*This chapter contains with dark and mystery
A faint sound — the measured hum of an air-purifier — stirred the stillness.
When Wen-Li's eyes fluttered open, she found herself engulfed in dimness; the air was cool, sterile, and oddly perfumed with sandalwood and steel. Her wrists ached — bound delicately, yet undeniably, by a length of synthetic cord. She sat upon a leather sofa, its surface cold beneath her palms. Her once-immaculate gala attire clung to her, creased and weary, while over her shoulders hung a black coat, heavy and faintly scented of smoke — his coat.
Her long hair had loosened, dark silk spilling like ink across her collarbones. The silence pressed upon her, so complete it seemed to breathe with her. Panic rose swiftly — a pulse of wild disbelief.
"Where am I?" she whispered, her voice fractured by exhaustion and dread.
From the darkness, a man's voice answered — low, resonant, unmistakably composed.
"You're at the safe zone, Chief."
Her head turned sharply toward the sound. Agent-90 stepped from the shadow as though conjured from it. His black overcoat was gone; he wore only his white high-collared shirt, pristine as winter's first snow. The silk cravat at his throat caught the dim light — pinned by the same obsidian raven she had glimpsed at the gala. He looked impossibly calm, a figure carved from poise itself.
"Safe zone?" she repeated, disbelief threading through her words.
"That's right," came a second voice — cool, female, deliberate.
From the opposite corner, a woman emerged into the low light. Madam Di-Xian sat elegantly upon a chaise longue, one leg crossed over the other, her crimson hair braided into a sleek cascade that shimmered like molten copper. Between her fingers she held a scarlet lotus, its petals of silk trembling faintly as she toyed with them.
Her eyes, feline and glacial, regarded Wen-Li with a mixture of pity and calculation.
"I must confess, Chief," she said softly, her tone like silk drawn over a blade, "I am rarely surprised — but even I did not foresee a spectacle of such cruelty."
Wen-Li's breath caught. "You heard… what happened?"
Madam Di-Xian inclined her head with slow precision, twirling the crimson lotus idly between her fingers. "Indeed. My condolences — though I assure you, neither my agents nor I were involved. If we had known, we would have torn the entire theatre apart before such indecency unfolded."
Her voice was calm, but beneath it lurked the quiet ferocity of a storm biding its time.
"Then… you were aware of this?" Wen-Li pressed, her tone brittle with disbelief.
"If we were aware," Di-Xian interrupted gently, "we would have stopped it. What you witnessed tonight was not an accident — it was orchestration. Every note, every light, every whisper. It was pre-planned."
"Pre-planned?" Wen-Li echoed, the word tasting like rust. "What does that mean?"
Agent-90 spoke then, his voice smooth as glass. "It means, Chief, that the play was written long before the gala began."
Di-Xian's gaze deepened, her tone lowering into gravity. "Wen-Li — you wish to learn the truth of your parents' murder? Then know this: what happened tonight is a fragment of that truth."
Wen-Li's eyes widened, the breath freezing in her chest. "What do you mean?"
The crimson-haired woman's expression shifted — compassion flickering beneath her habitual frost. "Before I answer that," she said quietly, "I must ask — the images shown at the gala… are they authentic?"
For a moment, silence reigned. Wen-Li lowered her head, her fingers curling against the ropes at her wrists. The shame in her posture was almost unbearable.
"Yes…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "They're real."
A tear slipped down her cheek, tracing through the faint smudge of her eyeliner like ink through snow. "I've brought disgrace upon my parents. I don't know how I'll face them — even in memory. I've lost everything. My comrades… the people I trusted… they've all turned from me. But I swear, I never!"
Di-Xian's expression softened — only slightly. "When did it begin?" she asked.
"I don't know," Wen-Li murmured, voice small, hollow.
With a sigh heavy as twilight rain, Di-Xian rose from her seat and approached. "Wen-Li — look at me."
When Wen-Li lifted her tear-streaked face, Di-Xian's palm struck her cheek — a sharp, resonant sound that cracked through the silence like a whip.
"Enough," she said, eyes blazing. "Self-pity is a luxury for those who have no cause. You have a cause — and now, you have an enemy."
Wen-Li blinked, stunned — not by pain, but by the sudden clarity in the woman's tone.
"Listen to me," Di-Xian continued, her voice softening to iron. "The High Chaebols and the High Council have been plotting this from the beginning — since the day the SSCBF made its covenant with the SCP division. You were merely the stage upon which they intended to break the will of justice itself."
