Ashes to Empress

POV: Armin Schmitt

Mondays were always beneath him. He tolerated them the same way he tolerated cheap wine—out of necessity, not appreciation. Armin Schmitt rose from his imported pressure-adaptive mattress and muttered curses to the empty side of the bed.

"Of course she's gone. Again."

His wife—Dr. Elena Schmitt. The name alone was heavy. A highly respected bioinformatics researcher. Member of several European research ethics boards. She was on three university committees and had co-authored a dozen "vision documents" for interdisciplinary science policy. She was, as always, off saving the world one overfunded project at a time. It was a rhythm he'd grown used to: she flew, she lectured, she dined with Nobel types. He stayed home, did the real work, and enjoyed the prestige by proximity. And the silence. And the resentment.

He moved slowly through his morning rituals, muttering bitter observations about the headlines on his smart mirror and ignoring his wristwatch's reminders to stretch. He adjusted his silk tie, spritzed on his aged citrus cologne, and stepped into his obsidian-black Valensha V12 Executive—the kind of car that whispered generational wealth without having to roar. The leather seats hugged him with cold indifference.

The drive to campus was uneventful. Classical music hummed softly as he rehearsed his week's schedule. A few meetings, a guest lecture he could half-ass with an old deck, a funding proposal to doctor. Routine. Safe. Boring.

But the moment he stepped onto university grounds, something was off.

Students stared.

Not with admiration, but confusion. Caution. One girl even pulled out her phone and filmed him from behind her coffee cup. A pair of students paused mid-conversation as he passed. They whispered, glanced over, then walked faster.

"Idiots," he muttered, waving it off. "Trend junkies."

He made his way to the faculty wing, coffee in hand, and settled into his office chair. His assistant hadn't shown up yet. Useless. As always. He loosened his tie and opened his inbox.

The first few emails were ordinary: schedule adjustments, an overdue hardware order, a colleague requesting edits on a collaborative draft. He yawned.

Then he saw them.

Subject lines that made no sense.

"Clarification regarding student exemptions — FY2018"

"Unresolved academic integrity discrepancies – URGENT"

"Misreported research data – requesting confirmation"

He clicked one. Then another. His fingers slowed. The content made his blood run cold.

They were referencing... his files. Encrypted ones. Old files.

Files that shouldn't exist anymore. Files that were gone. Deleted.

He clicked faster. More subject lines. More institutions. Even student bodies. Some were direct. Others circumspect. But the tone was unmistakable:

They knew.

His palms went damp. He opened one email thread and scrolled. Attachments. Screenshots. Extracted metadata. Names of students. Amounts. Dates.

The world around him narrowed into a single point of panic.

Then—ring ring.

His personal phone vibrated. He answered reflexively.

"Schmitt."

A woman's voice answered, low and clear:

"Armin. I've covered for you longer than I should have."

He froze.

"Elena?"

"You've embarrassed me. No—humiliated me. I warned you years ago that if your games ever touched my reputation, I'd wash my hands of you. Well, this is it. You're on your own now. My family won't protect you. Your family can't. And just so you understand how final this is—the divorce papers are en route. Sign them, or my father will start digging for the rest of your filth."

"Elena, wait—you don't understa—"

BEEP. BEEP.

The call ended.

Armin stared at his phone. Rage boiled up under his skin. "This bitch… who the hell is behind this!?"

He snatched up his desk phone and punched in a number. His father's private line.

Instead, a clipped voice answered. "Estate of House Schmitt. This is Albrecht, the butler."

"Put my father on. It's Armin."

A pause.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the Schmitt family recognizes no professional association with any Professor Armin Schmitt. Good day."

Click.

He sat motionless. Breathless. Like the world had dropped away.

Knock knock.

The door opened. Three people entered. Two from university leadership. And one in uniform.

"Professor Schmitt," said the dean with a forced calm, "you're being placed under investigation for academic fraud, bribery, and ethics violations. This is Officer Kirsch from the Landespolizei. You are officially the subject of a criminal inquiry."

Before he could form a sentence, the officer stepped forward and secured his wrists with handcuffs.

"No sudden movements, Professor."

They walked him down the hall. Each step echoed louder than the last. Staff peered through windows. Students pulled out phones.

By the time they reached the front courtyard, the cameras were already waiting. Reporters. Phones. A sea of faces. The campus was buzzing with the kind of electricity that only comes from scandal.

"Professor Schmitt! Did you accept bribes?"

"Is it true you falsified test data?"

"Why did the university cover for you so long?"

He winced as flashes popped. Shouts blurred into one another. He wanted to scream. To explain. But the words stuck like sawdust in his throat.

He was alone.

And now, everyone knew it.

POV: Max

I was chewing through the last of my vegan doner when the notification pinged. My laptop was open but idling. I flicked my eyes over.

[Email – UnuCom Sales Division]

Subject: Proposal – SecureFix Licensing Offer

Dear Ms. Wintershade,

After internal review and initial testing, we are prepared to offer €150,000 per network scan via your SecureFix web interface. Scope includes full vulnerability report delivery, mitigation recommendations, and secure log archival.

Please confirm your acceptance. Draft contract attached.

I blinked. My pulse slowed with quiet triumph.

Not because of the money—although that helped—but because this was confirmation. It meant they trusted the tool. They saw the value.

I clicked the PDF. Clean clauses. Clear scope. Big, beautiful numbers.

I signed it digitally, then opened my admin panel and generated a secure client connector—an API node UnuCom could use to register new client scans through a private channel.

I sent it back with a note:

"Here's your connector. Let me know if you need implementation support. Cheers, – M"

Then I opened another tab and fired off a new batch of outreach emails:

"SecureFix is now available for licensing. €150,000 per scan. Includes full CVE/0-day detection, report generation, and guided mitigation tools."

I attached temporary credentials and spun up a fresh demo sandbox.

Minutes later, UnuCom replied again—with the fully signed agreement. My backend pinged as the access key was activated. They were already onboarding.

Efficient.

I opened my encrypted bank dashboard and messaged my advisor:

"Hey Saskia, heads-up: incoming payment from UnuCom—€150k. Please mark it for corporate dev reserves and notify me when it lands."

Then I did what any rational woman would do after a win:

I checked the news.

And there it was.

BREAKING: University Professor Detained for Fraud

I scrolled. Article after article. Forums, reposts, news clips. A MeTube channel doing a livestream titled "Professor Arrested LIVE at Uni Frankfurt???"

"Word is it's bribery and data forgery. Research manipulation. Possibly grant fraud too. Whole faculty under review."

"Someone said the wife's divorcing him today. Like, today today."

I leaned back, finished my doner, and sipped my tea slowly.

There was no satisfaction like silent satisfaction.

Confirmation? I didn't need it.

I built it.

And now the world would process the consequences.

One scandal at a time.