Private The Devil Wears Red | Paint the Town

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Sejong, Seoul.

The Kyobo Financial District did not sleep.

Even at this hour, the towers remained alive, glass and light stacked endlessly against the evening sky, each window a pulse in the vast circuitry of Sejong's economy. Data moved here faster than ships ever could, fortunes rising and collapsing in quiet transactions that rarely saw the light of day.

From above, the district resembled something almost organic.

A living system.

Breathing.

Watching.

Waiting.

High within one of its upper towers, far removed from the constant motion below, a diplomatic residence overlooked the coastline and the endless grid of illuminated streets. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city in perfect clarity, the Saffron Sea reflecting the last traces of sunlight as it slipped beyond the horizon.

Inside, the space was calm.

Deliberately so.

Soft ivory tones, clean architectural lines, and carefully curated furnishings created an atmosphere of quiet control. Nothing was excessive. Nothing was accidental. Every detail, down to the placement of a single chair, had been chosen with purpose.

Ivalyn stood near the window, one hand resting lightly against the edge of a polished table, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the skyline.

Below, the Sejong Stock Exchange continued its silent orchestration of markets.

Across the district, the Commonwealth Media Broadcast Corporation tower glowed, still active, still shaping narratives that would ripple across entire systems before morning.

And somewhere beneath it all, in the narrow streets between towering institutions, vendors still called out to late-shift workers, their voices lost in the hum of a city that refused to pause.

Ivalyn did not look down at them.

Not yet.

Her attention remained outward, distant, as if measuring something unseen beyond the horizon.

Rowan would not be late.

She never had been.

A small detail.

One of many.

Her fingers shifted slightly against the table's surface, the only visible indication that she was not entirely still.

This was not a meeting arranged out of sentiment.

Nor obligation.

It was necessity.

The Unknown Regions did not offer clarity freely, and Rowan Cordé had made a life of extracting meaning from places where most saw only darkness.

Ivalyn exhaled slowly, her posture unchanged.

"Let her in when she arrives," she said at last, her voice quiet but precise.

Behind her, one of the attendants inclined their head and moved to comply.

Ivalyn exhaled as she turned away from the vast skyline, she looked around the penthouse, newly renovated filled with the kind of furniture that made the Grand Vizier feel as though she was living in a modest hotel room and not a penthouse she had recently purchased. It was a far cry from the kind of flats she used to rent and own elsewhere in the city. Ivalyn started her career as a journalist there in the city. In someways, Sejong felt more like home than Qosantyra or Vizcanyo Bay. She recalled the way she had prepared to call Rowan. The blonde chewed on the inside of her cheek. She shook herself from the trance and made her way to a small table nearby.

The city continued to move.

The markets continued to turn.

And somewhere within the vast machinery of Sejong, the past was on its way.

 

[Rowan Cordé]

//: Ivalyn Yvarro //:

This was a call she knew was coming. There was no doubt something was stirring; her gut told her others would feel it too. Rowan's old connections came through; they always did, and passed along the whispers of the return of a long-forgotten ghost.

Not so forgotten, the Commonwealth remembered.

Roots and history were strong within the government, the people, and the culture. She had never fully understood it, but she embraced it because it was what her wife loved.

And she loved her wife.

Rowan Cordé was a woman detached. She often had very little on her person, and even less at home. Though those habits were slowly fading, since Ariel's death, she had begun to keep small mementos. With the woman back in her life, Rowan found it hard to break her small fit of newfound hoarding.

She was never late; the next to arrive was Ivalyn's mother, stating the arrival of her partner. It was something they did now, alert each other when they've moved, arrived, or left. Not to keep tabs, but for comfort. To know that the other person on the line was still there…

Safe.

Rowan waved the driver off, thanking them. Just as her stepdaughter wasn't looking forward to this meeting, she wasn't either. They had never really gotten along. Too often, her father's traits bled through, and Rowan was seen as the problem. Still, Rowan had tried and accepted the losses and awarded the victories to the father.

This call, this summons, was out of necessity, not because of love… well, for the daughter, in any case. Rowan had cared and loved the best she could.

Her eyes looked at the building, her own dread settling as a pit in her stomach. Either this was going to work out, or Ariel would need to step in as always. Rowan hoped for the former; she didn't want to bother her wife's newfound hobbies.

It was now or never, and Rowan entered the building. Quickly, she was whisked away by the people hired by Ivalyn. The elevator ride to the penthouse was the longest few minutes in Rowan's life. From the corner of her eyes, under the dark sunglasses, she caught a glimpse of the city.

She would never fault Ivalyn for her tastes — Rowan hoped that bit of her had rubbed off.

Even if it did, she'd claim it was Dijorn.

Rowan rolled her eyes.

Again, she was led, heading towards where this moment would make or break. She entered and removed her sunglasses; if there were a larger audience, she would give the woman the respect of a leader.

