Unmarked

Three days after the headlines, the courtroom buzzed with low tension—the kind that clung to polished floors and whispered speculation. Journalists weren’t allowed inside, but that hadn’t stopped them from packing the courthouse steps. Security was doubled. The gallery was full.

The room was packed as well—advisors, aides, even a few Council observers perched in the back rows. Cameras weren’t allowed in the courtroom, but everyone knew the words spoken today would echo across every platform within the hour.

The hearing chamber was austere, lined with tall windows and stark white walls, the kind of place meant to shrink people who were used to standing tall. But Miranda did not shrink.

She sat at the defense table, her posture impeccable, dressed in charcoal grey, her lips painted just slightly darker than usual. Unbothered, at least on the surface. Andrea sat beside her. A quiet declaration: She’s not alone.

Sasha Grant stood at their side, sleeves rolled to her elbows, dark lipstick clean and precise, heels sharp enough to draw blood. She barely looked at the opposing table. She didn’t need to.

Across the aisle sat Evelyn Sharpe, District Prosecutor, crisp in ivory with a blood-red lapel pin. Her expression was unreadable. Measured. And quietly dangerous.

Judge Kellerman—a middle-aged Beta with no public leanings—entered the chamber, and proceedings began.

“All rise.” Everyone did.

“The honorable judge Keller residing”

“You may be seated.”

“This court is now in session for the matter of  The People vs. Miranda Priestly.” The Judge looked into the courtroom the see who he had before him today. “Well if it isn’t miss Grant, what do you bring to my courtroom today?”

Sasha stood first. “Your Honor, we’d like to begin with the matter of wrongful termination and the State’s refusal to accept the Omega Council’s sanctioned rehabilitation.”

Evelyn was already on her feet. “Objection. That framing implies pre-existing bias on the part of the Bureau and my office.”

Sasha turned, cool and calm. “If it walks like a duck, Your Honor.”

The judge didn’t blink. “Overruled. Ms. Grant, proceed.”

Sasha nodded, stepping forward.

“We contend that Miranda Priestly’s termination was not only unlawful, but carried out in anticipation of a political play against Omegas in high-ranking positions.” She walked slowly, each step deliberate. “The justification offered by her employer—that she no longer held legal standing without an Alpha sponsor—was invalidated by her existing private contracts, and by the Council’s ruling in favor of conditional rehabilitation.”

She held up the first file.

“Here is the original contract, notarized, confirming Ms. Priestly’s standing as an independent executive while married to Alpha Stephen Pryce, with a post-separation clause extending professional autonomy for five years post-dissolution.”

She handed it to the clerk.

“Additionally, we offer the Council’s agreement, which the Bureau chose to ignore, in favor of making an example of my client.”

Evelyn stood.

“And we contend,” she said smoothly, “that the Council’s decisions do not override the authority of the State in matters of employment, public trust, or classification-based violations. Ms. Priestly operated as an unmarked Omega in executive power, outside of regulation, for months. That is not only grounds for removal—it is dangerous precedent.”

Andrea flinched slightly at the word. Dangerous.

Sasha didn’t blink.

“Correction, Your Honor: Ms. Priestly operated as an unclaimed Omega—entirely different than unregistered. Her employment never violated contract law or Council policy until the Bureau began rewriting the rules after the fact.”

She walked directly toward Evelyn now.

“The State is not here because Miranda Priestly endangered the public. The State is here because she disrupted a narrative. One where Omegas don’t lead. One where they’re not supposed to succeed without a leash.”

Evelyn’s mouth twitched. “This is not about punishing Miranda Priestly. It’s about restoring confidence in our system. Omegas cannot serve at this level without clear safeguards. That is law.”

Sasha’s eyes narrowed.

“If we’re talking law,” she snapped, “then let’s talk selective enforcement. Because Miranda isn’t the only Omega with an executive contract. But she is the only one who’s been publicly unbonded and successful.”

The judge held up a hand. “Enough. This court will examine evidence and argument, not ideology.”

Sasha bowed her head slightly. “Of course, Your Honor.” But the shot had been fired.

