" He stopped, swallowing hard.

Isolde entered with aristocratic composure intact—spine straight, expression neutral except for tightness around her eyes. She took the news with a single nod, but Garrick saw the calculation in her gaze. His wife had always been the practical one, able to compartmentalize in ways Edmund never could.

"As planned, then."

Garrick raised his glass. "To family. To survival. To the problem that no longer exists."

They joined the toast mechanically. Glass clinked—sound somehow hollow in the morning quiet. All three drinking to murder they’d commissioned, telling themselves it was necessary, telling themselves it was self-defense.

Edmund drank more heavily than the others, trying to drown something that wouldn’t stay submerged. His hands trembled around the glass.

"She threatened everything," Garrick said, reciting the justification they’d repeated endlessly. "We had no choice."

"Bloodlines matter," Isolde added automatically. "We protected ours."

Edmund just drank, staring at nothing. Or perhaps at the ghost of a wife he’d failed, a daughter he’d corrupted, a line he’d crossed that could never be uncrossed.

Each rationalization ringing false in bright morning light. But they repeated them anyway, making murder sound like strategy, like business, like something reasonable people did when circumstances demanded.

"Amara doesn’t need to know details," Garrick continued. "She’s imperial family now—above such concerns. Let her focus on being a perfect bride. This dirty work is ours to carry."

All three knowing she’d approve anyway. Maybe more enthusiastically than any of them.

Edmund’s hands shook slightly around his glass, amber liquid sloshing. "DNA retesting was scheduled for today."

Garrick’s smile turned cold, satisfied. "Can’t test someone who doesn’t exist to provide samples. Investigation loses key witness. The case weakens considerably. The contaminated samples become irrelevant when the subject is dead."

"Selene takes responsibility for the banquet scheme," Isolde said. "Baby swap becomes unprovable without living proof."

All pieces falling into place. Murder solving multiple problems simultaneously.

Silence settled between them. Each processing what they’d done. Each carrying weight differently—Garrick with cold satisfaction born of ninety years of ruthless decisions, Isolde with aristocratic detachment that came from generations of noble breeding, Edmund with visible struggle and increasingly empty glass and memories of a good woman he’d failed.

"No one speaks of this," Garrick said finally, voice carrying absolute authority. "Ever. Not even among ourselves. This conversation never happened. The girl died in a tragic accident. We’re just... unfortunate witnesses to coincidence."

They nodded, sealing conspiracy in silence.

Edmund broke it, voice thick. "What about Serenya?"

"She’s earned her position. We protect her as promised. She stays the Long family heir. No questions asked. The Long family will never know what she did to preserve her place."

Garrick watched his son drain another glass, saw the guilt eating at Edmund like acid. Too soft, he thought with a mixture of contempt and concern. Always has been. Eveline made him gentler than a patriarch should be.

But soft or not, Edmund had done what was necessary. Had chosen family over morality. That was what mattered.

Sun fully risen now, streaming through windows, illuminating their study where three conspirators stood believing they’d won, believing the problem solved, believing they were safe.

None knowing the truth yet.

None understanding that the cottage had been empty, the victim alive, and their carefully constructed victory already crumbling.

***

Lieutenant Holt arrived at the explosion site at 6:50, surveying damage with eyes that had seen too many convenient accidents in his years on the force.

The scene reeked of setup. Not in obvious ways—whoever had arranged this knew what they were doing. But years of experience made him suspicious of coincidence, especially when timing aligned too perfectly with ongoing investigations.

He studied blast patterns with methodical precision, noting entry points and structural damage and the way debris had scattered. Everything is technically consistent with a gas leak. Everything is technically explainable.

Except for the timing.

Too convenient. Too perfectly timed.

Lieutenant Veyne joined him at 7:05, evidence files tucked under her arm, her steel-gray hair pulled back with severe precision. They stood in rubble, breathing smoke-thick air that burned their throats, and didn’t need to speak for several moments. Partners long enough that whole conversations happened in glances.

"Girl under investigation for DNA testing dies the morning of scheduled sample collection," Veyne said quietly, her voice carrying an edge sharp enough to cut. Not loud enough for the other officers and firefighters to hear, but Holt caught every word. Every nuance of barely controlled fury.

"In a ’gas leak’ that destroys evidence, prevents identification, and looks completely natural," Holt finished. His jaw was so tight it ached. Hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension. "Day of retesting. The same day, new samples were supposed to be collected after the mysterious contamination. What are the odds?"

Both are seasoned enough to recognize patterns. Both had seen this play out before—wealthy families making inconvenient problems disappear, coincidental accidents that benefited the powerful, justice failing because money talked louder than evidence.

The evidence said an accident. Building inspector confirmed old gas lines, corrosion, and age, making them prone to failure. Fire chief agreed—pattern consistent with natural gas ignition, accelerated by chemical interaction with cleaning supplies or other household substances. Witnesses heard an explosion, saw the cottage occupied based on lights burning through the night. Everything pointing to a tragic but explainable event.

