Two days after Kastiel knelt, the Hollow Society received their answer.
But it wasn't in the form of a letter. Or a warning. Or a corpse.
It came as a quiet theft—clean, surgical, and humiliating.
They didn't know it had happened until after it was already over.
Balen stood beside Alaric on the rooftop of a neighboring building as the early evening sun dipped behind the skyline. Below them, across the street, sat the Hollow's off-book financial shell: Davenport Exchange, a respectable-looking brokerage firm with polished windows, an in-house espresso bar, and over six hundred million in rotating capital. On paper, it was clean. In reality, it laundered money for at least three underworld alliances—including Hollow.
It had never been touched.
Until now.
"You really want to do this?" Balen asked.
"Yes."
"You won't win by poking the bear."
"I'm not poking," Alaric replied. "I'm branding it."
That night, Kastiel led the insertion team.
Under Balen's guidance and with Vira managing digital surveillance, they bypassed the firm's entire security grid in under fifteen minutes. No cameras. No broken windows. No guards down.
Alaric didn't need violence to make his statement.
Inside the vault room, they found the ledger: a locked black briefcase holding encrypted contracts, coded payouts, and detailed bribe records dating back seven years.
Alaric took nothing else.
He left the briefcase open on the desk of the Hollow's regional director. Inside it, he placed a single object:
The original Vane pendant.
Not his—he would never part with his.
This was a replica made from the original family crest. An old one, aged and faded, taken from the Vane archives Balen had safeguarded years ago.
But to anyone with memory or fear of the Vanes—it was unmistakable.
It was history come knocking.
A ghost showing its face.
By morning, the city's criminal underbelly was on fire.
Whispers flew like wildfire. The Hollow Society had been breached. The untouchable had been touched. The heir they mocked had walked into their vault, taken their secrets, and left a symbol where their power used to be.
No deaths. No blood.
Just silence.
And fear.
At the Astoria, Balen stood behind Alaric in the private lounge, sipping espresso as he read the reports flooding in.
"Bold move," he muttered. "You've embarrassed them. Their entire network is talking."
"I didn't do it to make noise," Alaric said quietly.
"No. But they hear you now."
Kastiel sat nearby, flipping through the duplicate files they'd copied from the briefcase. "You hit them where they think they're safe. That's worse than spilling blood."
Alaric nodded. "Good."
"Then what's next?" Balen asked.
Alaric looked out the tall windows, watching the sun cut through the mist.
"We let them come."
Balen raised an eyebrow. "Come? You want them to retaliate?"
"They think I'm still small. That I'm just some remnant of a dead name. Let them keep thinking that."
Kastiel gave a short laugh. "You want them to try something stupid."
Alaric finally turned from the window, the faintest glint of fire in his silver-flecked eyes.
"No. I want them to think they have a choice."
He turned to the map laid across the table, one hand resting gently on the marked territories of Hollow influence.
"And then," he said softly, "we take everything."