Wen-Li's brows furrowed. "But… why? For what reason would the SCP do this?"
"They want to make you — all of you — slaves," said Agent-90. His words fell like stones into the dark. The glint of his spectacles caught the light, reflecting twin shards of blue ice.
"Slaves?" she repeated in disbelief.
"Yes," said Di-Xian. She resumed her seat, fingers idly plucking a petal from the crimson lotus. "The High Chaebols have always adored control — over the press, the law, the markets, the armies. They do not merely rule nations; they rule perception. To them, justice is an inconvenience, and independence a disease. The SSCBF — your bureau — is the last bastion they do not yet command. So they devised the Sentinel Helix."
She gestured toward Wen-Li's wrist. "The bracelet you wear is no ornament. It is fused with your DNA — a third helix woven into your biology. Through it, they can manipulate your impulses, your movements, even your desires. Zhai Linyu was merely the prototype."
Wen-Li stared at her wrist in horror, her breath quickening. "So he became that… creature because of this?"
"Precisely," Di-Xian said. "But worry not — we have broken its code."
"How?" Wen-Li demanded.
Agent-90 stepped closer, his tone measured. "By dismantling its frequency lattice. I've already severed its connection to your neural stem."
Wen-Li's gaze lifted to him — a fragile glimmer of gratitude beneath her confusion.
"By the Helix," he continued, "they invaded your mind, bent your instincts, and violated your privacy. Everything they showed tonight was born of that manipulation — an attempt to destroy your honour from within."
Wen-Li's voice trembled. "Why would the High Council do such a thing? Why destroy their own organisation? What could they possibly want from me?"
"For the same things men have always destroyed empires for," Di-Xian replied bitterly. "Money and power." She rose once more, casting the torn petals of the lotus into the air like droplets of blood. "They knew you were the key to unravelling their dominion. You are the anomaly — the obstacle in their One World Government."
Wen-Li's breath hitched. "Then… President Song Luoyang — he knew?"
Di-Xian hesitated, the silence itself grieving before she spoke. "He knew," she said softly. "But even as President, he had no power to resist. The Council ruled him — as it rules everything. His death, and your parents', were not accidents. They were orchestrations. And the one they blamed — the assassin they named their scapegoat — was Agent-90."
The words landed like thunder.
Wen-Li stared between them — at Di-Xian's solemn calm, at Agent-90's emotionless restraint — her expression crumbling into disbelief. "So… the Chaebols and the Council killed my parents?"
Di-Xian closed her eyes briefly, then nodded. "Yes."
The sound that escaped Wen-Li's lips was neither sob nor scream, but something quieter — a sound of a heart collapsing inward. Years of loyalty, trust, and duty dissolved into the bitter taste of betrayal.
Agent-90 turned to the monitor and switched it on. Dozens of broadcasts flared to life — screens filled with headlines, flashing imagery, and the cold voices of reporters. Wen-Li's name dominated every channel, spoken with derision and mockery. At a press conference, President Zhang Wei stood before the insignia of the SSCBF, proclaiming her dismissal with sanctimonious precision. The High Council nodded in grim accord.
Her comrades were cornered by journalists — Lieutenant Nightingale, stoic yet visibly unsettled, muttered, "No comment." Lan Qian turned away, her face pale. Captain Robert forced an uneasy smile, mumbling excuses; Captain Xuemin remained silent, eyes downcast. Commander Krieg, approached last, simply glared at the reporters — his silence more violent than any words could be.
Civilians filled the screens next — their opinions pouring forth like venom. Some pitied her. Others sneered. The world had turned its gaze, and its judgment, upon her.
Wen-Li's vision swam. Her head tilted forward, a hand to her temple. The nausea returned. "Turn it off," Di-Xian commanded sharply.
Agent-90 obeyed. The screens dimmed, and silence reclaimed the room.
"Are you all right?" Di-Xian asked softly.
"Yes," Wen-Li murmured, though her voice trembled. "I've lost everything — my post, my name, the people I thought were mine. What kind of woman am I now?"
Di-Xian moved to her side and, for once, let the mask slip. She drew Wen-Li into a quiet embrace — not of power, but of unexpected warmth. Her voice, when it came, was almost maternal.
"You are still Wen-Li," she said. "And they have merely reminded you how much you have to reclaim."
