She hadn’t submitted a report in three days.

In Ravyn Vale’s system, three days was too long. Too silent. Too risky.

His daughter lived in a private apartment disguised as foreign student housing. Every corner was lined with motion sensors, heartbeat scanners, and signal blockers capable of cutting off all outside access at will. But that day, everything appeared normal. Too normal.

And Ravyn knew—when everything looks quiet, it means something is being hidden.

That night, he sent someone.

Not a killer. Not a spy. Just one trusted person—enough to make the girl realize: she was being watched. Tested. Her loyalty recalculated.

That person never returned.

The next morning, the apartment door opened slowly. His daughter stood there, wearing a black hoodie and thin gloves. No wounds. No fear.

Only a flat gaze… just like her father’s.

She spoke briefly to the camera in the living room:

"Don’t send anyone else." "I still remember how you taught me to kill without sound."

Ravyn watched the footage without a flicker of emotion. Then he gave a command to his system:

"Erase all command logs from the past three days. Leave no trace." "She’s still mine."

Not because he cared. But because he knew… In a world of war, his daughter was the only weapon he’d forged from his own flesh and blood.

And like every weapon: She must be sharp. She must obey. She must only fire when ordered.