But in Rowan's eyes, she was a girl finally reaching out.

"I would be lying if I didn't expect the call," Rowan removed her sunglasses and placed them in the small pocket of her jacket. She stood, hands tucked behind her back — an old habit of her COMPNOR days.

"So you've caught wind of it too?"

Rowan paused, remembering that this didn't always have to be so staunched with business. Her face softened as she tried.

"You look well, Ivalyn…" She wanted to add that she and her mother were proud of her, but she bit her tongue on that.

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Rowan Cordé​

Ivalyn did not turn immediately.

She had heard Rowan enter, of course she had. The subtle shift in the room, the quiet change in the air that came with someone who knew how to move without drawing attention. It was familiar.

Unwelcome.

Familiar.

Only after Rowan spoke did Ivalyn allow herself to move, turning from the glass with the same measured composure she carried into every room, every negotiation, every carefully constructed moment.

Her gaze settled on Rowan, steady, unreadable.

"I would be concerned if you hadn't," she replied evenly.

No warmth.

No bite.

Just fact.

At the mention of it, Ivalyn's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, something sharper beneath the surface now.

"I have," she confirmed. "Though I imagine your sources reached the conclusion somewhat… earlier than mine."

A quiet acknowledgment.

Not praise.

Never that.

Her attention lingered for a moment longer before Rowan's final remark settled between them.

You look well, Ivalyn…

There it was.

Ivalyn regarded her for a beat longer than was strictly necessary.

Then...

"Thank you."

Simple.

Contained.

Not dismissive.

Not inviting.

Just enough to acknowledge it… and move past it.

Perhaps she could have inserted, a 'you as well' but that felt unnecessary. Why bloat an already uncomfortable conversation?

She stepped away from the window then, closing the distance between them by a few measured paces, not enough to feel personal, but enough to signal that this conversation would not remain at a distance.

"You didn't come here to exchange pleasantries," Ivalyn continued, her tone returning fully to its controlled cadence. "And I did not call you for them."

A slight tilt of her head.

"So let's not pretend otherwise."

Her hands came to rest lightly behind her back, doing her best to conceal the wedding ring on her finger.

Do the job, she told herself, nothing else but the job mattered.

"The Unknown Regions are shifting," she said. "Patterns that have remained dormant are beginning to… reassert themselves."

Carefully chosen words.

Not fear.

Recognition.

If the ghost of tyranny past had truly come back to form, Ivalyn wanted confirmation from the most trusted source. No matter her personal views, she wanted the truth.

"I would prefer to understand what is moving before it decides to introduce itself more… publicly."

Her gaze sharpened, just slightly.

"And you," she added, "have always had a talent for seeing movement before others recognize it as such."

There.

That was as close to a compliment as Rowan was going to get.

From her.

"I want to know what you've heard," Ivalyn finished, calm and direct. "Not the rumors. Not the interpretations."

A beat.

"The truth, as you understand it."

She held Rowan's gaze.

Unflinching.

"Start there."

Cold.

Detached.

Necessary.

This was the job.

 

[Rowan Cordé]

//: Ivalyn Yvarro //:

Rowan didn't show Ivalyn's dismissal, hurting her. She had grown used to the woman's prickly nature, particularly when she had something on her mind and manners… pleasantries as she kindly put it — got in the way.

She listened; everything was as she had assumed it would be. Ivalyn didn't seem fond of what was occurring out of her reach. A small victory for the woman, she was right on the matter that made the unwilling child call.

Rowan nodded along, accepting that this was all business and she was seen as a tool. The thought made her brow furrow slightly for a moment. To be reminded of her duty, reminded of what she had been for others, unsettled her. Rowan had left the Imperial Order to have a better life. To live free from their overbearing sights, to escape the feeling of being just a tool.

A means to victory.

Ivalyn was too much like her father, and in this moment, she just heard him.
After it all, the order came.

Rowan raised a brow, wondering if Ivalyn had expected her to jump to her feet and take whatever order was issued to heart. The former intelligence agent was not the type to ask her supposed superior How high?' when told to jump.

"Yes." She started, "I have known for some time. I've had my contacts already begin to monitor and relay back any important information…"

Rowan paused, arms folding now across her chest as she lightly snorted. Higher ups, leaders, all of them assumed they knew best, they knew better, than their intelligence agents... the ones who's hands were soiled with mess.

"...That I deem necessary."

She was still important enough to know what was happening. Even if she had taken some leave to focus on her life with Ariel, Rowan was more connected than Ivalyn probably wanted to admit.

"As for this order you've decided to give me, the answer is no, Ivalyn." Rowan wasn't in the mood to bend over for the spoiled child in front of her. It was appalling that she assumed just two words would move the agent to fall in line, to put herself into danger… especially at this point and time.

