Rain turned to sleet by the time Ethan reached Prague. The train hissed to a stop at Hlavní nádraží station, its brakes screaming against the frozen rails. Passengers shuffled out under umbrellas and tired faces, but Ethan stayed still until the crowd thinned. He liked to move when no one was watching — ghosts didn't draw attention.
He stepped out into the bitter cold, eyes scanning the sea of people, the flicker of fluorescent lights, the soft hum of city noise. Vienna already felt like a lifetime ago, yet the image of Matthias bleeding on the café floor wouldn't leave his mind.
> Seven Strays. You were Prototype Three.
The words looped in his head like static. Every time he tried to remember his early missions — the first kill, the first briefing, the first order — something flickered, like corrupted film. Faces he knew blurred into strangers. Voices felt spliced together.
And now, this "Archivist."
If the man existed, he wasn't just a ghost; he was the key to everything Ethan was — or wasn't.
The voice in his ear returned.
> "You made it in one piece?" Lena's tone was half-sarcastic, half-worried.
Ethan adjusted the small transceiver under his collar. "Barely. What do you have for me?"
> "Working on it. The Archivist isn't just some hacker. Whoever he is, he's got access to every black-ops data trail wiped since 2016. CIA, MI6, Division 7 — all of them. He's been trading secrets to both sides for years, but no one's seen his face."
Ethan's brow furrowed. "So he's a ghost among ghosts."
> "Exactly. But I might have a lead — a woman named Daria Voss. She used to be his courier. Last known address: Old Town district."
"Send it."
> "Done. Ethan…"
"Yeah?"
> "Whoever killed Matthias knew you were there. They're tracking you in real time. You might be the last clean thread in this entire operation. Don't pull too hard — you might unravel the world."
Ethan smirked faintly. "Wouldn't be my first time."
---
Old Town, Prague. Two hours later.
The narrow streets shimmered with leftover rain. Tourists were long gone, leaving only the sound of wet footsteps and the occasional laughter from distant bars.
Ethan followed the address Lena sent him — a rundown bookstore wedged between two closed cafés. Its sign read Voss & Paper, though half the letters were gone. Inside, the air smelled of mold, ink, and memories that had outlived their owners.
A bell jingled softly as he entered.
An elderly woman behind the counter looked up from her tea. Her silver hair was tied neatly in a bun, but her eyes — sharp and unblinking — betrayed a soldier's posture.
> "We're closed," she said.
Ethan smiled faintly. "You used to run dead drops for the Archivist."
The woman's expression didn't change, but her fingers tightened around her cup. "You have the wrong person."
"Do I?" Ethan leaned closer. "You're Daria Voss. Former courier for Division 7's Black Echo division. You carried codes that didn't exist. You worked for him."
For a long moment, silence hung heavy between them. Then she sighed, poured a second cup of tea, and gestured to the empty chair.
> "You sound just like him," she said. "Arrogant, certain, and already dead."
Ethan sat. "Tell me about the Archivist."
Daria's eyes flicked to the window before she spoke. "He's not a man. Not anymore. What's left of him is data — an encrypted intelligence built from the memories of the man who created it. Division 7 called it Project Mnemosyne. The Syndicate stole it before it was finished."
Ethan frowned. "You mean the Archivist is… an AI?"
She nodded. "A thinking ghost. It holds everything — identities, files, erased agents, even the truth about you. But to reach it, you'll need a cipher key."
"Where?"
"Hidden inside a memory vault beneath the Prague Archives. But it's guarded by Division 7's sleeper agents. They call it the Citadel."
Ethan rubbed his temples. "Of course they do."
> "You shouldn't go there," Daria warned. "Everyone who's tried to access the Archivist's core vanished. Division 7 calls them 'data casualties.' Their minds break before their bodies do."
Ethan looked up, eyes cold. "If I don't go, I stay broken anyway."
She studied him for a moment — the scar near his temple, the exhaustion in his eyes. Then she reached into her drawer and pulled out an old silver coin, etched with an intricate symbol: a circle of seven lines crossing at the center.
> "This will open the Citadel door," she said. "But once you're inside, no one can follow."
Ethan pocketed the coin. "I'm not looking for help."
Daria's voice softened. "No. You're looking for yourself. That's worse."
Before Ethan could respond, the bell above the door chimed again.
Two men entered. Black coats. Empty eyes. Division 7.
Daria's expression froze. Ethan didn't move.
> "Keep calm," he whispered.
The first man spoke, voice flat. "Mr. Ward. You've been recalled."
Ethan smirked. "Sorry, I don't work there anymore."
"Correction," the second man said, drawing a silenced pistol. "You are there. Always have been."
Ethan dove behind a shelf as bullets tore through rows of books, pages exploding into the air like feathers. He fired back, dropping the first agent. The second lunged forward, knife flashing — but Ethan caught his arm, slammed him into the counter, and twisted hard until bone cracked.
Daria stared, trembling, as Ethan wiped the blood from his sleeve. "You were never just an agent," she murmured. "They made you into something else."
Ethan didn't reply. He holstered his gun and nodded toward the back exit. "Stay low. They'll send more."
She grabbed his hand suddenly. "If you reach the Archivist… tell him Daria remembers."
Ethan nodded once, then slipped into the alley.
---
Outside, the city seemed to breathe against him — every shadow whispering his name. He could almost hear the Syndicate's voice again: You were never meant to wake up, Stray.
The sleet had turned to snow now, coating the rooftops in a thin layer of white. Ethan followed the backstreets until he reached the river, where a tram bridge arched over the Vltava. He leaned against the railing, catching his reflection in the dark water.
Prototype Three.
If that was true, then who were the others? Were they alive? Dead? Or out there, walking under someone else's name?
His earpiece crackled again.
> "You're bleeding, aren't you?" Lena's voice.
Ethan touched his temple — a shallow cut from the fight. "Just another scar."
> "You sound different."
"Maybe I am."
> "Where are you headed?"
"The Citadel."
> "You found it already?"
"Got the key from Voss. If the Archivist has what I think he does, this ends soon."
> "Ethan, think about it. Division 7 built the Archivist to trap people like you. If you connect to it, it might rewrite you again. You might not come back."
He stared across the frozen river, lights reflecting off the ice. "Then maybe the next version of me will do better."
> "That's not funny."
"Wasn't meant to be."
He ended the call.
---
As he walked along the river, the faint sound of church bells echoed across the old city. Ethan's pace slowed. For a moment, he let himself breathe — the cold air, the hum of life, the illusion of peace. Then, from across the bridge, a figure stepped out of the fog.
A man in a long coat. Clean-shaven. Familiar stance.
Ethan froze.
The man smiled faintly — the exact same smile Ethan saw in mirrors.
> "Took you long enough," the man said.
Ethan's gun was out before he realized it. "Who the hell are you?"
The stranger raised his hands. "Prototype Two. Guess that makes you my younger brother."
The wind howled between them.
"Division 7 sent me," the clone continued. "You're walking into a trap, Stray. The Archivist isn't going to show you the truth — it's going to bury you in it."
Ethan's heartbeat thundered in his ears. "Then why are you warning me?"
The clone's smile faded. "Because I tried to stop it once. And I woke up as someone else."
He turned, vanishing into the fog before Ethan could move.
Ethan stood there, frozen in the snow, gun still raised. The night felt smaller, the city quieter. For the first time, he didn't know if he was chasing answers — or running from them.
He pocketed the silver coin, looked up at the distant spires of Prague Castle, and whispered to no one,
> "Then let's see what the truth costs."
He disappeared into the storm.