Miranda exhaled slowly through her nose, hands folded. Andrea reached over and brushed her pinky finger against hers—just a touch. Just grounding.

Sasha returned to the table, placed the next file down gently, and looked at her client.

“Ms. Grant, you’ve submitted initial evidence. Anything else before we recess for review?”

Sasha nodded and retrieved a second folder.

**-

The car ride back to the estate was quiet.

Not uncomfortable—just heavy, like the weight of the courtroom still clung to their very soul. Miranda sat with her head turned slightly toward the window, chin high, eyes distant. Andrea sat beside her, her hands folded in her lap, resisting the urge to reach out.

The first day was over. And it had gone well, on paper. But Evelyn Sharpe hadn’t really come to play yet. Andrea could still hear the words—sharp, calm, venom slipped into formality:

“There’s a difference between being exceptional and being exempt.”

“One could argue Ms. Priestly’s success is the very reason this case matters—because even she is not above regulation.”

“When an Omega forgets her place in the system, the system forgets its purpose.”

Andrea had flinched at that one. Miranda hadn’t. At least, not outwardly.

But now—now that the marble walls and court etiquette were behind them—Andrea could feel it. That trembling in Miranda’s Omega, subtle and low, like an aftershock beneath the surface.

When they reached the estate, Sasha was already inside Andy’s office, heels off, jacket folded neatly over the back of a chair. Nigel sat at the desk, watching the news coverage with narrowed eyes and a very full glass of wine.

“Today wasn’t bad,” Sasha said as they walked in. “The judge didn’t shut us down. Your contracts were admitted without red tape. That’s a win.”

Andrea nodded, but her gaze was still on Miranda—who hadn’t spoken a word since court recessed.

“Miranda?” she said gently.

Miranda blinked. Then looked toward Sasha. “She’s going to use me to make history.”

Sasha tilted her head. “Sharpe?”

“She’s building a legacy on my back,” Miranda said. “Every line she delivered was rehearsed. Practiced. Political.”

Andrea stepped closer. “She’s trying to shake you.”

Miranda’s jaw tightened. “She’s trying to rewrite the narrative before we can tell the truth.”

“Reclaimed doesn’t mean untouchable.” Andrea winced at the memory.

Miranda sat down slowly, her movements stiff. Andrea knelt in front of her, resting her hands on Miranda’s knees. “You kept your composure.”

“I had no choice.”

“You always have a choice,” Andrea said softly. “And you chose to show up. You didn’t hide.”

Miranda’s eyes dropped to her hands. “What if showing up isn’t enough?” Sasha, from across the room, sipped her drink. “Then we keep showing up until it is.”

Nigel turned the TV off. “You know,” he said gently, “you didn’t look like a woman under attack today.”

Miranda looked up. “You looked like the storm,” he said.

Miranda allowed herself to lean back in the chair, just slightly. The tension in her shoulders remained, but her voice, when it came again, was quieter.

“She’s not going to let this go easily.”

“No,” Sasha agreed. “She isn’t.”

“But neither will we.”

**-

It was late. The estate was quiet. Miranda and Andrea were still in the other room, tucked into their own quiet moment after the trial, and Nigel had wandered back to the city hours ago.

Sasha Grant remained in the study, laptop open, legal pads scattered like war maps across the table. Her glasses rested low on her nose, and she was halfway through updating her notes when her phone buzzed.

Milo Darrow.

She answered immediately. “What’ve you got?”

“No small talk?” Milo’s voice rasped through the line, dry as ever. “Not even a ‘missed your voice, you old spook’?”

“Darrow,” Sasha said evenly, “I haven’t slept in two days. Tell me something useful or tell me goodnight.”

“Alright,” he said. “You’re gonna want to sit down.”

Sasha already was—but her back straightened.

“I pulled deeper on the Omega Reform Initiative,” he said. “Followed some of the paper trail beyond Ravitz. You were right—he’s just a node. There’s money coming in from a dozen places. Private security firms, 'family foundations,' anonymous political PACs.”

