Callen feels the energy shift the instant Soren arrives—a pale, lean young man in a blazer too big for his frame, eyes the color of slate, hair falling in controlled, artful chaos. Soren slides wordlessly into the chaos of campaign headquarters, moving like he’s trying not to touch the ground, his gaze collecting secrets with every blink. Across the room Callen stands straight-backed, crisp shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, the ghost of a bruise on his collarbone hidden beneath a carelessly knotted tie. Callen’s jaw tightens when Soren nods hello, as if the newcomer’s very presence is a test.

Rysa strides in—shoulders squared, jaw set, dark hair scraped into a severe ponytail. Her navy dress is severe; her eyes even more so, flicking from Callen to Soren to the digital clock on the wall, always calculating edges and risks. She doesn’t see Odessa until the woman is practically beside her—a flash of white-blonde hair, crimson lips, perfume trailing like a dare. Odessa is taller than she needs to be in stiletto boots, and her suit clings in a way that could only be intentional, every button daring someone to look a shade too long.

“New blood?” Odessa purrs, sliding her gaze over Soren with a predator’s amusement. She leans into Callen’s personal space, hand ghosting along his sleeve, making him stiffen then retreat a step. Rysa’s mouth hardens, jealousy flickering in her eyes before she buries it beneath professional frost. Odessa smiles wider, seeing it all.

Soren meets Odessa’s gaze—a challenge, a question—and then looks down, hiding the tiniest tremor in his hand by typing something into his phone. The message sends: “All vulnerabilities confirmed. Next move?” No one notices, but the guilt lingers sharp in his gut.

Later, in the backroom whose only light comes from the neon spill of a vending machine, Odessa finds Rysa hunched over campaign notes, a faint tremor in her fingers. Odessa perches on the table, one leg crossing over the other, her skirt riding indecently high. “Still hiding behind work, darling?” Odessa’s voice is velvet and scorn. Rysa doesn’t look up.

Odessa leans in, her mouth near Rysa’s ear. “You ever miss being wanted for something more than your mind?” The question hits like a slap. Rysa’s jaw clenches; she doesn’t answer. Odessa’s hand drifts to Rysa’s thigh, heat radiating through fabric. For a long, breathless moment, neither woman moves. Then Rysa’s defenses splinter—the pain, the desire, the need to lose herself in someone else’s control. She kisses Odessa, hard and desperate. Odessa laughs into the kiss, tasting victory and something she can’t name.

Their bodies collide with a violence that startles both, dresses hiked up, mouths searching, claiming. Odessa grinds Rysa against the table, one hand tangled in her hair, the other mapping the scars Rysa tries to hide. Rysa gasps—anger and need fusing until it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. Odessa bites Rysa’s lip, a silent dare. Rysa answers with nails raking down Odessa’s back, drawing a shiver and a breathless, “You want to hurt as much as I do, don’t you?”

Unknown to them, Soren stands in the half-dark, barely breathing. From the sliver of open door, he sees everything—the way pain and longing twist Rysa’s face, the glint of triumph and confusion in Odessa’s eyes, the vulnerability they let slip when they think they’re alone. He’s meant to collect leverage, but all he feels is a sick, sharp ache. For the first time he wonders if he’s truly on the right side.

Outside, Callen spots Odessa emerging, her lipstick smudged, eyes bright and wild. She gives Callen a knowing look that burns through him, and for a flicker of a moment, he hates how much he wants what she just took from someone else.

Rysa reemerges, brisk and unreadable, but her hands shake as she pretends to text. Odessa’s scent clings to her skin, and she can’t stop replaying the heat, the humiliation, the freedom. She catches Soren’s stare from across the room—his look unreadable, yet oddly tender—and for a split second, she wonders who he really is.

Minutes later, Soren’s phone vibrates. His handler’s message is blunt: “Now. Move.” He hesitates, then starts composing another text, fingers trembling.

Unbeknownst to them all, Soren’s brief message is already in transit—evidence and confession, threat and plea. The game has changed.

To be continued...