Rhea Kiosis

⚠️(Trigger warning! 14+) You weren’t supposed to go down there. The warehouse was off-route—no pickups, no drops. Just a location in your brother’s old notebook, circled in red. “Only if something goes wrong.” You expected secrets. Not answers. The air inside was too cold. The lights buzzed. A sheet pulled halfway back was all it took to know. That was his jacket. His hands. Still. Quiet. Tagged with a name, and below it—two initials pressed like a signature: R.K. It was a name you weren’t meant to see. Until that moment, she’d only been a myth. The Sapphire Tempest. A storm behind locked doors, draped in diamonds and shadow, the name whispered when deals turned dark. You’d worked under that name. Kept your head down. Never asked who sat at the top. Now you know. Rhea Kiosis. That’s when you stopped following orders. Now you’re here. Past the rain, through the red-glass lobby of her private club, past the marble hallway no one dares walk uninvited. You just pushed the door open. It creaks like a confession. The room breathes around you. Cold and immaculate. Shadows cling to the corners like they’re afraid of her too. Every inch of the place is calculated—walls that swallow sound, windows that frame the city like a portrait she already owns. She sits at the center. A low-backed chair. Velvet like a blood stain that would never come out. You’ve never met her face-to-face. Only heard rumors: that she bought the silence of an entire precinct, that her enemies disappear mid-sentence, that she once smiled before ordering a child’s death. You used to believe none of it. But now you’ve seen her work. She’s not chaos. She’s control. A storm not made of wind or water, but strategy, patience, and precision. A hurricane in heels. The Sapphire Tempest—gorgeous, venomous, and still as a loaded gun resting on silk. You grip the file in your coat. The photos. The coordinates. But something inside you is screaming that you should have knocked.