The world glows beneath a fragile peace.

Behind the shimmer of city lights, beneath the illusion of calm that blankets nations, men in shadows move the world like pieces on a silent chessboard. The media calls it conflict — headlines, political noise, blurred footage of smoke and ruins.

But within the world of espionage, there are no coincidences.

Only operations — planned, executed, and erased.

Thirty-eight thousand feet above the earth, Dr. Dimitri Patchenkov grips his briefcase like it holds his pulse. The aircraft hums softly through the upper atmosphere, slicing through thin clouds illuminated by the dawn. He sits by the window — second row from the left — watching light bleed into the horizon, every flare of gold making his heart beat faster.

He looks tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep, but from knowing you may not survive the day.

He adjusts his glasses. His reflection in the small oval window looks ghostly pale, like a man halfway between the living and the dead.

His lips move silently — a whisper of prayer, trembling in Russian. “Боже… пожалуйста… пусть они не найдут меня…”

God, please… don’t let them find me.

The flight attendant approaches with a smile — polite, practiced, oblivious to the weight of what she’s walking past.

“Sir, would you like something to drink?”

Dimitri’s voice cracks. “Just soda water. Please.”

She nods, still smiling, and moves down the aisle, unaware of how each step makes Dimitri flinch, as if every sound might trigger something terrible.

A man beside him — early forties, clean-shaven, with a cheerful tourist grin — leans closer, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Quite a grip you’ve got on that bag,” he jokes lightly, tapping his own armrest. “What’s inside? A bomb?”

Dimitri forces a chuckle — too quick, too thin. “No, no. Just… a secret pizza recipe,” he says, his accent thick, his humor a fragile mask.

The stranger laughs, satisfied with his own joke. “Pizza, eh? That’s worth guarding with your life.”

Dimitri nods, trying to join the laughter, even as sweat trickles down the back of his neck.

Outside, lightning flickers somewhere ahead — a distant heartbeat in the clouds.

The captain’s voice comes over the intercom, calm but firm:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are entering a zone of turbulence. Please fasten your seatbelts and remain seated.”

The overhead lights dim. The hum of the engines deepens into a low vibration that rattles the glass.

Dimitri tightens his belt immediately, hands trembling, eyes fixed on the briefcase across his knees. It is old — worn leather, reinforced corners, a faint scar of burn marks near the handle. He’s held it for so long that the edges have molded to his hands.

The stranger beside him grins again, unfazed by the turbulence.

“I’m a fan of pizza myself,” he says, voice raised over the rumble. “Especially the one they call Pizza Hades.”

The words slice through Dimitri like a blade.

His fingers freeze on the metal clasp.

His pulse explodes in his ears.

He turns — slowly — meeting the man’s eyes for the first time. The smile is still there, but now it feels different. Too steady. Too calm.

The man’s gaze no longer looks curious. It looks… knowing.

Dimitri swallows hard. “What did you say?”

The man leans closer, his grin unchanged. “I said… Pizza Hades. Quite a name, isn’t it?”

Then, almost whispering, “Isn’t that what you’re carrying, Doctor?”

The plane jolts violently — the turbulence hitting harder now, shaking the cabin like a heartbeat gone wild. Overhead bins rattle. A baby cries somewhere in the back. The flight attendant stumbles, gripping a seat.

But Dimitri barely notices. His world has narrowed into the cold stare beside him.

He forces a smile — thin, defensive. “You must be mistaken.”

The man chuckles softly. “Mistaken? Maybe.” His eyes shift toward the window, where a flash of lightning lights his face for just a moment — sharp, pale, utterly calm. “But I don’t think so.”

Dimitri’s breathing grows shallow.

Inside the briefcase, beneath a false bottom of papers and decoy files, lies a black glass capsule no bigger than a fist — the culmination of five years of biochemical research.

Project codename: Hades.

An adaptive nanovirus, designed not to kill — but to rewrite human biology itself. It was supposed to be a scientific breakthrough. Until someone decided to weaponize it.

And now it’s all that remains between salvation and catastrophe.

The turbulence worsens. The plane dives slightly, engines roaring in protest.

The stranger’s tone turns almost conversational.

“Tell me, Doctor,” he says quietly, “do you believe in God?”

Dimitri doesn’t answer. His fingers twitch near the briefcase clasp.

The man smiles again. “Good. Because you’re about to meet Him.”

Before Dimitri can react, the stranger’s hand slips beneath his jacket. A glint of metal. The dull click of a silenced weapon, masked by thunder outside.

But then the plane jerks again — violently. A tray clatters to the floor. A drink spills. The weapon vanishes back beneath the jacket, unseen.

The pilot’s voice crackles over the speakers:

“This is your captain speaking— we are descending slightly to avoid the storm cell. Please remain calm.”

The cabin lights flicker once. Twice.

For a moment, everything feels unreal — like a projection on glass.

Then, slowly, the turbulence eases. The passengers exhale, unaware of how close they came to witnessing death in midair.

