The Crimson Ring Ch. 01 - Teaser (Patreon)

“So… it is possible to cure Zafira,” Reina replied as she crossed her arms, the golden tone of her skin catching the low light. “But we’d have to walk a knife’s edge to make it happen.”

“Exactly,” Paloma nodded, expression taut. “We’d need absolute discretion, and every move would have to be calculated to the micron. Even then, the risk of exposure is high, but if we succeed, Zafira, it could end the deterioration completely.”

Silence settled over them, thick as the Singapore night pressing against the glass. Zafira looked from Paloma to Reina, eyes unreadable, as for the first time in years, she dared to hope. Outside, the city glittered on, unaware that in this quiet, hidden suite three women were weighing a decision that could alter not only their lives but the fate of everything they had built. Reina broke the silence first, her voice low but edged with the crisp precision of a soldier assessing a mission.

“These candidates of yours… how many of them are there? Is there anything they share? Specifically, something that might draw them together or give us a way in?”

“There are sixteen of them, all from different races and a variety of genetic backgrounds,” Paloma replied as she straightened, fingers brushing a damp strand of mahogany hair from her cheek. “There is one thread they all hold in common, and it surprised even me when the algorithm outlined it.”

Reina tilted her head, amber eyes narrowing. “And that is?”

“They’re all fighters.”

“Fighters?” Reina’s brow arched, skepticism and curiosity intertwined.

“Yes,” Paloma continued, the scientist in her giving way to the quiet storyteller. “Every single one has faced some crucible of adversity, and not merely survived, but sharpened themselves through it. Some are literal combat athletes, such as MMA enthusiasts, martial arts instructors, or ex-military.”

“Others fought in different arenas: activists who faced violent suppression, or women who wrested their lives back from organized crime or brutal regimes. But all sixteen carry that unmistakable signature: the resilience of someone who refuses to break. Their genetic markers reflect that cellular grit.”

Zafira, standing at her sleek personal terminal, tapped a lacquered fingernail thoughtfully against the tempered glass. Her pale-silver eyes caught the light like quicksilver.

“Show me,” she said.

Paloma crossed to the terminal and stood close by, looking up at her boss and lover for permission. With Zafira’s silent nod, she keyed in a secure command sequence and accessed her own personal terminal in the research lab. A low chime answered as the giant wall-mounted screen flickered to life across the suite.

The first image resolved: a tall, rangy woman with a scar tracking her jawline, stance radiating quiet menace. Next came another, who was broad-shouldered and had eyes like storm clouds, followed by a lean martial artist caught mid-strike in a tournament still. One by one, sixteen faces filled the room in slow succession, each one outlining the woman beneath the fighter.

Each set of images were accompanied by flashes of data that hinted at the life behind the gaze: war zones, underground rings, insurgent protests, personal battles fought and won. Reina’s eyes moved from portrait to portrait, the soldier in her weighing the stories behind each set of eyes.

“Sixteen women,” she murmured. “All trained to fight, in one way or another. And we’re supposed to bring them here? Convince them to help fix our mistress?”

“That is the long and short of it, yes,” Paloma told the soldier.

“That… is going to be an insurmountable task if ever there was one,” Reina stated as she crossed her arms, expression both doubtful and intrigued. “Even if they agreed, that’s sixteen different temperaments and sixteen potential powder kegs. How in hell do we gather them all without raising alarms?”

A soft sound cut through the room: Zafira’s low, velvet chuckle. It began as a murmur under her breath, then swelled into a rich, resonant laugh that filled the suite with its unexpected warmth. Both women stared at Zafira, who was still laughing as though she had heard the funniest joke ever told, fixing her with confused gazes.

“What’s funny?” Reina queried, wondering if Zafira was mentally all right. Still smiling, Zafira turned from the glowing screen, eyes gleaming with something equal parts mischief and strategy.

“The solution,” she said, her voice smooth as poured smoke, “is obvious.”

“Obvious? How so?” Paloma wondered, raising a brow, curiosity flickering across her normally composed features. Zafira let the moment stretch just enough to build tension, then spoke a single word, soft but electric.

“Tournament.”