“Tell me something I don’t already know.”

“The name Sharpe showed up.”

Sasha froze.

“Evelyn?” she said slowly.

“Her father,” Milo confirmed. “Franklin Sharpe. Was one of the original ghost architects behind the initiative. Used a shell company to funnel funding to the earliest policy drafts. A lot of that policy is language Evelyn’s recycled in court.”

Sasha exhaled through her teeth. “Of course she did.”

“But that’s not the part that’ll make you lose sleep.”

Sasha said nothing. She waited.

Milo’s voice dropped.

“According to one of my old Bureau contacts, the Sharpe family estate—north of Hartford, big place, private as hell—has an underground holding facility. No permits. No staff registrations. No camera feeds.”

Sasha’s mouth went dry. “Holding?”

“Omegas,” Milo said. “Illegal detainment. Slavery, if you want to stop sugarcoating it. Bought off the record. Some in ‘training,’ others... not so lucky.”

Sasha stood up slowly. “Are you sure?”

“My source has proof,” Milo said. “He sent me a folder. I’m still going through it. Property records. Medical reports. Names. Photos. Some of them are gone. Some haven’t been seen in years.”

A silence settled on the line.

And then Milo added, almost reluctantly: “And Evelyn’s been visiting that estate every week for the last year.”

Sasha closed her eyes.

Not out of shock—but out of something colder. Angrier. Resolved.

“How many people know?”

“Almost no one,” Milo said. “And the ones who do? They’re either complicit or scared.”

“I’m not,” Sasha said.

“No,” he said. “You never are.”

She didn’t speak for a moment, just stared at the window across the room. Beyond the glass, the estate grounds stretched into shadow. “Send me everything,” she said. “Every file. Every name. Every visit.”

“You’re not going to the judge with it?”

“Not yet.”

“You’re going after her,” Milo said.

Sasha smiled—sharp and joyless. “I’m going after all of them.”

**-

The second day of court opened quieter than the first—but no less charged.

The gallery was still full. Reporters lined the sidewalk in tighter rows, their murmurs feeding the swarm of commentary already boiling online. Miranda walked in flanked by Andrea and Sasha, her expression unreadable, her heels sharp against the marble floor.

Inside the courtroom, Evelyn Sharpe was already seated, her team organized, impassive. She gave Sasha a glance—not a greeting. Just that thin, knowing smile.

Sasha didn’t return it.

She walked straight to the defense table, placed her files down with calm precision, and nodded once to Miranda before rising again to address the judge.

“Your Honor, the defense would like to call its first witness today.”

Judge Kellerman looked up. “Proceed.”

Sasha turned.

“The defense calls Samuel Koenig, former Elias-Clarke VP of Legal Affairs.”

There was a soft rustle through the courtroom as Koenig approached the stand—an older Beta man in his sixties, neat suit, no-nonsense glasses, the kind of face that never looked flustered. Miranda didn’t react, but Andrea’s brow rose just slightly.

Koenig was sworn in, then seated.

Sasha approached.

“Mr. Koenig, you were employed by Elias-Clarke Publishing for how long?”

“Twenty-three years,” he replied.

“And you were present during Miranda Priestly’s tenure as Editor-in-Chief of Runway?”

“Yes.”

Sasha paced slowly. “Can you tell the court whether, at any time, Ms. Priestly’s employment status or leadership authority was in violation of company policy or Omega designation regulations?”

“No,” Koenig said simply. “All documents were in order. Any changes to her role or status—particularly those tied to Alpha-related conditions—were reviewed and confirmed through Legal.”

“Were you involved in the creation or enforcement of her post-separation executive clause?”

“I helped write it,” he said.

Sasha smiled. “So you can confirm it was valid?”

“Fully. Her authority did not lapse.”

She turned. “And when Irv Ravitz attempted to terminate her position without notice, did you agree with that course of action?”

“I was not consulted,” Koenig said, his voice suddenly sharper. “I was told, post-fact, that she’d been removed. And frankly, I believed it to be a retaliatory move—against her designation, not her conduct.”

The gallery murmured again.