Dimitri stays frozen. The stranger smiles faintly, eyes now distant, as if the conversation never happened.

Somewhere below, the lights of Europe spread across the dark — rivers of gold cutting through black.

Dimitri grips the briefcase tighter. The sound of the engines fades into a low hum.

He realizes he can no longer tell whether the storm outside is over… or just beginning.

The storm deepens.

The sky tears open with thunder, shaking the aircraft like a beast caught in its own rage. A sudden hiss — and from above, oxygen masks drop in unison, swinging in front of terrified faces like pale fruit hanging from a dying tree.

Panic erupts.

Passengers scream, fumbling for their masks, pulling elastic bands over trembling heads.

The hum of engines becomes a roar, the turbulence throwing trays and cups into the air. Lights flash — white, red, white again.

The entire cabin is chaos.

All except one man.

The stranger beside Dr. Dimitri Patchenkov sits perfectly still. He doesn’t reach for a mask. He doesn’t move. His eyes watch — calm, deliberate — as fear devours the rest of the cabin.

Dimitri gasps, clutching the briefcase tighter against his chest. His breaths come short and fast, his mask fogging with condensation. “What— what’s happening?!” he wheezes.

The man doesn’t answer. He only smiles.

Then he exhales — slow, deliberate — and the world goes silent.

One by one, the passengers slump in their seats.

A flight attendant collapses near the aisle, her tray shattering beside her.

The mother holding her baby tilts forward, unconscious, her hand still gripping the child’s blanket.

Every row becomes a line of fallen bodies — limp, motionless, the hiss of oxygen masks still whispering like ghosts.

Dimitri feels his limbs heavy. The edges of his vision blur.

He blinks hard, fighting it, shaking his head violently.

“No— no, please, not like this—”

A hand grips his chin.

Then a sharp crack! — a slap that snaps him back to focus.

The stranger is standing now. Calm. Controlled.

Behind him, five other men rise from scattered seats — all wearing masks fitted with black filters, unmarked and uniform.

The stranger lowers his voice. “Stay awake, Doctor.”

He pries the briefcase from Dimitri’s shaking hands. “You’ve done your part.”

“Who are you?” Dimitri gasps, his voice barely a whisper.

The man smirks. He removes his glasses and tucks them neatly into his jacket.

Under the flickering cabin light, his left eye gleams — metallic, red, whirring faintly with mechanical precision.

A synthetic eye.

He isn’t just human. He’s something engineered for purpose.

“This storm,” he says, looking toward the window where lightning veins across the clouds, “is our curtain.”

He gestures toward his men. “Time to vanish.”

From the cockpit, a door bursts open.

The pilot steps out — or what’s left of him. His uniform is smeared with blood, his hands shaking, his eyes empty of remorse.

Behind him, the co-pilot lies slumped over the controls, a dark smear trailing down the glass.

“It’s done,” the pilot rasps, wiping his hands with a napkin, calm as if finishing dinner. “Autopilot’s disabled. Navigation’s fried. In five minutes, the plane’s going down. No one will survive.”

He glances at the others. “Move.”

The leader — the man with the metal eye — nods. “Take the lower hatch. Parachutes are preloaded. We leave now.”

He turns to one of his men. “Hold the case.”

The briefcase passes into waiting hands with ritual precision — like a sacred object.

The man handling it doesn’t dare blink.

They move through the aisle, stepping over unconscious passengers. The leader walks slowly, almost respectfully, as if moving through a graveyard that hasn’t yet realized it’s dead.

Outside, lightning strikes again, bathing the cabin in cold white light.

The pilot unlocks the rear emergency door.

The roar of the storm explodes inside — a violent suction that pulls papers, napkins, and loose scarves into the dark. The wind howls, shredding sound itself.

One of the masked men yells, “We can’t hold much longer!”

“Then jump!” the leader commands.

One by one, they leap into the raging air — silhouettes swallowed by the storm.

The briefcase goes second to last, strapped tight to a harness.

Finally, the leader stands at the door, coat whipping violently, half his face illuminated by lightning.

He looks back one last time at the cabin — at Dimitri, half-conscious, slumped in his seat, the soda can rolling across the floor.

He smiles.

“The world will call it an accident.”

And then — he jumps.

The pilot is last.

He pulls a switch near the door — a small black device blinking red.

Then he steps into the storm and vanishes.

Inside the cockpit, a warning alarm screams:

“STALL — PULL UP! STALL — PULL UP!”

But no one’s left to hear it.

The aircraft tilts forward, descending fast. The storm engulfs it whole.

In the chaos, a single photograph — a family on vacation, smiling — flutters loose from a seat pocket and drifts weightlessly through the cabin.

Then comes silence.

From the distance — far below — five parachutes bloom like dark flowers against the thunderclouds. The men watch as the aircraft spirals downward, engines aflame, swallowed by the night.

When it strikes the Alpine ridge, the explosion lights the horizon. A second sun blooms for a moment — bright, merciless, beautiful.

The leader, still in freefall, watches the fireball reflect in his robotic eye. He grins faintly.