No physical evidence of tampering. No obvious signs of foul play. Just a girl who’d been hiding from a murder investigation, dying on the exact day she was supposed to provide DNA samples that would prove a baby swap conspiracy.

But the timing.

"She escapes hotel trap, vanishes for nine days, dies morning of retesting," Holt said. Each word came out clipped, precise, vibrating with frustration he couldn’t quite contain. His scarred face twisted with emotion—rage at the system, grief for his sister, helpless fury at watching this play out again. "Convenient for everyone who wanted her silent. Brenners. Xuáns. Anyone connected to the baby swap investigation."

My sister. The thought came unbidden. She was only nineteen. And they destroyed her, piece by piece, until death seemed like the only escape. Just like they’re trying to destroy Mara.

Except Mara had fought back. Had evidence. Had started pulling down the carefully constructed lies.

And now she was "conveniently" dead.

"Brenners especially," Veyne agreed, and her voice carried bitterness accumulated over twenty years of watching wealthy criminals walk free. "Amara’s already imperial family. Blood oath marriage makes her effectively untouchable. Investigation was already crippled by her new status, but this—" She gestured at the smoking ruins. "This eliminates the key witness. No DNA comparison possible. Baby swap becomes unprovable."

"Suspicion without proof means nothing," Holt muttered, hands flexing like he wanted to hit something. Someone. He thought of Lord Garrick Brenner’s satisfied face, Edmund’s guilty eyes, and Amara’s calculating smile. Thought of his sister’s funeral. Thought of justice failing again and again because power made itself immune.

Forensics challenges made everything worse. Can’t identify remains immediately—fire too intense, destruction too complete, temperatures high enough to turn bone to ash and ash to nothing. It would take days to process properly, sift through debris with meticulous care. By then? Brenners would have lawyers weaving webs of protection, alibis established and reinforced, money making problems disappear like magic.

Amara was imperial family now. Blood oath married to the heir of the ruling celestial clan. Effectively untouchable by normal legal channels. Could probably murder someone in broad daylight and claim diplomatic immunity through cosmic law.

The investigation was already crippled before the explosion. Now? Dead in the water.

Commissioner Wu arrived personally at 7:20, his presence drawing attention from every officer on scene. The head of the 4th District Police Division rarely appeared at routine investigations. His celestial Wu clan bloodline made him nominally subordinate to the Xuán family, but generations of rivalry meant he’d gladly see them damaged.

He surveyed the scene with eyes that missed nothing, took in the convenient timing, and made the same calculations Holt and Veyne had already completed.

"Find proof or document everything," Wu said quietly, voice carrying absolute authority despite low volume. "We can’t accuse the imperial family on suspicion alone. But we can build a file. Preserve evidence. Wait for them to make mistakes."

He met Holt’s eyes directly. "I know what you’re thinking, Lieutenant. I know what this looks like. But without evidence, without proof, we’re just police officers making accusations against people who can destroy our careers with a word."

"So they just... get away with it?" Holt’s frustration boiled over, voice rising despite years of professional training. Several other officers glanced their way. "They murder a seventeen-year-old girl, destroy evidence, eliminate a witness, and we just file it under ’tragic accident’ because they’re too powerful to touch?"

Wu’s smile was bitter as ashes, cynical in ways that came from decades of watching justice fail. "They have already gotten away with it, Lieutenant. The moment Amara married into the imperial family, this case became political quicksand. We can investigate quietly, document meticulously, and hope for evidence or mistakes. But openly accusing them? Career suicide at best. Actual suicide made to look like an accident at worst."

The decision crystallized between them—continue investigating quietly, document everything meticulously, hope for a mistake or evidence or something. But knowing realistically, the case was dead with the girl.

Baby swap unprovable without DNA comparison between Mara, Selene and the Brenners. Banquet scheme already blamed on Selene alone, who’d publicly taken responsibility. Brenners walking away from everything with nothing worse than minor scandal quickly buried by Amara’s imperial status.

Holt and Veyne watched forensics team sift rubble with careful precision, both knowing truth in their bones, both unable to prove it. The morning sun climbed higher, turning smoke into golden streamers. Beautiful and terrible.

Like watching justice burn.

"I hate this job sometimes," Holt muttered, thinking of his sister’s grave. Of Mara’s evidence. Of cases that should have been simple but became impossible because money and power rewrote reality.

"Sometimes?" Veyne’s dark humor masked frustration underneath, voice sharp with barely contained rage. "Every day I watch guilty people walk free because they can afford better lawyers than their victims can afford justice. Every. Single. Day."

She turned away from the ruins, jaw set with determination that looked like hope despite experience teaching otherwise. "But we keep building the case anyway. Because eventually—maybe not today, maybe not this year—but eventually they’ll slip. Make one mistake. Cross one line too far. And when they do?" Her smile was cold, predatory. "We’ll be waiting with every piece of evidence meticulously documented."

Justice failing because money and power won. Again.

But at least this time, they’d keep fighting.