Two months later — Geneva, Switzerland.
The prison lights flickered—an omen of what was coming.
Omega was no longer chained. Her freedom wasn't given; it was orchestrated.
She walked down a sterile hallway escorted by masked agents in suits sharper than steel. The woman who had offered her the "second chance" was waiting by a black armored car.
"You said this was bigger than revenge," Omega said.
The woman handed her a file.
Inside were photos: Marco. Alethea. A child's ultrasound.
"Then tell me, who's the real enemy?"
"The ones who want to keep the bloodlines clean."
Omega's eyes narrowed.
"So… The Legacy Council is real."
"Very real. And very close to ending you both."
---
Meanwhile — Milan
Marco and Alethea were attending a masquerade gala hosted by an old ally of Marco's—Lord Donovan Valtieri, a media tycoon and secret shareholder in the Walker empire.
The ballroom was exquisite—golden chandeliers, violins humming dark symphonies, and a hundred masks hiding lies.
Alethea wore blood-red silk. Marco donned a midnight-black suit with a matching mask. They looked like royalty.
"You trust Donovan?" Alethea asked as they danced.
"I trust that he loves chaos more than money," Marco replied.
Suddenly, the music stopped.
Screams erupted.
A chandelier crashed.
Smoke filled the room—and through it walked a woman in leather, her lips curved into a dangerous smile.
Omega.
"Did you miss me?" she shouted, her voice echoing across the ballroom.
Marco pulled Alethea behind him.
"Not even a little," he growled.
Omega held up a detonator.
"Then you won't like the surprise I left in the cellar."
Marco's earpiece buzzed.
"Sir, we've got thirty seconds. Bomb confirmed."
He turned to Alethea.
"Go. Now."
"No. We end this together."
---
Underground Cellar — Seconds Ticking
Marco and Alethea rushed through dark corridors. The ticking was real. And fast.
They found the bomb—complex, wired to the building's power.
"You know how to defuse this?" Alethea asked, breathless.
"No. But I know how to rewrite the trigger logic."
He opened the core and typed rapidly into a console.
The timer jumped from 00:09…
To 00:06…
Then froze.
"Marco—"
"I changed its purpose."
He pressed a final key.
The lights in the ballroom returned. But this time, the guests were locked in.
---
Back in the Ballroom
Gas hissed. Not poison—truth serum.
One by one, elites screamed confessions.
"I funded the attack in Prague!"
"I bribed the council to erase bloodline records!"
Omega laughed maniacally, cornered but victorious.
"Now the world knows who you are."
Marco stared at her.
"And now they'll know who you are."
He raised a small drone controller. The entire scene had been recorded.
Live-streamed. Global.
Omega's smile faltered.
"You think exposing them is the end?"
"No," Alethea said. "It's just the beginning."
Location: Valtieri Estate — Secret Chamber, 3 AM
Marco stood over the last remaining member of the Legacy Council in Italy—Giovanni Ruelle, an old man with trembling hands and venom in his eyes.
"You think bloodlines make you untouchable," Marco said coldly.
"You wouldn't exist without us," Giovanni spat. "You are ours, Marco. Engineered. Chosen."
Marco's jaw clenched.
"I was never yours. I was made to destroy you."
He pulled the trigger.
One less name on the list.
---
Elsewhere — Omega's Hidden Safehouse, Lucerne
Omega removed her mask. Alone. Exhausted. But alive.
She poured herself a glass of aged scotch, her hands shaking.
On her table, files. Photographs. Blueprints. And something Alethea had never seen: a black-and-white photo of a girl in a hospital bed—Alethea at age 4. Scribbled in red ink: "Subject V-X1"
Omega stared at it.
"You really don't know what you are, do you?"
---
Meanwhile — Venice
Alethea stood in front of an old cathedral converted into a private archive. It was locked for centuries. Only her blood granted access—literally.
She pricked her finger and pressed it against the stone lion at the gate.
It growled. Shifted. Opened.
Inside was dust, silence, and secrets.
In the vault, Alethea found her mother's name: Cassandra Vione DeMarché — a woman erased from history.
Beside it: a journal.
"If you're reading this, you've unlocked what they tried to bury. Your power isn't inherited. It's awakened. And it's yours now."
