Power, I had learned through the harsh lessons of my previous life, was best exercised indirectly. It was not the man with the sword who ruled, but the man who owned the forge.
Through the shifting logic of the Sefirah Castle and the connections I had quietly nurtured within the city's digital underbelly, I confirmed Wanda's location. She was a ghost in an abandoned residential block on the outskirts of Sokovia—a half-collapsed monument to a war the world had chosen to forget.
I hired a private extraction team—clean, silent, and expensive. Former special forces who understood that a high-paying contract came with the requirement of total silence.
My instructions were precise: No violence unless unavoidable. Retrieve the targets. Leave no trace.
I watched the operation unfold from the sanctuary of my private study, the grey fog of the castle drifting like incense around the monitors. On the screen, the ruined apartment building sharpened.
"Visual confirmed," the team leader's voice crackled in my earpiece. "Two targets. Minimal movement."
"Proceed," He said.
The door gave way with a soft hiss. Inside the dust-choked room, Wanda reacted with the jagged reflexes of the traumatized. She stepped back. Pietro moved first. He was stepping in front of her with fists clenched. "Who are you?" he demanded.
The lead operator raised a hand—palm open, a gesture of restraint. "Easy. We aren't here to hurt you. We aren't with the gangs, and we aren't here to take you prisoner."
Pietro's eyes flicked to the tactical gear, searching for a flag, a logo, anything. "Then why are you here?"
"Someone with a lot of resources sent us," the operator replied.
"Who?"
"Your sister knows," the man said, his helmet angling toward Wanda.
Pietro turned to his sister, his brow furrowed. "Wanda?"
"I told you," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Someone contacted me. Offered us a job. A place to breathe. I... I didn't know he would send people."
"You should have told me everything," Pietro hissed, but his protective stance softened.
Outside, the distant staccato of gunfire echoed. The operator checked his wrist display. "You've got three minutes before this block becomes a battlefield. We're taking you to New York."
Wanda looked at Pietro. In the grey-lit ruins of their life, they made a silent pact. She nodded.
"Good," the operator said. "Stay close. And don't do anything... explosive."
That evening, the heavy iron gates of my estate ground opened, their hinges singing a mournful note. A black sedan rolled through, its headlights cutting across the gravel driveway like twin blades.
I stood on the porch, the evening air cool against my face. The car stopped, and the door opened. Wanda stepped out first, looking at the sprawling mansion with the wide-eyed wonder of someone who had only ever known the grey of concrete. Pietro followed, his gaze moving constantly—measuring exits, weighing threats. He was a survivor, through and through.
I stepped forward into the light. "Welcome," I said calmly.
Pietro immediately shifted, shielding Wanda. "And you are?"
"Aryan."
I offered my hand. He didn't take it. I didn't expect him to.
Wanda looked at me then, her head tilting slightly as if she were listening to a frequency only she could hear. The familiarity of the fog, the resonance of the ritual—it was there, beneath my skin.
"Have we met before?" she asked.
I smiled faintly. "Not in this world."
The recognition flared in her eyes. "In the castle... there was someone called The World."
I nodded once.
Beside her, Pietro stiffened. "What are you talking about?"
Wanda didn't answer him. She was searching my face, her expression a mix of awe and relief. "You're... younger than I expected."
"I get that a lot," I replied.
As we walked toward the house, Pietro's suspicion finally boiled over. "How do you know my sister?"
I slipped my hands into my pockets, maintaining a casual pace. "We met online. Strategy games. She's surprisingly good at anticipating a move before it's made."
Wanda blinked, then caught the imperceptible shift in my gaze. Play along.
"Yes," she said, her voice finding its footing. "We... we played together."
Pietro looked between us, his jaw set. "You flew us across the world because of a game?"
"Because I take my friends seriously, Pietro," I said, meeting his eyes. That shut him up, at least for the moment.
Inside, the mansion was a temple of warm light and mahogany. Pietro muttered under his breath, "Is all of this yours?"
"It is," I said. "And you can stay here as long as you need. But there is a price."
Pietro's posture sharpened. "I knew it. What is the price?"
"You will work for me," I said. "The umbrella is expanding. I need people I can trust—not employees who see me as a paycheck, but people with reasons to stand their ground. For you, Wanda, you will start as an assistant in operations. You will learn finance, logistics, and how the world is actually moved."
"I have no experience," she whispered.
"You observe better than you think," I replied. I turned to Pietro. "And you... you will be the head of my internal security. You are alert, protective, and you don't trust. Those are the qualities I value."
Pietro scoffed. "You don't even know what I can do."
"I know enough," I said, "If you say no, the gates are open. You leave with no debt. If you stay, you'll be paid well, and your sister will never have to worry about a roof over her head again."
Pietro looked at Wanda. He saw the hope in her eyes, the first spark of light in years. He exhaled, his shoulders dropping just a fraction.
"I want to stay," Wanda said firmly.
Pietro looked back at me, extending a hand this time. His grip was like iron.
"Fine. But if you ever put her in danger..."
"I look like a man who plans ahead, Pietro," I said, shaking his hand. "Danger is something I account for."
As they followed the staff to their quarters, I stood in the hall, the silence of the mansion returning. The twins were no longer assets of Hydra or orphans of Sokovia.
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