The emperor suite's door exploded under Vivian's kick like a gunshot in a cathedral.
What she found inside turned her soul to molten steel.
Six trust-fund parasites sat around a marble table, playing catch with something that made Vivian's world fracture at the edges. Her mother's urn—the sacred vessel containing all that remained of the woman who'd died protecting her—was being tossed between manicured hands like a football.
"Think there's jewelry mixed in with the old bitch?" One of them laughed, shaking the ceramic container near his ear. "Maybe we should crack it open and see."
At the head of the table lounged Lincoln Feng—bastard son of the Feng empire, desperate to prove his worth through calculated cruelty. He caught the urn with deliberate carelessness, then pressed his lit Cuban cigar against its pristine surface.
The smell of burning ceramic filled the air like incense at a desecrated funeral.
"Well, well." His voice dripped poison honey. "The infamous Vivian Ning graces us with her presence."
He held up the urn, now marred with a black, smoking scar. "Want mommy's ashes back, sweetheart? Get on your knees. Lick my shoes clean. Maybe then I'll consider returning what's left of the whore."
**[CRITICAL WARNING: HOST VITALS APPROACHING LETHAL THRESHOLD. COMBAT INADVISABLE.]**
*Fuck advisable.*
But Vivian didn't charge blindly into their trap. Instead, her eyes found the nearest bottle of Dom Pérignon—worth more than most people's annual salary—and hurled it at the corner fire detector with surgical precision.
Crystal exploded. Champagne sprayed.
The sprinkler system erupted like the wrath of God.
High-pressure water cannons burst from the ceiling, transforming the opulent suite into chaos. Designer suits worth tens of thousands were instantly ruined. Priceless electronics sparked and died. The trust-fund army scrambled for exits, their predatory confidence dissolving into panic.
But Vivian moved against the tide like a shark scenting blood.
While everyone else fled toward safety, she cut through the chaos with lethal purpose, her stilettos clicking against marble like a countdown to execution. Lincoln saw her coming and dropped into a fighter's stance—Muay Thai, probably learned at some overpriced gym where rich boys played at being dangerous.
His first kick came fast and brutal, aimed at her ribs with enough force to shatter bone.
**[TRAJECTORY CALCULATED. OPTIMAL COUNTER: LATERAL DISPLACEMENT 2.7 DEGREES.]**
Vivian twisted like smoke, the kick whistling past her ear close enough to feel the wind. Her stiletto heel found his kneecap with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel.
*CRACK.*
The sound of shattering cartilage cut through the chaos like a death knell. Lincoln dropped like a marionette with severed strings, his scream lost in the symphony of rushing water and panicked voices. He landed hard in front of her mother's urn, water streaming down his face like tears he'd never earned the right to shed.
"I don't like people looking down on me," Vivian said conversationally, her voice carrying the casual tone of someone discussing the weather.
Then she lifted her foot and drove her stiletto straight through his hand—the same hand that had desecrated her mother's memory with fire and mockery.
The heel punched through flesh and bone with a wet, tearing sound, pinning him to the marble like a butterfly in a collector's case. She twisted slowly, grinding steel against bone, savoring each wet pop of cartilage separating.
Lincoln's scream could have shattered the crystal chandelier above them.
"That's for touching what doesn't belong to you."
**[LIFE FORCE CRITICAL: 31 SECONDS REMAINING.]**
*Thirty-one seconds. Enough time to finish what they started.*
Vivian picked up a jagged shard of champagne bottle, its edge gleaming like a blade forged in hell. Lincoln's eyes went wide with the kind of terror that came from finally understanding that money couldn't buy immunity from consequences.
She raised the glass toward his throat, and for a moment, she could almost hear her mother's voice whispering approval from beyond the grave.
*Do it. Make them pay for what they took from us.*
"Vivian."
The voice cut through her bloodlust like a lifeline thrown to a drowning soul. Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, one hand covering her eyes with surprising gentleness, the other carefully prying the makeshift weapon from her trembling fingers.
"That's enough, angel."
Lucien's voice was velvet over steel, soft against her ear but carrying the weight of absolute authority. He pulled her back against his chest, and instantly, the crushing weight on her lungs began to ease.
**[S-CLASS ENERGY SOURCE DETECTED. LIFE FORCE STABILIZING AT 67%.]**
"You're getting blood on your Armani," she whispered, suddenly hyperaware of how Lincoln's blood had painted her hands crimson.
"I have a closet full of them." Lucien pulled out a pristine silk handkerchief and began cleaning her fingers with the kind of reverent care usually reserved for priceless artifacts. "This one was hideous anyway."
Around them, his security team moved with military precision, clearing the room of witnesses like ghosts in expensive suits. Lincoln tried to crawl toward the exit, leaving a trail of blood and water and broken pride.
"Sir?" Marcus materialized at Lucien's shoulder, his voice carefully neutral. "Instructions regarding the trash?"
Lucien glanced down at Lincoln with the kind of casual indifference most people reserved for stepping on insects.
"Call Dr. Chen. Have him fix the hand." His voice carried the conversational tone of someone ordering coffee. "Then break it again. Repeat the process until he learns proper reverence for the dead."
Lincoln's face went the color of old parchment. "You can't—my father will destroy you—"
"Your father disowned you three weeks ago." Lucien's smile could have frozen hellfire. "Something about embezzling two million from the family trust. You're nobody now, Lincoln. Which means nobody will miss you when you disappear."
As Lincoln was dragged away—still making threats that carried all the weight of smoke—Vivian knelt beside her mother's urn. The ceramic was cracked, water-stained, but miraculously intact.
*I'm sorry, Mom. I should have protected this better. Protected you better.*
She lifted the urn with trembling hands, cradling it against her chest like the most precious thing in existence. But something felt wrong—the weight distribution was off, heavier on one side than she remembered.
**[ANOMALY DETECTED: FOREIGN METALLIC OBJECT CONCEALED WITHIN URN STRUCTURE.]**
**[SCANNING... CLASSIFICATION: S-RANK MISSION ITEM.]**
**[DESIGNATION: "MOTHER'S FINAL SECRET."]**
Vivian's breath caught in her throat like a trapped bird.
*What did you hide from me, Mom? What truth were you trying to preserve?*
The system's crimson warning pulsed across her vision like a heartbeat, promising answers to questions she'd never known to ask. But those revelations would have to wait.
For now, she had her mother back in her arms. And she had Lucien's presence anchoring her to sanity.
It was enough.
For now.