After a long silence, Di-Xian drew back and fixed her with a steady gaze.
"Now, the time has come for you to learn the whole truth. Are you prepared?"
Wen-Li wiped her tears, her resolve hardening beneath them. "Yes."
"Then Agent-90 will take you," Di-Xian said, her tone returning to command. "Go — and see what the world tried to bury."
Agent-90 inclined his head. Wen-Li rose, still unsteady, but her eyes now gleamed with the faint spark of defiance. Together, they turned toward the door.
When the sound of their footsteps faded, Di-Xian remained alone in the dim chamber. She regarded the half-wilted lotus in her hand and whispered to herself,
"She has her mother's grace… and her father's fire. Let us pray the world survives their return."
However, the engine purred like a restrained beast beneath the steel-boned night.
Agent-90 drove in silence, his gloved hands steady upon the wheel of his jet-black 1954 Mercedes-Benz 300SL Gullwing — a machine so immaculately preserved it seemed less driven than summoned. Its chrome gleamed faintly under the fractured glow of the city's smog-shrouded lights, each reflection slipping across the bonnet like the shimmer of quicksilver.
Wen-Li sat beside him, wrapped in his coat — its weight a strange comfort, its faint scent of cedar and ozone oddly reassuring. The silence between them was not awkward; it was orchestral — the kind of silence that carried the gravity of unspoken trust and unuttered fear.
When the car descended through the industrial underpass, the streets changed. The neon arteries of Obsidian Peak gave way to a labyrinth of rusted girders, dripping pipes, and abandoned rails that stretched into a darkness so thick it swallowed the notion of distance.
The car halted before an immense iron gate, its surface corroded and engraved with forgotten transit sigils. Overhead, a fractured sign flickered once —
RUSTGATE PLATFORM — CLOSED FOR REPAIR
Agent-90 killed the engine. The sound of its cessation left a vacuum, filled only by the slow drip of condensation.
Wen-Li glanced about, unease threading through her voice.
"Are we truly meant to be here? This place looks… forsaken."
"Forsaken things," he replied evenly, stepping out and adjusting his gloves, "tend to keep the truest memories."
She followed, her heels echoing faintly upon the wet ground. The air smelt of iron and quiet ruin — a ghostly bouquet of oil, rust, and rain. The platform loomed before them, half-devoured by shadow.
At night, Rustgate felt less like a place than an entity.
The overhead lights blinked sporadically, their intermittent glow revealing momentary shapes — silhouettes that might have been human once, or perhaps never were. A low mechanical hum vibrated through the ground, as though something deep beneath still breathed.
Holographic adverts, long divorced from their power grid, continued to flicker in spectral defiance.
"Welcome to Rustgate — where your journey never ends," murmured a broken voice, looping infinitely before dissolving into static.
The rails glowed with a faint arterial red, pulsing intermittently like the heartbeat of the forgotten. Occasionally, the dust lifted in soft spirals — displaced by something unseen, something that moved through the air rather than upon it.
Surveillance cameras, corroded and cracked, pivoted ever so slightly. Their lenses tracked movement though no current flowed within their veins.
And there — etched upon the damp wall of Tunnel 4-B — a phrase shimmered faintly in phosphorescent paint:
"The fog remembers."
Wen-Li's eyes narrowed upon the writing, the glow reflecting in her pupils. "Velgrave Prystowsky…" she murmured, tracing the name that had been scrawled beneath in a trembling hand. "I've heard whispers of that name. He was…?"
Agent-90's expression did not alter. His voice carried the composure of a eulogy.
"He was the head of the Tier Sinners. Once, a general of your own organisation — before he vanished beneath the fog he unleashed."
"I've read the files," Wen-Li said softly, her tone tinged with curiosity and dread. "But I've never seen him."
Agent-90 inclined his head slightly, his gaze scanning the endless dark.
"Pray you never shall," he said. "We are not here for him. We came for the truth. Follow me."
She obeyed, her footsteps echoing lightly behind his — the sound strangely delayed, as if the air itself were remembering them a moment too late. The environment unsettled not through threat, but through memory.
The architecture was an elegy of eras:
Steel walls pitted with rust and ancient graffiti; maintenance pipes bleeding condensation like veins of the forgotten.
Ceilings webbed with fractured neon, flickering between reality and dream.
The floor — slick, mirror-like — reflected their figures as though recalling other travellers long dead.
