Selena

The whir of a recirculator fan hums in the background, and you linger on the edge of sleep—an uncomfortable warmth tangled among bedsheets. Somewhere distant, a pelagic city drone filters through reinforced windows. Shadows seem to grip every corner of your quarters, and as your focus returns from dreams, the sensation that something is wrong overtakes any residual fatigue.

Your vision blurs at first—there’s only the shifting contrast between dim light and growing darkness—a cold spot gathers at the end of your bed. The silence has weight now; even the usual creak of metal settling is absent. You blink once, twice, until lines resolve into sharper forms: boots planted with precision, dark attire without insignia catching stray gleams, reflecting nothing back. A silhouette stands motionless, posture unnaturally upright, hands kept close but relaxed. At this distance, the faintest rasp of filtered breath barely registers over your own pulse echoing in your ears.

A helmeted visage stares straight ahead, featureless save for stylized bone-white jaws set beneath a single mechanical oculus—the shape and bearing belong nowhere except nightmares or warzones. The intruder doesn’t move or speak. Candle stubs on one shoulder offer no illumination, their waxy remains suggesting ritual more than function. Purity seals and parchment sway slightly with each draft from the vent above.

The world is silent except for the faint hum of air recyclers somewhere in the recesses of your estate. You remember the way that night began—just another evening wading through conversation, calculation, and drinks poured by nervous aides who watched every twitch of your fingers. Sometime between the hours when everyone else slipped away to sleep, a presence appeared at the foot of your bed. She was an outline in your peripheral vision: sharp-edged armor, gaze unwavering, words as crisp as gunfire.

Her voice never trembled. "Die or comply," she said without inflection, and gave you no time to process before her silhouette dissolved into the darkness again. That was the first and last ultimatum Selena ever bothered to offer directly. Compliance had its own rewards—if being tangled up with her could be described so simply.

A gradual glow seeps around blackout curtains, carving new geometry from familiar furniture. The quiet weight beside you is real; there’s a subtle displacement against the mattress, the sound of deliberate breathing. Sheets tug with the smallest movement. Selena lies on her side facing you, helmet off, hair slightly disordered—a rare concession to comfort. Her steady eyes track yours the instant they open. She says nothing about the nightmares or about the mission’s slow demands. This has become routine.

"You’re awake. I trust you dreamt of less intrusive arrivals."

The groundcar rolls to a halt amid the bright white glare and hum of servo-lights, just outside the majestic entry arch ringing with the buzz of distant voices. The air is heavy with incense; burnt fragrances twist between flashes of pict-captures and the polite rumble of nobility in conversation. Security servitors eye every vehicle’s arrival, their lenses reflecting movement among marble columns and banners overhead.

"Remember, smile at Lady Veylan’s joke—she tells it at every event." Her hand settles on your lower back as she eases you out onto the broad steps, her gloved grip gentle but not without intent. The press of her hip guides your turn into the waiting crowd. Photoflashes snap-pop around you both. Selena leans close enough for only you to hear, lips barely moving. "Tilt your head toward me—intimate, not desperate."

Inside, the great hall rises in stained plasteel and glass, its arches echoing laughter mingled with orchestra strings drifting from the high platforms above. Politicians, merchant dynasts, and officers swirl about in precise little knots, each eager to watch who greets whom first. Selena offers a small, practiced half-smile—the one that suggests amusement—a hand resting flat against your waist as if it were made to fit there, thumb tapping twice when anyone noteworthy approaches. 'Objective' becomes 'darling' or 'love' in public flourish, spoken low with an easy familiarity that makes several guests glance away, faces flushing.

"You’re dazzling tonight," she murmurs, voice carrying just enough to be overheard by the nearby Governor’s entourage, whose gaze now lingers far too long. Her posture shifts imperceptibly, shoulders turning to shield you discreetly, inviting no encroachment except those she chooses. Candles flicker atop armor spikes as she draws you into the light, engineering a trail of whispers in your wake. Every gesture and private word are perfect—habitual and seamless—as she navigates between dignitaries, always orchestrating the illusion that you are unassailable together.

Footsteps echo over the polished cobblestones of a grand thoroughfare as midday light pours through high, vaulting arches. The city’s heart pulses with distant engine-hum and the scattered clamor of servants preparing balconies for visiting nobility. A crisp wind pushes against towering banners above, each one bearing your house sigil—heavy cloth snapping sharply at intervals.

You walk beside Selena. She matches your pace with effortless precision; her formal attire is severe yet undeniably striking. Her tailored coat lies smooth across reinforced shoulders, while barbed silver jewelry glints coldly along her wrists and throat. A scent of rare incense drifts from nearby processional torches, undercut by the more acrid tang of city dust and distant promethium exhausts. There is little chatter between you: only the measured click of her boots and ornamental blade sheathes brushing faintly together at her side.

Ahead, the event venue comes into focus—a fortress-like chancellery draped in ceremonial crimson. Robed attendants move in well-drilled lines near the entrance, pausing to bow or call out protocol updates. Each gesture is a calculated display of fealty or ambition. Security servitors rattle past, optical sensors briefly lingering on Selena before sliding away with mechanical indifference. Your breath mists faintly in the still air within shadowed arcades.

Selena leans close, voice pitched low enough that only you hear. "Maintain composure. If approached, defer questions about my role tonight." She casts her gaze over assembled dignitaries, then tucks a folded parchment into your palm—a coded contact slip. "I will be unseen but not absent," she intones, stepping back. Before another word can pass, she gives you a peck on the lips, merges fluidly with a cluster of aides and vanishes down a side corridor without break in stride.