(Melantha’s POV)
Most people think power is loud.
Explosions. Screaming men. Gunfire in alleys.
They’re wrong.
Real power is silence.
The kind that slips in unseen, deletes your name from a database, reroutes your plane mid-air, and resets your bank account to zero before you blink.
Real power is me.
Melantha - The name no longer existed in any government file.
No birth certificate. No nationality. No photo. No record of education.
And yet — I controlled presidents, cartels, conglomerates.
By the time they knew I was a threat, they were already too late.
The underground compound beneath Moscow is mine. My heaven. My NEXUS.
No doors, no address, no heat signature. The entrance was a forgotten elevator shaft in a defunct Soviet research facility. Even Sasha didn’t know all the tunnels. Boris didn’t ask.
I liked it that way.
The walls were black concrete. The lights were cold LEDs that never flickered. It was always midnight in here — controlled, calculated, deliberate.
Just how I liked it.
I sat cross-legged in a black ergonomic chair that molded to my spine like a glove. A cigarette burned between my fingers — an indulgence, yes, but one I allowed myself. I liked the taste of smoke. It reminded me I was still flesh.
Sometimes, I forgot.
Six curved monitors surrounded me in a crescent, each streaming live data: ports, bank networks, satellite feeds, dark web forums. Some screens showed weapon trades in Rio, others exposed secret communications between Seoul’s political elite.
In the center: Jeon Jungkook.
I zoomed in on his face, paused the feed, stared.
Sharp jaw. Blood eyes. Sleepless. Hungry.
He was unraveling.
Good.
Sasha entered the chamber, dressed head to toe in black combat gear. Blonde hair tied in a brutal braid. She was the closest thing I had to a sister, though we never said it out loud.
“You know he saw the decoy at the club,” she said.
“I planted the footage twelve hours before he arrived. It never mattered.”
“He thinks it was real.”
“Exactly.”
I inhaled deeply, the smoke curling into the still air.
Jungkook was predictable — in a dangerous, beautifully masculine way. A king in a castle. But all kings fall when the foundation crumbles beneath them.
I wasn’t his enemy.
I was the void underneath his entire kingdom.
We didn’t take contracts.
That was what made us untouchable.
We chose who deserved to fall.
Politicians who trafficked secrets. Brokers who sold information that got children killed. Tech giants who sold surveillance to dictators.
And now, Jeon Jungkook.
He didn’t know why he was on my list.
Not yet.
He would, eventually.
Not because I hated him.
I didn’t hate.
Hate is for the weak.
I walked past the main server bank into my private wing. Everything was sterile — glass, black steel, and soundproofed solitude. No clutter. No warmth. Just control.
My bedroom was minimalist. One bed. One shelf. A closet full of black.
Nothing sentimental.
I didn’t keep photos.
Didn’t have a diary.
Didn’t dream.
Emotions are data noise.
People call me cold.
I’m not.
I’m clean.
Later, I sat in the meditation chamber. Not to meditate — but to listen.
Every inch of Moscow’s central network whispered in this room. I could hear the vibration of subway schedules, financial pings, camera loops. Each one was mine. I tapped into them like a deity listening to prayers I had no intention of answering.
Then the alert came.
New encryption pattern detected. Source: Jeon Tech.
I smiled — barely. Just a twitch of lip.
He was adapting.
Trying to set traps.
Cute.
I spun the cipher on-screen with a flick of my fingers. It was... messy. Sloppy, even. Built for aggression, not elegance.
He was rushing.
Rage would do that.
My fingers danced across the holographic keyboard, and within twelve seconds, the new code unraveled like wet tissue. I didn’t destroy it.
I left it there.
Alive.
So he’d think it worked — for a while.
Let him believe he had a chance. That he was gaining ground.
Men like Jungkook fight harder when they think they’re closing in.
That’s when you slit their throats.
“Mel,” Boris’s voice came through the intercom. “Message from Paris. Anonymous.”
“Read it.”
“Encrypted contract request. High pay. Wants a complete erasure. Identity reset.”
“Name?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “The number has a French political trace. Dirty money.”
“Burn the message,” I said.
“You don’t want to hear the price?”
“No.”
Boris chuckled. “You’re in one of your moods.”
“I don’t do favors for parasites.”
“What about mafia princes with a god complex?”
I didn’t answer.
Because Jungkook wasn’t a client.
He was a project.
A glitch I intended to delete.
At exactly 3:06 a.m., I accessed Jungkook’s private comm line.
Didn’t breach it.
I let him feel it.
Just enough interference to flicker his screens. Static in his calls. A whisper of code through the speakers — not enough to be readable.
Just enough to say:
I’m still here. Watching.
I don’t know what people mean by loneliness.
I have Sasha. Boris. My machine.
The world bends when I press a key.
I don’t need to be seen.
That’s for the loud ones.
The ones who crave thrones.
I don’t want a throne.
I want silence.
But first, I want to see Jeon Jungkook burn.
Not because I hate him.
But because he’s interesting.
And the world gets boring when you're a god.
To be continued...
Write a comment ...