The benches were gone, replaced by cargo crates and makeshift shrines — burnt candles, faded photographs, wilted flowers — offerings to those who had vanished during the Flood Transit Collapse.
The great clock at the station's centre hung motionless at 03:17 — the exact moment when water and molten steel had devoured hundreds.
Wen-Li slowed, her eyes moving over the relics. "This place feels alive," she whispered, almost to herself. "Like it remembers us even though we've just arrived."
"It does," said Agent-90 quietly, his tone without irony. "Everything that bleeds, breathes, or rusts remembers."
For a fleeting moment, she thought she heard the faint announcement of her own voice — distorted, repeating from somewhere within the tunnels. She froze, eyes wide.
The silence returned, heavy and absolute.
Then, from the corner — a scurry, a scrape. A rat, grey and quick, darted across the tiles.
Wen-Li gasped, startled. Her heel slipped upon the wet steel edge, and she lurched backward with a cry. Before she could fall, Agent-90 caught her — his arm sweeping around her waist in one swift, effortless motion.
For a suspended instant, time hesitated.
Her body was drawn close against his, her heartbeat a quiet percussion against the silence. His gloved hand held her steady, his gaze level — those cold, glacial eyes meeting hers with a calm intensity that felt almost… human.
Wen-Li's breath hitched. She could smell the faint trace of rain and iron upon him.
"Th-Thank you…" she murmured, her cheeks blooming faintly with colour as she regained her footing. She brushed a strand of hair from her face and stepped back quickly, embarrassed by her own fluster. "I wasn't afraid — merely surprised."
"Indeed," he replied, tone unbothered, though the faintest curve ghosted his lips. "Try not to let gravity win next time."
She frowned lightly, half-offended, half-relieved. "Very amusing."
But he had already turned, scanning the dark corridor ahead. "We are close," he said, his voice dipping into something quieter, almost solemn. "Hold my hand — and do not lose your step."
She hesitated for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, she extended her hand. His gloved fingers closed around hers — firm, cool, certain.
The contact startled her — not from fear, but from the strange calm it brought. A pulse of warmth surged beneath her skin, as though her very heartbeat had synchronised with his measured composure.
Why does it feel… safe? she thought, inwardly startled by her own reflection. This man is a weapon, not a comfort.
And yet, as they moved together into the deeper dark — their joined silhouettes framed by the dying light of a station that remembered too much — she could not help but feel that whatever truth awaited them there, it would be one that neither of them would leave unchanged.
Agent-90's gaze caught upon something buried in the half-light — a small, half-derelict subway train, sealed off behind a barrier of rust and shadow. Its faded insignia read "Rustgate Internal Line — Restricted Access." The dust upon its shell was so thick it seemed cocooned by time itself.
"This way," he murmured, his tone deliberate and unhurried, as if disturbing the silence too suddenly might awaken whatever memories slept there.
Wen-Li followed him through the thin veil of mist curling between the rails. Her heels clicked softly, swallowed by the echoing vastness.
He halted before the train's open door and turned to her. "Go inside. Wait there. I'll remain here for a moment."
She hesitated, searching his eyes for explanation, but his composure offered none — only calm assurance. She nodded faintly and stepped aboard.
Inside, the air was dense with the scent of oxidised metal and cold circuitry. The seats were lined in cracked maroon leather, long faded and brittle. Dust floated like spectral ash through the dim cabin light. The emergency lamps pulsed faintly crimson, bathing everything in the melancholy hue of an old wound.
Along the walls, once-proud holo-panels still flickered weakly, spitting fragments of obsolete announcements. A console sat embedded at the far end, its screen half-shattered but still breathing with intermittent light — the ghost of machinery refusing to die.
Wen-Li approached slowly, her reflection fragmenting across the fractured glass. She brushed her fingers over the keys, and the screen flared awake as though recognising her presence.
VIDEO LOG: CHIEF WEN-LUO
Timestamp: 22:47 — 30.08.2041
Her pulse faltered. For a heartbeat, she could not breathe.
With trembling fingers, she pressed Enter.
The screen came alive.
Her father's face appeared — older, wearier, yet still radiating the austere nobility she had always remembered. His eyes were the same — sharp, kind, but burdened by the weight of truths too immense for one man to bear.
"This is Chief Wen-Luo speaking…"
His voice was roughened by exhaustion yet resolute, each syllable etched with the solemnity of farewell.
