Page 3 of Villainous Intent

Fat chance of that happening when the Tower saw everything.

Its systems tracked every single person that entered, every movement made. Nothing stayed secret, especially not a disheveled Keeper who should have been sitting at her desk filing compliance reports hours ago instead of tracking dried blood across the lobby.

Every step I took hammered home the bone deep exhaustion of the day and I hadn’t even started any of the paperwork I needed to get done.

I caught my reflection in the Tower doors as I entered and instantly wished I hadn’t.

My warm brown hair was dust caked and sweaty looking where it hung limply around my face. Dust also coated my blazer, turning the Alliance blue to gray. The dark stain across the hem and ass of my skirt was too recognizable. My blue eyes stared back at me, wide and hollowed out.

I kept my chin down as I hurried through the lobby. Alliance reps and junior Heroes gave me a wide berth, their eyes darting away the second I looked up. At least the security guards stationed at the metal detectors were nice enough to pretend they didn’t notice as I shuffled by. They stared straight ahead, their expressions blank. A blood-soaked Keeper was just a normal day for them.

I limped past the reception desk, my eyes catching the digital displays overhead. Normally, they cycled through Alliance propaganda, from Hero spotlights to aggressively cheerful training PSAs. But today a red alert banner slashed across the screens: MUSEUM HEIST IN PROGRESS.

I paused. There hadn’t been anything about a heist on the oversight comms.

The red banner dissolved and a mugshot filled the display, accompanied by bold text: WANTED: CIPHER.

The mugshot was a joke considering the fact Cipher was a masked League member. There were all sorts of rules about masks and secret identities so that even if someone like Cipher happened to be apprehended, no one was permitted to remove their mask and reveal their identity.

My pulse spiked as the image vanished, replaced by security footage from the museum interior. Cipher moved through the frame, the subtle glowing lines along his suit pulsing with every step.

A museum security guard lunged at him from the periphery, but Cipher didn’t even break his stride. He grabbed the man’s forearm, twisting it. The visual of the elbow bending backward was sickeningly clear. I didn’t need audio to hear the crack of the bone. The guard’s mouth stretched wide as it opened in a scream before his body fell to the floor.

I should look away. My job as an Alliance Keeper demanded righteous indignation, a disgust for League members committing violent crimes.

On the screen, Cipher turned toward the security camera. The featureless black of his mask locked onto the lens. For a split second, he was looking right at me, at the little rule-following Keeper trembling on the other side of the camera.

Run, my hindbrain screamed. Closer, my blood whispered.

I jerked my eyes away and forced my legs to move.

Rule number one, never get distracted by a Villain. Rule number two, especially not that one.

I reached the elevator bank and slapped my palm against the scanner. As soon as the doors sealed shut, I slumped back against the wall and closed my eyes for the thirty blessed seconds of peace the ride would give me.

It wasn’t nearly long enough.

The doors parted with a soft chime, depositing me onto the executive level.

Simmons stood waiting for me as soon as I stepped off. Havoc’s former henchman turned butler stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid. He took in my appearance with a sniff, his gaze lingering on the stains ruining my skirt and heels, before snapping back up to my face.

“Sir wishes to see you, Ms. Bishop,” Simmons said simply, then turned and walked back to his desk outside Havoc’s office door, returning his attention to his security monitors. I stayed rooted to the spot for a second longer, trying to steel myself against the impending headache that was Havoc. I drew in a long breath, squared my aching shoulders, and headed toward the double doors.

Havoc sat hunched over his desk, aggressively swiping at his computer screen.

Being a Super definitely came with biological perks. Despite being sixty-two years old, Havoc didn’t look a day past thirty. The only indicator of his actual age was the silvery grey of his hair and neatly trimmed beard.

Havoc didn’t bother glancing up when I entered, too engrossed in whatever he was doing.

“You’ve been gone a long time. I needed those clearance forms filed twenty minutes ago.”

I swallowed the sarcastic retort burning the back of my throat and tried to ignore the way my feet throbbed with every step toward his desk.

“You have a street clash in District Four in exactly one hour,” I said. “I suggest you start reviewing the collateral damage caps instead of worrying about my filing schedule.”

Havoc finally stopped swiping his screen and lifted his head. Any trace of annoyance vanished from his expression and the ambient hum of his chaos energy spiked, rattling a metal pen on his desk.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded.