“That series had terrible tactical consistency.”
“That’s not the point!”
“The protagonist repeatedly trusted the same traitor.”
“It’s called romance!”
“Statistically, it was stupidity.”
Luis slapped a makeup brush onto the table.
“Listen to your commander!”
Celeste reluctantly opened one eye.
“Don’t give me that clinical attitude!” Luis scolded, his fingers surprisingly deft as he worked a high-grade concealer over the faint, pale scar running along her right cheekbone, a souvenir from a close-quarters knife duel with a Russian syndicate assassin three years ago.
“And listen to your commander, Celeste.
I’ll say it again, but this isn’t a battlefield.
This is a domestic drama!
I didn’t force you to watch “The CEO’s Reborn Substitute Bride” for eight years just so you could ignore the plot armor!
You are the true daughter!
You were stolen away for eleven years!
You must give them a good first impression.
You must look vulnerable, graceful, and refined so their parental instincts activate!”
“There is also an adopted daughter in the house. And based on my research…”
He leaned closer.
“…she is almost certainly a white lotus.”
Celeste was silent.
Then—
A tiny smile appeared.
“Finally.”
Luis blinked.
“What?”
“Something interesting.”
“Don’t get excited.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I am merely curious.”
Luis narrowed his eyes.
“Celeste.”
“Hm?”
“Do not treat your family’s emotional breakdown like entertainment.”
Celeste looked at him innocently.
“I would never.”
Luis stared.
She stared back.
“…You absolutely would.”
***
For the next ninety minutes, the underground command bunker echoed with the surreal sounds of a hardened warlord lecturing an apex assassin on color theory, contouring, and the proper posture for sipping Earl Grey tea.
Luis worked with the intense focus of a bomb disposal technician, scrubbing away the grime of war, deep-conditioning her waist-length black hair until it fell like a sheet of spun obsidian, and applying a minimalist, high-end cosmetic palette that enhanced the natural, devastating sharpness of her features without making her look artificial.
When he finally stepped back, wiping his brow with the pink apron, he looked like a proud father watching his daughter graduate from valet school.
“Look at that. Such a masterpiece! You look like a painting of a southern scholar’s daughter. Now, put on the dress I bought you! The pastel pink chiffon one with the pearl buttons!”
Celeste opened her eyes, looked at the pink confection hanging on the rack, and then looked Luis dead in the eye.
Celeste glanced into the mirror.
Her usual battlefield appearance was gone.
The scars remained.
So did the coldness in her eyes.
But beneath the grime and exhaustion was an extraordinarily beautiful young woman.
She stared at the dress.
Then at Luis.
Luis smiled.
“You’ll look adorable.”
“No.”
“Celeste.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Your mother will love it.”
“No.”
“Episode forty-two of The Return of the Abandoned Heiress specifically establishes that—”
“No.”
Celeste stood.
Walked past him.
Without a word, she stood up, walked past the chiffon monstrosity, and opened her personal locker.
Ten minutes later, she emerged.
There was no pastel pink.
There were no lace ribbons or pearl buttons.
Celeste had clothed herself in absolute black.
She wore a high-collared, tailored black silk top that concealed the jagged scar tissue along her collarbones, paired with a structured, bespoke black blazer that hugged her lean, athletic frame.
Her legs were encased in dark, utility-reinforced tactical denim that allowed for a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree high kick without fabric resistance, terminating in a pair of custom, matte-black leather combat boots polished to a dull, authoritative sheen.
Over her shoulders, she had draped a long, sweeping black wool trench coat, styled like a modern military cape, that fell gracefully to her calves, its heavy fabric designed to conceal the twin throwing daggers she had taped to the small of her back and the micro-medkit stitched into the inner lining.
She looked nothing like a fragile socialite.
She looked like an aristocratic executioner descending from a gothic cathedral to preside over a high-society funeral.
Luis stared at her, his jaw slackening slightly before he sighed, throwing his hands into the air.
“Fine! Fine! Black is slimming! It has a mysterious, melancholy aura! In episode forty-two of ‘The Return of the Abandoned Heiress, ‘ the female lead wore black to her grandfather’s birthday banquet and slapped three cousins across the face! It works! Just… please, Celeste, remember the rules of engagement.”
Celeste’s eyes brightened slightly.
“An excellent precedent.”
Luis pointed accusingly at her.
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”
He walked her out to the idling, armored black Mercedes-Maybach waiting in the bunker’s subterranean garage.
The driver loaded her minimalist luggage, which consisted of forged credentials, bearer bonds, three changes of clothes, and a pressurized case of rare mountain spices she had looted from a warlord’s private pantry.
Luis stared at the case.
“You stole spices from a warlord?”
“I merely acquired them.”
“How?”
“He lost.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It is sufficient.”
Luis rubbed his face.
Then he walked over and grabbed both of Celeste’s shoulders.
His expression suddenly became serious.
The ridiculous commander disappeared.
What remained was the man who had found a starving nine-year-old girl inside a shipping container eleven years ago.
The man who had taught her how to hold a knife.
How to dress a bullet wound.
How to survive.
How to kill.
And, inexplicably, how to understand human relationships through terrible television dramas.
“They are your biological family, kid,” Luis said, his gruff voice dropping an octave, stripping away the comedic boisterousness to reveal the genuine warmth underneath.
“For eleven years, you’ve only known how to bleed, how to survive, and how to kill for this unit.
But out there?
In the light?
You don’t need to be ‘Death God’ anymore.
You don’t need to scan every room for sniper trajectories.
If your brothers are awkward, let them be awkward.
If your parents don’t know how to speak to you, give them time.
They are your blood.
They will accept you no matter what you’ve become.
Do you hear me?”