"What are you looking for? For what reasons do you have to want to go out of your way to call me?" Rowan asked calmly, part of her already knew the answer. She saw it in the moves and changes that Ivalyn had made with the Commonwealth.

"Are you hoping a ghost would pop up and show her face?"

Perhaps that was too stern, but Rowan wasn't going to ship her ass to the Unknown Regions, especially when her happiness had just returned.
Of course, Ivalyn hadn't learned that small truth yet. Seems they were both good at hiding things from each other.

"What do you want from them, Ivalyn?"

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Ivalyn did not interrupt.

She listened.

Fully.

Her expression did not change at the refusal. Not at the tone. Not even at the implication beneath it.

Only when Rowan finished did the silence settle.

Measured.

Intentional.

Then...

"You misunderstand me."

The words were not sharp.

That was what made them land.

Ivalyn's gaze held Rowan's, steady and unwavering.

"I did not give you an order."

A pause.

"I extended an expectation."

Subtle.

Deliberate.

Different.

She shifted slightly, not closing distance, but grounding herself in it, owning the space without pressing into Rowan's.

"If I intended to compel you," Ivalyn continued evenly, "this conversation would have taken place very differently."

There it was.

Not a threat.

A reminder of capability.

Her hands remained behind her back, posture unchanged.

"You are not one of my agents," she said. "And I am not interested in treating you as though you were."

A beat.

"But do not mistake that for a lack of clarity."

Now the steel surfaced, quiet, unmistakable.

"You asked what I want."

Ivalyn tilted her head slightly.

"I want to know if the thing moving in the Unknown Regions is a remnant… or a resurrection."

The word settled.

Resurrection.

Not ghost.

Not rumor.

Something far more dangerous.

Her gaze did not waver.

"If it is the former, it can be contained."

A breath.

"If it is the latter…"

She did not finish the sentence immediately.

Did not need to.

"You and I both know what follows."

Now she stepped forward, just enough to shift the dynamic, not enough to crowd it.

"I did not call you because you are convenient," Ivalyn said, quieter now, but far more precise. "And I did not call you because I expect obedience."

A fractional pause.

"I called you because you are already involved."

There it was.

The turn.

Not a request.

Not a command.

A fact.

"You said it yourself," she continued. "You have people in motion. You are already watching it."

Her expression sharpened, just slightly.

"So let's not pretend this is a question of whether you will engage."

It wasn't.

It never had been.

"This is a question of how much of the truth you intend to keep to yourself."

That lands.

Hard.

Then.

Rowan's words circled back.

Are you hoping a ghost would pop up and show her face?

For the first time, something shifted behind Ivalyn's eyes.

Not emotion.

Recognition.

"No," she said quietly.

A beat.

"I do not believe in ghosts."

Another.

"But I do believe in patterns."

Her voice steadied again.

"And I have seen this one before."

Now, finally, something closer to honesty than strategy:

"If something is rebuilding out there," Ivalyn said, "I would prefer to meet it before it decides to introduce itself to the galaxy."

A pause.

Then, softer, but not softer in power or tone, "that is what I want."

She held Rowan's gaze.

Unflinching.

"And whether you choose to assist me…"

A fractional tilt of her head.

"…is, as I said, your decision."

Silence followed.

But this time...

It belonged to Ivalyn.

Rowan Cordé ​

 

[Rowan Cordé]

//: Ivalyn Yvarro //:

Rowan watched Ivalyn as she explained herself. This wasn't what she had expected. Her shoulders relaxed as she read between the lines of what her stepdaughter was saying. While she had her agents and people who could filter the information back to her, she reached out to someone she knew could get it done.

Could get it done because she had done it already. They both knew Rowan's skills, past and present. A spy was always a spy, no matter how many times they changed their skin. She was valuable, and for once, Ivalyn saw that… despite not wanting to.

The older woman cleared her throat as she nodded curtly. There was no need for the other to continue trying to present the request and frame it in a way that seemed urgent. Rowan understood, and this was as close to a favor as Ivalyn would ask for.

"Understood." Rowan started, "I will assist you, but I will report my findings only to you. I do not want to involve myself with another one of your agents."

She paused as the curl of her finger rested against her lips in thought. There was one she'd give information to, someone she would have trusted and had seen promise in.

"Francella." Rowan paused, " Frankie , your cousin."

She had read the woman's reports and had followed bits of her career. They were considered family, so Rowan had made sure to keep a note on the intelligence agent. Seeing the connection, the family was strong, which would help ensure that things stayed quiet among the three of them.

"My reports go to you and her. If something were to happen to me, she would be your next best option to send into the field."

Rowan let the offer hang in the air as she continued to watch Ivalyn. She was too much like Dijorn… too logical. But she could see where logic was blending with something that might be emotion.

