Chapter 5 - The Current AwakensAt 3:45 AM, the storm over Manhattan turned into a freezing, rain-swept gale.
Inside the quiet corridors of the fifty-fourth floor of the Ashford Grand, the ambient night lights were low.
I sat in the penthouse living room, unable to sleep, holding my father's silver pocket watch in my palm. The quiet hum of my brother's oxygen unit carried through the open bedroom door—a peaceful, rhythmic sound that brought tears of gratitude to my eyes.
Suddenly, the overhead lights flickered once. Twice.
CLACK.
The entire fifty-fourth floor went pitch black as the primary power grid for the executive suites went dead.
My eyes snapped wide. Ten years of morning training in the alley behind our Queens apartment instantly kicked into my blood. My breath slowed. My pulse dropped. My ears tuned into the faint, subtle sounds of the corridor outside.
Soft, deliberate leather boots moving fast across the carpet. Four men. Heavily armed. Moving toward the penthouse doors.
I didn't panic. I didn't scream.
I walked silently into the kitchen, picked up two smooth, wooden rolling pins from the baker's rack—the exact weight and length of my father's old practice sticks wrapped in the blanket in my closet—and stepped into the dark foyer.
The heavy oak front door of the penthouse was forced open with a quiet, hydraulic crunch.
Four men in dark tactical jackets stepped into the dark foyer, holding suppressed pistols, their laser sights painting red dots across the white walls.
"Find the girl," the lead enforcer whispered into his radio. "Take her alive, execute the boy—"
Before he could finish his sentence, I moved.
THE QUIET CURRENT.
I didn't rush. I didn't strike with anger. I flowed through the dark foyer like water around stone.
My left wooden stick swept out in a smooth, circular arc, striking the lead enforcer's wrist with surgical precision.
CRACK!
His pistol clattered onto the hardwood floor before his brain could register the impact. Before he could cry out, my right stick struck his collarbone, driving him flat onto his knees in complete silence.
The second man turned his weapon toward me, but I stepped inside his guard, my body pivoting smoothly. I jammed the blunt end of the wooden stick directly into his diaphragm, knocking the air from his lungs, then swept his lead ankle, sending his broad frame crashing backward into the wall.
THUD!
The remaining two men backed away in absolute, horror-stricken shock, their laser sights dancing frantically across my face.
"What the hell is she?!" one of them shrieked into his radio. "She's moving like a ghost!"
"She's Miguel Reyes's daughter," a deep, booming baritone answered from the hallway behind them.
Alexander Ashford stepped through the broken doorway, flanked by eight armed security officers wearing heavy dark suits.
Alexander didn't even draw his weapon. He stood in the doorway, his six-foot-two frame cutting a terrifying, sovereign shadow against the red emergency lights, looking at the two fallen enforcers on my floor, then turning his gray eyes to look at me standing calmly in the center of the room, holding two wooden rolling pins.
A faint, brilliant smile of deep, quiet pride touched Alexander's lips.
May you like
"You're late, Alexander," I said softly, lowering my wooden sticks.
"My apologies, Sophia," Alexander replied smoothly, turning his dark gaze onto the two trembling enforcers. "I was busy seizing Victor Lane's shipping assets in Brooklyn."
Related Stories