As he spoke of corruption, betrayal, and the shadowed tyranny of the High Chaebols, Wen-Li's heart constricted. Every word seemed to claw through the years and find her where she sat.
"They are not humans like us," he said, eyes narrowing. "They are demons in human form — architects of deceit, clothed in civility. They will enslave the innocent under the guise of order."
Her hands trembled in her lap. The glow of the screen painted her face in soft cyan, and tears gathered unbidden along her lashes.
"My dear child," his voice faltered for the first time, "if you are hearing this, then I have already fallen. Protect your brother Wen-Liao. Protect yourself. And never forget that justice — true justice — demands courage greater than fear."
The video ended in static.
A breath escaped her, sharp and broken. Her tears fell silently, tracing thin paths down her cheeks, streaking faint traces of eyeliner across her skin like black rain upon porcelain. She sat for a moment — a motionless figure surrounded by ghosts.
She reached tremblingly for another file on the console, but before she could press play, the faint echo of approaching footsteps reached her.
Agent-90 entered the carriage quietly, his silhouette cutting through the dim red light. Seeing her tears, he paused, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his fringe.
She hurriedly wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, composing herself as best she could. "I'm fine," she whispered, though her voice betrayed the lie.
Agent-90 knelt before her, his movements precise yet unhurried. His white shirt caught the faint crimson gleam, the obsidian raven of his cravat glinting faintly — an emblem of silent loyalty.
"Chief," he said softly, "you've endured more pain than any soul should bear alone. Let me share it — if only a fraction. Let me be part of your fight."
She looked down at him, startled by the sincerity in his tone. "Why?" she asked, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. "Why would you carry my pain when the world already burdens you with its own? What compels you to protect me?"
He hesitated — then reached for her hand. His glove was cool against her skin as his fingers enclosed hers with a measured firmness, grounding her trembling.
"Because," he said quietly, "your father, Chief Wen-Luo, was not merely my superior. He was my mentor — my teacher. The man who turned a weapon into a man again."
Wen-Li's breath caught.
Agent-90's gaze lowered momentarily, as though revisiting a memory carved into the marrow of his soul. His voice softened — the precision giving way to something almost human.
"In the year 2041, before the incident they now call 'The Collapse,' he summoned me. His words were not orders — they were vows. He said, 'Ninety… I entrust you with my will. Protect my daughter from the darkness that will follow. Shield her from the cruelty that festers beneath the banners of justice. If you must bleed, bleed for her. If you must fall, let it be before she does.'"
He raised his eyes to meet hers. The faint reflection of the console's light danced within his irises — a cold blue, like the heart of a glacier.
"I gave him my word," he continued. "And I do not break my word. Let me be your wings when the storm takes your own. Let me be the blade that cuts through deceit. I ask for nothing — only to honour his trust and your strength."
For a long moment, the world seemed to still.
Wen-Li's breath trembled as she gazed at him — this man of calculated precision and quiet sorrow, who spoke not like an assassin, but like a vow made flesh.
Her eyes shimmered as she whispered, "He trusted you… then I will too. You've carried his will longer than I've known my own. I'm sorry I didn't see that everything you're doing is for me"
"And that's my honour Chief!"
She smiled faintly through her tears — fragile yet luminous, the way a candle burns brightest before the wind. "If you are my father's blade," she said softly, "then perhaps… I can be his justice."
Agent-90 inclined his head, a gesture of reverence rather than command. "Then together," he murmured, "we will unearth the truth — even if the world itself tries to bury it."
Outside, the flickering lights of Rustgate Platform dimmed, and for an instant, the old station seemed to exhale — as if acknowledging that its long-kept secret had at last been seen.
The secret meeting chamber of the Special Security Counter for Bureau Force lay buried within the understructure of Obsidian Peak Tower — a place the public knew only through myth and guarded rumours.
No light of dawn ever touched this sanctum. Instead, its walls breathed an eerie glow, cast by chandeliers of cold silver suspended above a colossal round table of black glass — a surface so polished it seemed a pool of still water reflecting faces warped by ambition.
The emblem of the SSCBF shimmered faintly upon the centre: a broken scale, symbolising justice perverted.
The air was dense — not with dust, but with quiet triumph.
One by one, the chairpersons of the High Council took their seats. Their movements were measured, deliberate, like actors stepping onto a stage long rehearsed.