Maybe she was worried, maybe she feared that this uprising… resurgence or whatever it was could undo her hard work, cause problems for the Commonwealth…

Or perhaps she hoped for something worse…

If she did… she would be her father's daughter.

For a moment, Rowan was happy she never had a child with that man… she could only imagine them partnering with Ivalyn… or even being at each other's throats.

Rowan shook the thought from her mind.

"As a word of caution. And take it however you want. Don't become your father… don't think like him, don't confuse things." She held her jaw tight, knowing that this last bit might even cause this small alliance to crumble before it even properly forms.

"Don't bring him into this."

If you do, I will kill him… The spy thought quietly to herself… she was tired of him interfering with her family.

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Rowan Cordé​

Ivalyn honestly thought this was going to be much harder.

The tension left her shoulders sooner than she had expected, a small mercy she registered without comment. She pressed two fingers lightly to her temple and drew a measured breath, letting the admission settle quietly where it landed. Around her, the penthouse felt different with someone else in it. Not unwelcome, precisely. Different.

The space was modest by the standards her title afforded. That had been deliberate. The furnishings were clean-lined and understated, pale stonework walls, low shelving stocked with volumes she had carried from flat to flat across Sejong since her journalism years, a pair of sofas in deep charcoal facing one another across a low table of brushed durasteel. Nothing excessive. Nothing placed by accident. She had owned larger apartments in this city and sold them without sentiment. This one she had kept.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Sejong continued its evening performance. The Kyobo Financial District stretched out below in ordered brilliance, towers of glass and alloy holding their lights steady against the dark, the river cutting a quiet gleam through the lower districts, reflecting the city back at itself in broken fragments. Speeder lanes traced slow arterials between the towers. Somewhere below, the late markets in the Intergalactic Park would still be moving, vendors calling out to third-shift workers, the city declining, as it always did, to fully stop.

She had written about this city once. Had sat in a rented flat three districts south and filed a copy about its financial sector, its cultural contradictions, the particular quality of light it produced after dark. Sejong had given her a career before it gave her a nation to run. In some ways it remained more legible to her than Qosantyra ever had, the memory of it still familiar in her bones, even after everything that had changed.

The Grand Vizier studied her stepmother for a measured moment.

"Drink?" she offered. Her tone landed somewhere between courtesy and the particular efficiency she reserved for people she did not need to perform warmth toward. "I have an 840 red and an 849 white." A brief pause. "If you would prefer champagne, I can have Cassian fetch a bottle."

She did not wait for a full answer before crossing to the cabinet built flush into the far wall. She pressed a small square button concealed at its edge, barely visible unless you knew precisely where to look, and the panel released, revealing a compact refrigeration unit set neatly within. From it she retrieved a bottle of So'jari, its surface ice-cold, the clear liquid catching the ambient glow of the sconces as she set it on the low table. A Seoul-native spirit, rice-distilled, lighter in proof than reputation suggested. Deceptively easy to underestimate. She had always found that appropriate.

She relaxed enough now, finally, to sit.

One arm came to rest along the sofa's back. She gestured toward the opposite cushions with the easy authority of someone who had hosted in rooms considerably more fraught than this one.

"Please. By all means."

Two small shot glasses came from the end table. She set them down without ceremony.

"I accept your terms as they stand," she continued, her voice even and unhurried, the register she used when a decision had already been made and the conversation existed merely to record it. "There is no need for this to circulate further. My agents have sufficient demands on their attention as it is." The Golden Flame would not hear of this. There were categories of intelligence she managed without formal channels, and this sat squarely among them.

"Frankie is an interesting choice," she said, her gaze drifting briefly toward the city below before returning. "Why her specifically?"

The question settled without urgency, without accusation, simply the instinct of a woman who had spent a career understanding why people selected the instruments they did.

When Rowan's answer arrived at Djorn, Ivalyn's expression did not shift.

"My father." The words were placed with the particular care she reserved for things she intended to say only once. She lifted her glass and knocked the shot back cleanly, setting it down with a soft click against the durasteel surface. The exhale that followed was not quite laughter, something more ironic than that, the kind that surfaced when an assumption had been made that required quiet correction.

She settled back into the cushions.

"My father is not involved," she continued. "And as of the last reliable intelligence I hold, he has made himself conveniently difficult to locate." The dry thread of amusement in her voice was genuine. It always was, on the subject of Djorn. "Nor do I feel it prudent to bring matters of this particular sensitivity to his attention, even were I certain of his whereabouts." She had confided other concerns to him once, in harder moments. This was different. The calibration required was finer. More personal in ways she did not intend to examine aloud. "I do not believe he presents a complication here."

She reached forward and poured a second round, filling both glasses with the same unhurried precision.

"Although." Her eyes lifted. "I find myself curious." A deliberate pause lingered there in her words. "What is your reading of their recent... callings, shall we say."