Silk & Sabotage

For years—decades, even—the world watched two nations play at peace.

On one side: The Republic of Rica — landlocked, iron-fisted, obsessed with military precision. Its soldiers bled honor, its borders were barbed in strategy.

On the other: The Democratic Archipelago of Lina Loas — soft on the surface, all diplomacy and polite grins. But beneath the waves? Shadows. Secrets. Espionage rooted deep in its spine.

Both claimed peace.

Neither believed the other.

At the heart of Lina Loas stood General Diego Veyra, a man whose power never changed hands no matter who sat in office. The country bowed to its president. But they feared Diego.

And they whispered about his daughter.

Mia Veyra wasn't born into war. She was crafted for it. A perfect weapon dressed in civility — equal parts charm and threat. She didn't kick in doors. She was sent in through them.

Where bullets failed, she followed.

The night the Peace Accord was announced, Rica threw a gala.

Golden chandeliers. Imported champagne. Velvet suits and polished lies.

A night to celebrate diplomacy, they said.

But everyone knew.

This wasn't peace.

This was performance.

And tonight?

The actors were dressed in silk and suspicion.

Mia arrived late. Not rudely late — just late enough to matter.

Too early, and you're forgettable.

Too late, and they smell desperation.

But walk in just as the champagne kicks in?

They remember you.

And Mia Veyra was always remembered.

She wore red — not a demure red, not the kind that begged for compliments. This was deliberate, calculated. The kind of red that made wives watch their husbands a little too closely. It clung like heat and moved like it had something to say.

She didn't need a slit up her thigh. She didn't need diamonds.

She had silence. And she knew how to weaponize it.

They called her a "cultural envoy."

But cultural envoys didn't leave encrypted files behind firewalls.

She moved through the ballroom like she owned the floor — not arrogantly, but with that specific kind of stillness that comes from knowing your power. Her gaze didn't flit. It landed. And when it did, it stayed.

Across the room, Colonel Lucas Drax stood still.

Not posing. Not performing. Just… watching.

He looked like war — not just someone who had seen it, but someone who had survived it and carried pieces of it in his bones. Medals gleamed on his chest, but they weren't why people moved out of his way.

It was the stillness.

Like the eye of a storm.

Their eyes met.

Or maybe she let him catch hers.

She brought the glass to her lips — not to drink, but to pause. To measure.

The wine was bitter. She let it be.

He moved toward her. Not fast. Not hesitant.

Like a man who didn't need permission.

Before he could speak, she cut in — voice low and deliberate:

"Rica's wine has improved."

His reply came after a breath:

"Still leaves an aftertaste."

Their gazes stayed locked.

Not flirtation. Not aggression.

Something in between.

"You don't look like a cultural attaché," he said, not unkindly.

"And you don't look like someone who trusts easy."

"I don't."

"And yet... you're here."

"And yet so are you."

She stepped closer. Not touching — but enough.

Enough for her perfume to find him.

Foreign. Warm. Unsettling.

He didn't step back.

But his jaw shifted — just slightly.

She tilted her head, studying him. Calm, poised, almost… curious.

"You're not from around here," he murmured.

She smiled — a small one, just the edge of a blade.

"Neither are you."

They stood in silence. The ballroom spun around them — laughter, music, politics — but it all felt thin. Distant.

Between them, there was weight.

Something waiting.

He glanced toward the dance floor.

"Do you?"

"I don't usually."

"Then tonight's unusual."

She didn't take his hand.

She turned — slow, certain — and walked forward.

No invitation. No glance back.

And still, he followed.