Fahad Al-Farsi, clad in a robe of immaculate white trimmed with gold thread, rested his hands upon the table. His neatly trimmed beard gleamed beneath the low light. His eyes, deep and calculating, shifted towards his neighbour as he murmured in a voice smooth as silk, "So, the spectacle went accordingly. The crowd devoured the scandal like starving dogs."
Across from him, Elizabeth Carter — an image of composure and latent cruelty — adjusted the cuff of her charcoal suit. Her crimson lips curved into a smile so thin it could cut glass. She tapped her manicured nails rhythmically against the table's surface — click, click, click — the sound echoing like the ticking of a clock counting down to collapse.
"The plan unfolded perfectly," she said, her tone clipped and precise, her accent laced with cold satisfaction. "Wen-Li's disgrace has gone viral across every media channel. The people no longer see her as a symbol of justice, but as a fallen idol — a desecrated saint. Such a pity… she was remarkably photogenic."
Selim Kaya leaned forward, his dark eyes narrow and glistening with intrigue. His clasped hands formed a steeple before his lips. "And the Agent — Number Ninety — what of him?" he asked, slipping softly through his consonants.
Andreas Karalis, his corpulent frame shifting in the leather chair, let out a low, sardonic chuckle. "That ghost of a man? He'll be dealt with soon enough. Even a shadow needs light to exist — and we've long since extinguished his." His voice carried the rich baritone of a man accustomed to domination, yet his fingers trembled faintly — whether from age or excitement, none could tell.
Kim Ji-Soo, sleek in a tailored graphite suit, removed her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose before speaking with restrained impatience. "Let us not be complacent. Gavriel Elazar's instructions were clear — humiliation was merely the prelude. The real orchestration begins now." Her tone was sharp, like a blade forged from ice.
At the mention of his name, a hush fell. Even the faint hum of the chamber's ventilation seemed to bow to silence.
From the far end, Hiroto Nakamura remained still — his face a mask of sculpted neutrality, his fingers interlaced upon the table. His eyes, almond and unwavering, studied each of them in silence. "You speak of triumph," he said quietly, "but triumph breeds arrogance. And arrogance invites scrutiny. The public will not remain docile forever."
Elizabeth Carter turned towards him, the faintest smirk ghosting her lips. "Then let the public scream. Their cries will only echo within the cage we've built for them."
Aarav Sharma, lean and severe, drummed his fingers thoughtfully upon the glass. "Our work aligns with destiny," he said, his deep voice carrying both conviction and fatigue. "The One World Government was never about control for pleasure — it was about stability. Humanity needs the shepherd's hand, not the illusion of freedom."
Fahad Al-Farsi inclined his head slightly, his eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier's ghostly light. "A shepherd must sometimes slaughter the rebellious sheep to keep the flock safe."
Rahim Ahmed, the only one whose conscience had not yet been entirely corroded, shifted uneasily in his seat. His voice was soft, almost prayerful. "And what of the girl? Chief Wen-Li — she was once one of us. Is this… truly necessary?"
A brief silence followed, heavy as thunderclouds gathering.
Elizabeth Carter's gaze cut toward him, sharp and disdainful. "Necessary?" she echoed. "She was a liability — a sentimental relic of moralism. Her suffering was not cruelty, Rahim. It was correction."
Andreas Karalis laughed — a coarse, guttural sound that bounced off the metallic walls. "Correction! That's a fine euphemism for execution by humiliation." He raised his glass of brandy, its amber hue flickering like molten gold. "To our fallen saint — the sacrifice that paves the road to order."
The others followed suit — glasses clinking in solemn mockery, their smiles thin and serpentine.
"Order," Fahad murmured. "The perfect word for chaos veiled in peace."
Selim Kaya's voice dropped low, a thread of steel beneath the calm. "And Gavriel? Does he know we've begun Phase Two?"
Elizabeth's eyes glimmered like a serpent's under moonlight. "He knows," she replied. "He orchestrated every note. Even now, he watches — as we move like pieces upon his board. Soon, the world itself will kneel under one banner. One system. One will."
A faint tremor of laughter rippled across the table — quiet, rehearsed, almost liturgical.
Only Rahim Ahmed did not join. He stared into his untouched glass, the amber light trembling upon his face. One world, he thought, and no soul left unbroken within it.
Above them, unseen by mortal eyes, a single surveillance orb blinked once — a silent witness. Its recording light glowed faintly red, then vanished.