Evelyn stood. “Your Honor, that’s speculation—”

“Withdrawn,” Sasha said smoothly, but the damage was done.

She smiled faintly and stepped back. “No further questions at this time.”

Evelyn rose, crossed to the witness stand. Calm. Poised.

“Mr. Koenig, how would you describe Miranda Priestly’s leadership style?”

Koenig blinked. “Formidable.”

“Demanding?”

“Yes.”

“Intimidating?”

“Only if you were incompetent.”

A ripple of restrained laughter swept the gallery. Evelyn’s expression twitched.

She pivoted. “So you’re saying that even in her pre-rehabilitation period—while claimed but outside Bureau monitoring—there were no concerns?”

“No more than any other executive who enjoys full autonomy,” Koenig replied. “And Miranda Priestly earned hers.”

Evelyn paused for just half a breath—just long enough for Sasha to see the crack behind her composure.

“No further questions,” she said, returning to her seat.

Koenig stepped down.

And for the first time in two days, the balance shifted—subtly, but unmistakably.

Sasha leaned toward Miranda as the court recessed. “we just made the first dent.” she murmured.

**-

The judge gaveled for the afternoon session.

“Ms. Sharpe,” he said, “you may proceed with your witness.”

Evelyn stood smoothly. Her voice was calm, almost casual.

“The prosecution calls Agent Lena Hart, Bureau of Omega Affairs.”

Sasha’s head snapped up. Miranda stiffened beside her. Andrea narrowed her eyes. The name meant nothing on paper—but the title did. A Bureau agent. Evelyn had brought in someone from Miranda’s detainment.

Andrea leaned closer to Sasha. “Did you know—?”

“No,” Sasha muttered. “She wasn’t on any submitted lists.”

Lena Hart walked down the aisle—early thirties, Alpha, sharp grey suit, silver pin of the Bureau gleaming at her collar. Her posture screamed compliance, her face screamed moral superiority.

After being sworn in, Evelyn approached her with that same cordial poise.

“Agent Hart, you were part of the Bureau response team assigned to Ms. Priestly during her temporary detainment earlier this year?”

“Yes, I was.”

“And you were present during the holding period prior to her scheduled transfer?”

“Yes.”

“Can you describe her behavior?”

Sasha shot to her feet. “Objection. Relevance.”

Evelyn smiled. “Ms. Grant opened the door this morning when she claimed her client was never a risk to public safety or stability. I intend to show otherwise.”

The judge hesitated. Then: “Proceed. But tread carefully.”

Sasha sat down—jaw locked.

Evelyn turned back to the witness. “Agent?”

Hart didn’t hesitate. “Ms. Priestly was uncooperative from the start. Refused to answer intake questions. Ignored orders. Refused to wear her designation band.”

Andrea reached for Miranda’s hand under the table. Miranda didn’t take it.

Evelyn nodded. “And during transport preparations?”

“Ms. Priestly physically resisted being moved. She struck one of the guards and had to be restrained. We were forced to sedate her.” Gasps rippled through the gallery.

The judge frowned. “There’s no record of criminal charges related to this incident.”

Hart replied smoothly. “We were advised not to escalate by our legal liaison. She was considered high-profile. Too visible.”

Evelyn turned to the court. “This is the leadership example the defense is asking you to protect—an Omega so unstable she assaulted federal agents when faced with basic accountability.”

Sasha stood. “Redirect.”

The judge gestured for her to proceed. Sasha stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

“Agent Hart,” she said, voice sharp, “what was Ms. Priestly’s legal status at the time of detainment?”

“She was pending disciplinary review.”

“So—not convicted. Not sentenced. And not criminally charged.”

“No,” Hart said reluctantly.

Sasha moved closer. “And were any medical assessments done to determine her psychological state following her forced separation of her Alpha, media persecution, and public scrutiny?”

“I—don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Sasha repeated. “But you sedated her.”

Hart didn’t answer. Sasha looked at the judge. “No further questions. For now.”

The witness was dismissed, but the damage she done hung in the air.

