Chapter 27 – The Corporate Leash
As always, the Silver Moon Corporation building did not feel like a place of business. It felt like a temple built to worship wealth and control.
As Luke walked through the expansive, polished-stone lobby, his boots made no sound on the thick carpets. Corporate security personnel, heavily armed and wearing earpieces, watched the floor with cold, calculating eyes. Everyone here moved with a quiet, synchronised efficiency.
“Disgusting,” Petra’s voice echoed lazily in Luke’s mind. “In my era, those who held power built fortresses of iron and magic. They did not hide behind glass windows and men in suits. This era is dreadfully soft.”
Luke kept his expression neutral as he stepped into the executive elevator. Petra’s contempt was obvious, but she was not wrong. Silver Moon looked elegant, civilised, and polished on the surface. Underneath, it was still a predator. The only difference was that modern predators wore tailored suits and signed contracts before they ate you.
For now, though, Luke had no reason to reject that ugliness. He needed the corporation’s money, resources, and facilities. If Silver Moon wanted to wrap its chains in silk, then he would use the silk for as long as it benefited him.
The elevator chimed, depositing him on the secure upper floor of the Strategic Risk Containment Division.
Luke was escorted past two heavy security doors and into Director Silas's office. The room was expansive, bathed in the sharp, grey light of the winter morning. Silas sat behind his massive oak desk, his fingers steepled together. He looked up as Luke entered, his sharp, calculating eyes immediately trying to dissect the man standing before him.
“Have a seat, Luke,” Silas said, his voice smooth but lacking any real warmth.
Luke sat. He didn't slouch, but he didn't sit with military rigidity either. He played the part of a man who was confident in his new, highly-paid position.
“Your team is assembled. Your paperwork is cleared. Now, it is time to see if our investment in you was justified,” Silas began, leaning forward slightly. “We have a situation.”
As Silas spoke, Luke noticed something strange.
It was not pressure.
Not the kind he had expected from a psychic-type awakener.
Instead, there was a faint sensation, almost impossible to notice unless one was paying close attention—like a thin thread brushing against the edges of his thoughts. It did not try to crush his mind or force submission. It searched. Quietly. Carefully.
Luke understood at once.
So this was Silas’s method.
Not domination.
Discernment.
Some kind of truth-reading ability.
Silas was not trying to overpower him. He was measuring him. Testing whether his reactions, words, and surface intent matched one another. It was the kind of ability perfectly suited for corporate recruitment, negotiations, and loyalty checks.
Luke kept his breathing even.
That could be dangerous.
He could control his face. He could control his tone. But an ability that directly examined truth and falsehood was far more troublesome than ordinary interrogation.
Before Luke could decide how to handle it, Petra gave a quiet, scornful sound inside his mind.
“How vulgar,” she said. “A little lie-detecting trick dressed up as discernment. This era really has forgotten elegance.”
Luke said nothing outwardly.
The invisible probing thread touched the edge of his thoughts again.
Then Petra moved.
Luke did not feel a violent clash. There was no burst of power, no dramatic resistance. Petra simply folded her presence around his mind like a veil being drawn over glass. Smooth. Complete. Effortless.
In that instant, Luke understood what she had done.
She was not blocking Silas in a way he would notice.
She was not attacking his ability.
She was feeding it a perfectly controlled surface.
A calm layer of selected truth.
Enough to satisfy the check. Enough to show confidence, intent, and professional clarity—without exposing anything underneath.
From Silas’s perspective, nothing had gone wrong at all.
His ability continued to function.
It just functioned on what Petra allowed him to touch.
Silas’s gaze sharpened for half a second as he studied Luke’s face.
Then, very subtly, he relaxed.
Luke saw it immediately.
The man believed what he was seeing.
A competent ex-Bureau agent. Ambitious. Controlled. Willing to work. No hidden wavering large enough to trigger concern.
Good.
Silas had just tested him—
and passed him.
