Orbital Station "Leviathan", Titan Orbit, Graves’ Office

  Livia Cross stood slightly to the side, awaiting orders. An operational map of the Trojan belt hung on the transparent display—asteroids, patrol routes, marked objects, including Patroclus. Graves scrolled through the data with slow fingertips, his gaze cold and detached.

  "The operation on Patroclus is approved. Harrison’s team has deployed," Livia’s voice was, as always, impeccably even, like she was reading a pre-scripted line.

  "Good," Graves nodded without turning. "And the ‘corridor’?"

  Livia swiped a finger across the panel, opening a secure comms channel.

  "Our contacts on-site have their instructions. They’ve ‘leaked’ to the right people. By the time Harrison and her team arrive, interceptors will be waiting. With Patroclus’ gravity, it’ll be a clean slaughter."

  Graves finally peeled away from the display and faced Livia. His expression was calm, almost indifferent.

  "Not too messy?"

  "Depends on the perspective, sir," Livia offered a faint smile. "You said Vasilevich needs to disappear. Any way possible. Preferably as a ‘tragic accident,’ not a targeted hit."

  "The irony," Graves returned to his desk, lacing his fingers together, "is I’ve got nothing against Vasilevich. She’s just collateral. The real prize is Victoria. Her brain’s worth more than that whole squad combined."

  "And without Darina, she’ll be far more agreeable," Livia nodded, aligning with him. "Sooner or later, the fear will fade, and ambition will take over. It’s a natural process. The only question is how fast she’ll realize there’s no other life left for her."

  Graves smirked—just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, devoid of feeling.

  "That’s why I value you, Livia. You always cut to the core, no time wasted on sentimental fluff."

  Livia lowered her gaze, accepting it as praise.

  "There’s a wrinkle, sir," she added, hesitating slightly. "If even one of them survives and connects the dots, it could raise unwanted questions. Especially from Reynolds. He’s not an idiot."

  "Reynolds is a soldier. Distract him with another hotspot, and he’s handled," Graves waved it off. "The key is Harrison not pulling her team out of this mess. She’s damn stubborn. Ideally, they go down fast, no fuss. A few explosions, a system failure—then the report writes itself: ‘unforeseen factors.’"

  Livia nodded.

  "It’s covered. Patroclus already has Armotech combat exosuits stashed there. If anything goes off-script, suspicion falls on them. It’ll look like a militarized corp guarding its secrets."

  Graves rounded the desk, stopping across from Livia.

  "So, we get a dead squad, three days of news headlines, a couple of ONP show speeches—and a week later, it’s forgotten. Victoria’s left without her one tether keeping her here. After that, convincing her that the only escape from the pain is a new job, a new purpose—the expedition—becomes easy."

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  "Exactly, sir," Livia met his gaze, her face calm, almost pleased. "I’ve already prepped the first wave of ‘psychological support’ from IRIS. It’ll look like they’re just caring for their employee."

  "Perfect," Graves nodded. "But I want a backup."

  "If they survive?"

  "If someone figures out they weren’t sent there by chance." His stare hardened. "Compile a dossier—dirt on Darina and her crew. Smuggling, underworld ties, maybe some regulation breaches. If we need it, leak it to the media. Turn them into ‘questionable elements’ if the main story falters."

  "Understood," Livia nodded, logging the note in her interface. "And if Holland tries to slip out of control?"

  Graves smiled—softly, almost fatherly.

  "Then you remind her she’s got no path left but the one we’ve laid out."

  Livia gave a barely perceptible nod, turned, and left, trailing a faint whiff of expensive perfume and a chill that lingered in the room for a moment.

  Graves stayed behind, staring out at the stars. His fingers brushed the panel again, this time pulling up Victoria Holland’s personal file.

  "Come on, girl," he muttered under his breath. "Show me how much you’ll endure for your love."

  ***

  Livia strode down the corridor, her heels tapping a precise rhythm on the metal floor. Every move was calculated, every thought ordered. But beneath that polished exterior, under the mask of cool efficiency, something dark coiled—a serpent nestled between instinct and programmed reflex.

  She loved carrying out his orders. Not just loved—it went beyond pleasure, beyond meaning. Fulfilling Graves’ will triggered a physical response in her, a near-painful sweetness tightening her core. When he praised her, even briefly, her breath hitched. When his gaze lingered longer than a split second, her pulse spiked like a stun prod jabbing her spine. She knew it wasn’t "normal." She’d been taught she wasn’t a woman in the usual sense. Livia was built for tasks. Her genetic makeup—a patchwork of elite samples: perfect memory, reflexes, body plasticity, reinforced tissues, adaptive psyche. Buried in that mix were a couple of programs—submission to her master and cruelty to his enemies. Sexuality? Yeah, they threw that in too. Twisted it into a weapon. Control turned her on. Scenes of submission lit her up. Even more, she got off on moments when control crossed the line—into pain, blood, extremes that’d turn a normal stomach. They’d wired her to relish punishment. Hers, and others’.

  She paused at a mirrored panel, adjusting her flawlessly tied ponytail, tracing a finger along the smooth skin under her jaw. She knew she was beautiful—not just beautiful, engineered to be. But that beauty was never hers. It was a tool, a lure, part of a persona as honed as her personnel management or interrogation skills.

  Her hand slipped behind her deep neckline, squeezing a nipple hard. The other clenched white in response. Then a tense finger slid between her thighs, pressing the fabric of her panties inward. No outsider could see—her implant’s constant link to security systems ensured that. Unless the master watched remotely, a thought that only sharpened the thrill. A wave rippled through her stunning frame; her lips parted in a slow, wet exhale.

  Her mind spun fragments—Harrison’s squad stepping into the zone, the ambush snapping shut, them dying under gravity’s weight before they even clocked who sold them out. A languid, faint pleasure seeped through her at the image. She pictured Graves calling her back when the first "lost contact" reports trickled up. He’d look at her, his eyes tracing her form—the sharp suit with its teasing cut, thin fabric hugging her curves, her body’s perfect lines. And she’d feel it again—that brief heat under her panties, stabbing deep like an electric jolt.

  Maybe then he’d give her a few hours off to play to her heart’s content.

  She wanted him to take her. Not gently. Not kindly. But like property—rough, brutal, testing her limits. Hands leaving marks, breath catching from pain as much as arousal. He never did. Never touched her—too aware she was what she was because he kept his distance. That was control too, and it drove her to trembling.

  Livia smiled at her reflection—a hollow, artificial smile of someone who knew they weren’t human.

  "Good hunting, Major Harrison," she whispered, smoothing her clothes. "Hope you scream loud enough for me to hear from here."

  She checked herself—appearance had to be flawless. Turned and moved on, back to her duties—strict, punctual, perfect. On the surface, an impeccable pro. Inside, a creature for whom death and pain were as natural as breathing.

  And deep in her artificial soul smoldered one secret dream—that one day Graves would order her not just to eliminate someone, but to do it herself. Slowly. Creatively. With relish.