She pushed open the heavy doors. Outside, a cold New York night rain was falling.

She didn't have an umbrella, but she didn't care. She walked straight into it, the icy drops plastering her dark brown curls to her face.

A black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided past the estate gates.

From the back seat, a man with deep eyes watched the lone figure walking into the rain.

He was just glancing away, but the girl's defiant profile, and the startling brightness of her ice-blue eyes in the gloom, made him frown.

"Sir?" his driver, Silas Pierce, asked.

"Nothing," Adler Ortega murmured, he settled back against the leather seats. "Drive."

Chloe's silhouette disappeared around the corner, without a single backward glance.

Inside the mansion, Beatrice smiled, she was a victor in her own petty war. "Prepare the documents and the check," she told the family lawyer, "Our final act of 'charity.'"

Elara clung to her mother, her heart soaring with triumph. She had finally gotten rid of the impostor.

Chloe came to a diner, and pulled a small waterproof pouch from her pocket. Inside was an old key and a yellowed map.

The markings on the map pointed to an address in Queens.

Rainwater dripped from the ends of Chloe's hair onto the linoleum floor, she slid into a booth by the window, and ordered a black coffee.

Subsequently, a man in a sharp suit walked in, his expensive shoes squeaking on the wet floor.

He spotted her, and walked directly to her table.

"Miss Blair," he said, his tone polite but distant. "I am the Blair family's legal counsel, Mr. Davison."

Chloe looked up, her ice-blue eyes held no surprise.

He placed a briefcase on the table, snapping it open. He pulled out a document and a thick envelope, pushing them across the tabletop.

"Mrs. Blair asked me to give you these. A severance agreement, and a check for one hundred thousand dollars. As compensation for your years in the Blair family."

Chloe's gaze landed on the envelope, "Compensation?"

"Mrs. Blair feels it's a generous amount for you to start a new life," Mr. Davison said, his voice flat and business-like.

Chloe's slender fingers reached out, but not for the envelope. She pulled the agreement toward her.

Her eyes scanned the dense legal text in seconds.

She picked up a pen from the table, and signed her name at the bottom.

She pushed the signed document back to him. "Take it."

Mr. Davison looked surprised by her quick compliance, he gestured to the check. "And this..."

"I don't need it."

Chloe stood up, her small frame suddenly seeming to fill the entire space, looking the lawyer directly in the eye.

"And, Mr. Davison, please remember," she corrected him, "My name is Sterling."

"Chloe Sterling."

With that, she picked up her pouch, didn't spare the check another glance, and walked out of the diner.

She left the lawyer staring blankly, mouth slightly agape, looking at the rejected six-figure sum.

Outside, the rain had stopped, the city air was clean and sharp.

Chloe hailed a cab, giving the driver the address on the map.

Miles away, in a penthouse office overlooking the glittering Manhattan skyline, Adler Ortega stood before a floor-to-ceiling window, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

His most trusted subordinate, Evan Grant, stood behind him.

"Sir, the last trace of 'Spectre's' activity vanished in New York," Evan reported, "Aegis Coalition's East Coast division is on high alert."

Adler turned, a sharp light flashed in his gray eyes. "Spectre..." He murmured the name.

A ghost, a legend in the digital underworld, the leader of the mysterious hacker collective known as The Grid. His nemesis.

"The Grid's movements have become more frequent. They appear to be searching for something," Evan added.

For a fleeting moment, the image of a girl's stubborn profile in the rain flashed through Adler's mind. He pushed it away. Irrelevant.

"Increase the search parameters," Adler commanded. "'Spectre' is our primary target. I don't care who they are. In New York, even a ghost has to leave a footprint."

"Yes, sir." Evan nodded, then slid a tablet across the polished desk. "On another note, regarding the Blairs... old Mr. Blair's funeral was today."

Adler picked up the tablet. The Ortega and Blair families had some minor business dealings. His finger swiped across the guest list, pausing for a fraction of a second on the name "Chloe Blair."

"An adopted daughter, recently cast out," Evan added.

Adler closed the file, uninterested. "Boring family drama." He was completely unaware that the international phantom he was hunting and the dismissed girl were the same person.

The taxi crossed the Brooklyn Bridge, leaving the diamond-bright towers of Manhattan behind.

Chloe leaned her head against the cool glass, her expression unreadable.

She pulled out a sleek, unassuming phone and dialed a number.

It was answered on the first ring with a cheerful, flippant voice. "Chlo-Chlo, my darling! Have you finally remembered your most faithful servant?"

"Alex." Chloe's voice warmed by a single degree. "I'm free."

The voice on the other end, belonging to Alex Blake, went silent for a beat. When he spoke again, the playfulness was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp efficiency. "Send me your coordinates. Do you need an extraction?"

"No," Chloe said softly, a genuine smile touching her lips for the first time that night. "I'm just going home."

The taxi dropped her two blocks away from the address.

The alley was a dark, wet slash between two brick buildings, smelling of damp and garbage.

Chloe's arm had been injured not long ago, the wound so deep that the bone was visible.

She rolled up her sleeve, untied the old bandage, and took a bottle of potion from her fanny pack, pouring it directly onto it, the wound making a sizzling sound.

Despite such severe pain, she didn't even furrow her brow, pulled out a bandage, bit it in her mouth, and with a forceful pull of her neck, tore it off.

A convoy of three black sedans was exiting nearby, the lead car was a global limited edition Koenigsegg, its engine emitting a low, guttural purr.

The narrowness of the alley forced the convoy to slow to a crawl.

In the back of the Koenigsegg, Adler Ortega had his eyes closed, but a subtle, dissonant whine in the engine's hum made him open his eyes.

And saw her.

The girl from the rain. Standing alone in a dark alley, tending to the wound on her arm.

The contrast between her delicate frame and her extreme toughness struck him again.

"Sir, a strange girl," his driver, Silas, muttered, his voice laced with suspicion. "Hanging around here this late, probably up to no good."

Adler ignored him. His gaze was locked on Chloe. How did she get hurt? What was she doing here?

Chloe finished with the bandage, pulled down her sleeve, and then turned to walk away.

As she passed his car, she stopped.

She didn't look at the tinted windows. Her head was cocked slightly, her attention fixed on the rear of the car. Her ear seemed to twitch, listening.

Adler's body tensed, what was she doing?

Then she spoke, her voice was quiet, "Your turbocharger's impeller has a micro-fracture due to metal fatigue."

"Specifically, the left one. At high RPM, it will break apart. The shrapnel will shred your entire engine in an instant."

Silas and the bodyguard in the passenger seat stared at her in disbelief.

Silas let out a snort of derision. "Little girl, do you have any idea what car this is? This is a Koenigsegg. It's maintained by the best mechanics in the world. It doesn't have any problems at all."

Chloe didn't argue. She didn't even look at him, she was stating a fact, not an opinion.

"I have said my piece, believe it or not is up to you."

Then she turned, melting into the deeper shadows of the alley, and disappeared from sight.

Silence descended in the car. A thick and heavy silence.

Adler's expression shifted from curiosity to utter astonishment.

"Silas." Adler's voice was low, yet laced with a strange excitement. "Turn around. Go back to the Aegis private garage. Have the best engineers strip the engine. Now."

"Sir? But... that's absurd!" Silas protested.

"This is an order."

Silas immediately turned the car around, his mind reeling.

Adler leaned back in his seat, his fingers tapping a rapid, thoughtful rhythm on his knee.

Who exactly was she?