“A mid-level smuggling syndicate known as the Iron Crows has acquired a shipment of rare alchemical materials,” Silas continued. “These materials are vital to our R&D division. We originally intended to purchase them through the black market, but our informants tell us the Bureau has caught wind of the shipment. They are moving to intercept it tonight.”
Luke nodded, his Bureau experience immediately mapping out the scenario. “If the Bureau seizes it, it goes into evidence lockup. Silver Moon loses the supply chain.”
“Exactly,” Silas said, sliding a digital tablet across the desk. “Your Strike Team is to infiltrate the warehouse in the industrial district, secure the cargo, and vanish before the Bureau’s raid team arrives. If you encounter the smugglers, eliminate them. If you encounter the Bureau...” Silas paused, his eyes narrowing. “...delay them. Do not kill official agents unless necessary, but ensure the cargo is ours.”
“Consider it done,” Luke said, taking the tablet and standing up.
Ten minutes later, Luke walked into the Strike Team's briefing room. The five members were already there.
Felix was slouched in a rolling chair, tapping rapidly on a tablet. Nadia stood by the wall, cleaning a sleek, suppressed handgun. Victor, the older analyst, was sipping coffee, while Marcus and Rowan sat at the heavy briefing table.
Rowan, the unstable physical awakener, looked up as Luke walked in. The man practically vibrated with pent-up aggression.
“So?” Rowan said. “Do we finally get off our leashes today?”
Luke didn't answer immediately. He walked to the head of the table, placed the tablet down, and pressed a button. A holographic blueprint of an industrial warehouse flickered to life in the centre of the room.
The room went quiet.
They were waiting to see what kind of leader Silver Moon had given them.
“Tonight, we are hitting an Iron Crows smuggling den,” Luke said, his voice flat, carrying the undeniable authority of a man who had survived years in the Bureau's darkest operations. “The objective is cargo retrieval. Three crates of alchemical materials.”
He looked directly at Nadia.
“Nadia. Perimeter control. You disable their external alarms and cut the localised comms. I don't want them calling for backup.”
Nadia raised an eyebrow, slightly impressed by the directness. “Easy enough.”
“Felix,” Luke continued. “You're on Overwatch. Tap into the city traffic cams and the Bureau's dispatch frequencies. The Bureau is planning to raid this exact warehouse tonight. If they get within a two-mile radius, you tell me.”
Felix offered a lazy salute. “You got it, boss.”
“Marcus, you secure the transport vehicle at the rear loading dock. Keep the engine running.”
Then Luke finally turned his cold gaze to Rowan.
“Rowan. You're on breach. You go in loud through the front. Draw their attention.”
Rowan cracked his knuckles, a savage grin spreading across his face. “Now we're talking. I'll break every bone in that warehouse.”
“No, you won’t,” Luke said.
The temperature in the room dropped almost instantly. A faint line of frost curled along the edge of the holographic table. It wasn't much. Just enough to make the point.
Rowan’s grin faltered.
“We aren't here to brawl,” Luke said, leaning forward slightly. “We are here to steal and vanish. You will draw their fire, break their defensive line, and hold them there. If you push too deep and get yourself surrounded because you’re hungry for a fight, I will leave you behind to face the Bureau alone. Am I understood?”
Rowan’s jaw clenched.
His pride bristled, but the authority in Luke’s voice—and the quiet certainty behind it—left little room to challenge him.
“Understood,” Rowan said at last.
Luke straightened up.
That was enough.
He had established the hierarchy.
This was not a pack of equals. Not yet. They were specialists thrown together by the corporation, each dangerous in their own way, each carrying their own habits and flaws. But under his command, they would move like a scalpel, not a fist.
In his mind, Petra gave an amused hum.
“Not bad, little one,” she mused. “You wear command better than I expected. Now let us go see these ‘alchemical materials.’ Perhaps this corporation is about to finance your future without ever realising it.”