Smoke curled through the ruined warehouse like the ghost of the fight that had just ended.
Elias moved carefully, gun raised, scanning every shadow as his boots splashed through shallow pools of spilled liquid. The air reeked of gunpowder, burnt oil, and disinfectant.
He crouched beside one of the crates he'd seen the men loading earlier and pried it open with the edge of his knife. Inside — nothing.
No drugs.
No medical shipments.
Just air.
A setup.
He opened another crate. The same — empty plastic containers, a few fake labels, and a tiny tracking chip blinking red in the corner.
Elias's jaw tightened. Lamina hadn't just anticipated his arrival — she'd orchestrated it. The entire warehouse had been bait, a stage for him to perform on while she watched from somewhere safe.
He cursed under his breath, stripping the chip from the crate and crushing it beneath his boot. Then he grabbed the dead guard's phone, wiping it clean with a rag before pocketing it.
He spoke quietly into his earpiece.
"Switchblade. Pull out. No cargo, no product. It's a setup."
A crackle of static, then Switchblade's voice.
"You sure?"
"Positive. Get clear. Now."
Without waiting for a reply, Elias moved toward the exit. He paused once at the threshold, scanning the scene one last time — the bodies, the broken lights, the scent of blood that would soon bring the cops like vultures.
He holstered his gun, pulled his collar high, and vanished into the night.
Fifteen minutes later, flashing blue lights cut through the darkness at Moll de Ponent.
Two police cruisers skidded to a stop outside the same warehouse Elias had just left.
Detective Marin Cross stepped out first, adjusting her holster as Officer Romelu García spoke rapidly into his radio. The echo of sirens bounced across the empty docks.
García looked around, frowning. "This is it — the call came from this sector."
Marin's eyes scanned the ground — shell casings, blood, the faint smell of gunfire still hanging in the air. She crouched, touching a small dent in the dirt where a bullet had ricocheted.
"Gunfight," she said quietly. "Not long ago."
García nodded grimly. "Bodies inside."
They stepped through the broken door, flashlights slicing through the dark. The scene was chaos — men sprawled across the floor, crates torn open, everything stripped clean.
No drugs. No evidence. Just a trail that led nowhere.
Marin's light stopped on something — a single footprint in drying blood.
A man's boot. Heavy tread.
She felt her chest tighten.
She'd seen that same print once before — in photos from her father's murder scene years ago.
"He was here," she whispered.
"Who?" García asked.
Marin straightened, her eyes cold, focused. "The Interrogator."
García looked at her sharply. "The one from your file? You think this is him?"
"I don't think," Marin said. "I know."
She turned toward the doorway, scanning the empty night. He was gone — again. Always one step ahead.
But this time, she could feel it — the distance between them was closing.
She touched the side of her neck, her pulse still racing, and murmured under her breath:
"You can't run forever, Elias Vale."
The soft hum of the hotel's air conditioning was the only sound in Marin Cross's room as she sat on the edge of the bed, phone pressed to her ear.
Outside, the lights of Barcelona pulsed like a restless heartbeat.
"Hey, love," her fiancé's voice came through, warm and familiar. "How's Spain treating you?"
Marin smiled faintly, exhaustion written across her face. "Loud, crowded, and hot. Just finished at the station. It's a mess here."
"You sound tired."
"I am. I think I'll just take a shower and—"
She froze.
From the wall behind her — faint at first, then unmistakable — came the rhythm of laughter, quick breaths, and the low thump of movement.
Her cheeks went red instantly.
"Uh… you still there?" her fiancé asked.
"Yeah, I— uh, my neighbours are… loud."
A moment of silence on the line, and then a laugh.
"Whoever they are, they're your mortal enemy now. Torture by hotel wall, huh?"
Marin groaned, burying her face in a pillow. "You have no idea."
"Well, if it makes you feel better, you sound adorable when you're flustered."
She rolled onto her back, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. "You're not helping."
"Wasn't trying to."
They talked a little longer — small things, ordinary things. When she finally hung up, the sounds had quieted. The city felt calmer again.
Marin lay there for a moment, the faint scent of the sea wafting through the open window, trying to forget the day's chaos.
In the room next door, Elias Vale sat on the edge of his own bed, shirt half-buttoned, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers. The laughter and perfume around him faded as the women slipped out one by one, leaving only the quiet.
He stared at the night skyline — thoughtful, detached — before murmuring to himself,
"Even in sin, people just want to feel alive."
He exhaled smoke, slow and steady, as somewhere on the other side of the wall, Marin closed her eyes — unknowingly separated from her target by only a few inches of plaster.
In the pale glow of her penthouse office, Dr. Lamina Antonio stood by a wide glass window overlooking Barcelona's restless streets. The city below pulsed with life — but her eyes were fixed on the small tablet in her hands.
A message had just arrived.
It was from one of her men stationed near the stadium — the same man who'd been tasked with tracking any police interference.
Attached was a photograph.
Lamina tapped it open.
There they were — Elias Vale and Detective Marin Cross, sitting side by side at the Rayo Vallecano vs Almería match. He was leaning close, saying something that made her laugh. They looked, to anyone watching, like a couple enjoying an evening together.
For a long moment, Lamina said nothing. Her eyes narrowed, studying every detail — his casual smile, her relaxed posture, the familiarity between them.
"Interesting," she murmured.
She turned the screen toward the man standing across from her — a tall figure in a tailored grey suit, one of her enforcers.
"Do you know who she is?"
The man nodded. "Barcelona Interpol liaison, Detective Marin Cross. Temporarily assigned to the Vallecano investigation. Arrived the same day he did."
Lamina's lips curled into a faint, dangerous smile.
"What are the odds?"
She turned back to the window, her reflection shimmering against the glass.
"Either she's the unluckiest detective in Spain… or she's something else entirely."
The man hesitated. "You think she's working with him?"
Lamina swirled the wine in her glass, her voice cool and deliberate.
"If she's not, then she's in love with him. No woman smiles like that next to a man she doesn't trust."
She walked toward her desk, set the glass down, and opened a small folder labeled VALE, E. — THE INTERROGATOR. Dozens of photos, reports, and witness accounts filled the pages.
"Her father," Lamina continued softly, "was one of the men Elias killed in Johannesburg. So why… why is she so close to him now?"
Her enforcer shifted uneasily. "Maybe coincidence."
Lamina's eyes flicked up — sharp, amused.
"There's no such thing as coincidence in my world."
She closed the folder with a soft thud.
"I want her brought in. Quietly. If she's his lover, she's leverage. If she's his cover, she's a traitor. Either way—"
She smiled, a slow and measured thing.
"She's my insurance."
The man nodded and left without another word.
Lamina watched him go, then turned her gaze once more toward the city lights.
"Let's see how the Interrogator reacts," she whispered. "Love always ruins the best killers."