When court recessed for the day, Miranda stood slowly. Her shoulders were stiff, her jaw locked in place, eyes dry but burning. Andrea stayed close, but didn’t speak not until Miranda was ready.

Because no matter how much progress they’d made that morning—Evelyn had just reminded them both: the war is on

**-

The courthouse doors slammed shut behind Sasha Grant.

She didn’t speak at first—just marched down the steps, jaw clenched, heels hitting the stone like gunfire. The heat of rage rolled off her, ice-cold and calculated.

Andrea caught up beside her. “Sasha—”

“That was a stunt,” Sasha hissed. “A show trial punch disguised as testimony. And it worked.”

Andrea kept her voice low. “You handled it.”

Sasha stopped so suddenly Andrea nearly ran into her. She turned, eyes sharp.

“Do you know anyone,” Sasha said, “that you trust—fully—and who has the skills to assist on an off-the-record field op?”

Andrea blinked. “What kind of—?”

“I’m not asking for your blessing, Sachs. I’m asking for a name.”

Andrea stared at her for a long moment, then nodded once. “I do. One.”

“Good.” Sasha pulled out her phone without another word.

Andrea caught her wrist. “What’s this about?”

Sasha’s jaw flexed. “A game-ending move.”

She yanked free, paced a few steps away, and hit the call icon.

“Milo,” she said when he picked up. “How confident are you in your ability to remove a living witness from the Sharpe estate if you have backup?”

There was a pause on the line.

“Remove, as in... extract?” Milo asked.

“Remove,” Sasha said. “As in kidnap.”

Another pause. “Do I get to ask why?”

“No. But I’m sending someone who does. We’re done playing polite.”

She hung up.

Andrea stood a few paces back, silent, absorbing the gravity of what was now in motion.

Sasha didn’t look back. “Let Evelyn enjoy her little victories, the gloves just came off” she muttered. “We’re about to flip the fucking table.”

**-

The wind howled through the shell of the old warehouse on the vacant lot off Levee Street. Half the windows were broken, the other half painted over in dirt. Steel beams were exposed. Rust bloomed like bruises along the walls.

Milo stood in the middle of the open floor, hands in the pockets of his coat, the cold biting through his nerves like static. The place was empty. Until it wasn’t.

She stepped out of the shadows like she’d been born there.

Small-framed. Plain hoodie. Clean sneakers. No gear. Her hands were tucked in her front pockets, head tilted just slightly as she regarded him.

He blinked. “You’re the contact?”

“I’m whoever you need me to be,” she said softly. Her voice was calm, unassuming.  Milo’s instinct prickled. Andrea hadn’t given a name—just coordinates and the phrase: She’ll find you. Don’t underestimate her.

Now he understood why. “You former military?” he asked.

“No.”

“Bureau?”

“No.”

He squinted. “Then who trained you?”

She smiled, just barely. “No one that’ll show up in your databases.”

Milo exhaled. “Damn. You’re one of those.”

“I don’t leave prints,” she said. “I don’t take souvenirs. And if you give me the layout, I can have your package out in under twenty-four hours.”

Milo blinked. “You don’t even know what we’re extracting.”

“I know it’s from the Sharpe estate,” she said. “And I know it’s alive. That’s enough.”

Milo watched her for a long beat.

“Name?”

She smiled again. “You won’t remember it even if I give it.”

He chuckled despite himself. “You and Sasha are gonna get along just fine.”

“I’m not here to make friends,” she said, moving past him to the makeshift table he’d set up—blueprints, thermal scans, security routines. She scanned them with a glance and tapped the northeast corner.

“This is our point of entry.”

Milo raised a brow. “How sure are you?”

“I’m sure, don’t worry, I’ll wait while you catch up”

**-

The estate was dark now, the hallways hushed except for the occasional creak of old wood settling into night. Andrea had just come from the bedroom, having finally gotten Miranda to rest. The stress of the day—and of Evelyn’s stunt in court—had worn her down to the bone. And Andrea had seen it in every wince, every falter in her voice, every time she pushed herself just a bit too far.