Tears welled in Alethea's eyes.
"Motherrrrr…"
She turned the final page.
Coordinates.
A name: Elara.
A phrase: "The Phoenix Protocol."
---
Back in Milan — Walker HQ
Marco stood in the command room as satellites tracked strange movements—hidden labs across Europe, ancient fortresses lighting up again, and a coded frequency detected.
A song. A lullaby. One Alethea used to hum in her sleep.
He whispered, "It's starting."
His second-in-command approached.
"Sir… she's not just powerful. She's a target. Half the world wants her dead. The other half wants her DNA."
"They can't have her," Marco replied, turning toward the glass wall overlooking the city. "She's not just mine. She's the future."
---
Ending Scene — A Ship Named Elara, Sailing into the Night
Alethea stood on the deck, cloak fluttering behind her. In her hands was the journal. On her neck glowed a medallion—ancient and pulsing with warmth.
Beside her, Marco wrapped his arm around her waist.
"Where we're going… it's not safe," he said.
"Then it's exactly where we need to be."
As the ship cut through the waves, thunder rolled above.
The war hadn't ended.
It had only evolved.
Location: Onboard the Elara — Mediterranean Sea, 02:14 AM
The night was endless, the sea reflecting the scattered stars like broken glass. Alethea stood by the helm, her fingers tracing the edges of the medallion around her neck. The journal her mother left her was open beside her—filled with symbols, chemical codes, and war strategies that felt decades ahead of their time.
"What is the Phoenix Protocol?" she asked.
Marco's eyes narrowed as he joined her, the salty wind ruffling his dark coat.
"It was the endgame plan of Cassandra DeMarché… your mother. A genetic activation sequence. A power only passed through blood… dormant in you until now."
"Why me?"
"Because you survived what others couldn't."
He handed her a tablet. On screen: archived footage of failed test subjects—girls, ages 4–6, in isolated chambers. All gone.
Except one.
V-X1: Alethea Vione DeMarché-Walker. Status: UNKNOWN. Immunity: 100%.
Alethea's hands shook. The images burned into her memory.
"They used me."
Marco held her gaze. "And now they fear you."
---
Flashback — Geneva Research Facility, 20 years ago
Cassandra screamed as men in black suits ripped Alethea from her arms.
"She's just a child!"
"She's the child," said the man in white. "We finally found the Phoenix."
The doors shut. Silence followed.
And Cassandra was never seen again.
---
Present Day — The Lab Below Elara
The hidden lower deck housed a sleek lab powered by old-world tech and quantum energy. Omega stood at the console, running simulations.
"The Phoenix Protocol isn't just a key, Alethea. It's a curse. It was designed to rebuild or destroy civilization depending on whose hands it's in."
"And mine?"
"Yours were never meant to be controlled. That's why they erased you."
Suddenly, sirens wailed.
INCOMING MISSILE — 6 MINUTES — UNIDENTIFIED SOURCE
Marco barked into his comms, "Evasive protocol! Full barrier mode!"
But Alethea didn't flinch.
She stood in the center of the lab, closing her eyes. Her skin shimmered faintly, golden lines racing across her arms.
"Let them come."
Her voice was calm. Dangerous.
The medallion around her neck cracked open—releasing a pulsing light that spread like wings.
Omega whispered in awe, "Phoenix has awakened…"
---
Meanwhile — In the Shadows of Berlin
A council of ancient bloodlines watched the rising energy signatures from the ship Elara.
"She's alive," muttered one.
"And she's becoming more than Cassandra ever was."
"Then we'll need the Obsidian Codex. Activate Subject Zero."
A door opened.
Chains rattled.
Something not quite human stepped forward.
Eyes hollow. Smile inhuman.
"Let's go meet our little Phoenix."
---
Ending Scene — Explosion Over the Sea
As the missile approached, Alethea raised her hand. The light burst outward—engulfing the sky.
There was no impact.
No sound.
Just radiance.
And silence.
Marco stared at her, breathless.
"You just stopped a missile mid-air…"
"I didn't stop it," she whispered. "I unmade it."
The others on board looked at her as if they'd seen a goddess.
Because they had.
TBC..................