So she stayed until Miranda’s breathing evened out. Until her body softened into sleep. And then she went looking for Sasha. She found her by the fireplace in the study, a glass of something dark in one hand, her phone turned face-down on the table beside her.

Andrea entered without speaking. Sasha looked up. “She asleep?”

Andrea nodded. “Out cold.”

“Good.”

Andrea sat down across from her, curling her legs up under herself. “You have something.”

Sasha took a slow sip before answering. “I wanted to wait until she was safe and unconscious to say this. Because if I’m right, she doesn’t need to hear it until it’s too late to do anything stupid.”

Andrea stilled. “Go on.”

Sasha set her glass down and folded her hands together.

“I have this feeling Evelyn’s obsession with Miranda isn’t just political. I think it’s personal.”

Andrea blinked. “You mean vendetta-level personal?”

“I mean wanting to have her personal.” Andrea’s stomach turned.

Sasha leaned in slightly, her voice lower. “I think Evelyn saw Miranda—unclaimed, unmarked, powerful—and wanted her. Not as a peer. Not as an enemy. As something she could own. Something she could break and wear like a trophy.”

Andrea swallowed hard. “Jesus.”

“She’s her father’s daughter,” Sasha went on. “I don’t think this is just about Miranda’s platform. I think it’s about Miranda specifically. If Evelyn can’t have her—can’t control her—she’ll make sure no one can.”

Andrea’s hands curled into fists. “Like she’s proving something to herself. Or to him.”

Sasha nodded. “If I’m right, that estate isn’t just a place to hide people. It’s a museum. And Miranda was supposed to be the centerpiece.”

The fire popped sharply, sparks rising and fading.

Andrea’s voice came out low. “You really think she’d try to... take her?”

Sasha met her eyes. “If it weren’t for you? I think she already would’ve tried.”

Andrea looked away, her jaw tight.

Sasha leaned back. “That’s why this mission has to go clean. Fast.’’

**-

The perimeter sensors on the Sharpe estate were old money—sophisticated but predictable. Pattern-based, terrain-restricted. The kind of system that trusted its wealth more than its flaws.

The Ghost had studied them for days.

Now, dressed in black from boots to gloves, she slipped through a line of hedges and climbed the embankment behind the north greenhouse. There were no lights back here. The land dipped into a hollow, overgrown with wild brush. And buried beneath it—just as Milo's thermal scan had suggested—was the vent.

She lowered herself into the earth without hesitation, slipping into the duct, one tool at a time. The crawlspace narrowed, then widened again into a grate, then a hallway, sterile and silent.

She moved like air. Down the hall, around the first turn—avoiding the camera arcs by memory and microseconds.

Then she stopped dead in her tracks. Because what she saw wasn’t a prison. It was a facility. Clean lines. Reinforced doors. Observation windows. A central corridor with white tile and pulse monitors. Rooms on either side, some empty. Some not.

In one, an Omega sat perfectly still, legs crossed, hands folded. Eyes wide and vacant. In another, a man in a lab coat scribbled something onto a tablet, ignoring the girl restrained to a chair behind him.

This… this was bigger than one person. This was a program. Her breath slowed, then stilled entirely. She scanned the room. She had what she needed. Proof. Coordinates. Layout. Entry points. Headcount. She could take the one, but she wouldn’t make it out with both her life and the truth.

Not yet, so she turned around retraced her path back through the duct. Dug herself out of the vent and melted into the trees before the security loop reset.

Milo was already waiting in the safehouse outside New Haven. Dim light. No questions.

She stepped inside, pulled off her gloves, and handed him a folded piece of paper.

“You didn’t bring the package?!” he asked. Her expression was unreadable.

“This isn’t a holding cell,” she said. “It’s a training camp. For Omegas.”

Milo paled. “What kind of training?”

Her eyes didn’t blink. “Conditioning. Obedience. Customization even.” He sat down hard in the nearest chair. “We need more manpower,” she said. “More eyes. And when we go in, it has to be clean, fast and unyielding.”

Milo looked at her. “This… this changes everything.”