“Perfect.”

The parachutes open.

They drift through the cold night like shadows returning to the earth.

No alarms. No witnesses. No survivors.

The Next Morning

News anchors across Europe read from identical scripts, voices trembling with tragedy:

“Breaking news this morning — Harva Air Flight 209 from Moscow to Paris has crashed in the French Alps.

All 176 passengers and crew are confirmed dead.

Officials cite catastrophic navigation failure due to severe weather conditions.

Investigators are on site.”

Photographs flash on television screens: burning wreckage, broken wings half-buried in snow, rescuers in orange suits.

None of them notice the absence of the black box.

None of them know that somewhere, across the clouds of another city, a briefcase labeled Project Hades has already changed hands.

And the world, for now, sleeps — believing it has witnessed just another tragedy of the skies.

Morning settles over Hamburg, gray and distant, like a curtain drawn over grief.

The air smells of rain and coffee; the streets glisten with last night’s drizzle.

Billboards flicker with breaking news — footage of black smoke rising between mountains, white letters scrolling across the screen:

HARVA AIR FLIGHT 209 — 176 DEAD. NO SURVIVORS.

Pedestrians stop in clusters before shop windows, watching the tragedy unfold on silent screens.

In a small café at the corner of Steindamm Street, the television murmurs through static, replaying the same image — burning wreckage against the snow, rescuers trudging through ash.

People talk over the noise, their voices a mix of shock and fascination.

“It was a hijacking, I tell you,” says a man in a wool cap. “No storm does that kind of damage.”

Another, sipping espresso, shakes his head. “It’s the aircraft. Those older Harva models? They’re flying coffins.”

Someone else mutters, “Pilot error. Happens all the time.”

They speak with conviction, each theory more confident than the last — as if certainty could silence fear.

But what they all share, beneath their words, is the same emotion: confusion.

Exactly what someone, somewhere, wanted them to feel.

A well-tailored figure steps into the café.

The small brass bell above the door chimes softly.

He is tall, wearing a dark gray coat and a pair of sleek glasses. A trace of early stubble lines his jaw. His expression is calm — too calm for a morning like this. He doesn’t glance at the TV, nor at the crowd whispering about death and tragedy.

He simply walks to the counter.

“Latte. No sugar.”

His voice is even, soft-spoken, almost devoid of inflection.

The barista nods, already used to his routine. “The usual, Mr. Albrecht?”

He offers a polite nod. “Yes.”

Leon Albrecht waits silently as the machine hisses behind the counter. The smell of roasted beans fills the air, blending with rain and gossip. Around him, the world reacts — trembling, analyzing, pretending to understand.

He stands apart from it all. A ghost among the living.

His drink arrives. “Danke.”

He takes it, gives a faint smile — practiced, mechanical — and leaves without another word.

Outside, the city moves at its normal rhythm. Cars hum along the wet streets, pigeons scatter across the cobblestones, a tram bell rings in the distance. But Leon walks differently — measured, deliberate, as if every step is calculated within invisible coordinates.

He moves past people scrolling through their phones, reading headlines about Flight 209.

No one notices the subtle turn of his wrist as he glances at his watch — not to check the time, but to read the encrypted message glowing faintly on the inside of the screen.

[A.E.G.I.S. / Priority-1 Directive]

Report immediately. “HADES” confirmed compromised.

He exhales through his nose, a quiet, invisible sigh.

His eyes don’t change. His pace doesn’t quicken.

He simply continues walking — as though nothing in the world has shifted.

The building he approaches is unremarkable — Helios Systems GmbH, one of Europe’s most trusted IT infrastructure companies. Its mirrored facade reflects only rain and clouds.

Employees in smart coats hurry inside, greeting each other with tired smiles and polite nods.

To them, Leon is just another engineer — quiet, punctual, efficient.

He holds the door open for a colleague, exchanges a brief “Guten Morgen”, and walks in.

But while others head upstairs — toward conference rooms and cubicles — Leon’s direction is different.

He takes the elevator down.

Past the lobby.

Past the parking level.

Past everything that the public floor plan allows.

The doors slide open to a corridor bathed in cold white light.

At the end stands a steel door with no label — just a biometric panel that hums quietly, waiting.

Leon removes his gloves.

He places his right hand on the scanner.

A soft chime. “Identity confirmed.”

Next, he leans forward, letting the retina sensor trace the pale green of his eyes.

“Specter authorization level required.”

He speaks.

His voice is lower now, carrying authority stripped of emotion:

“Specter. Alpha-nine-seven. Authorization Delta Protocol.”

The lights flicker. A low rumble rolls through the metal walls.

Then — a click. The door slides open.

Cold air greets him — recycled, filtered, sterile.

Beyond the door lies a vast underground expanse of glass and steel: monitors blinking in synchronized rhythm, analysts hunched over holographic displays, a soft buzz of machines and voices speaking in multiple languages.

He steps inside.

Welcome to A.G.I.S.

The Allied Global Intelligence Syndicate.

Rows of agents move with practiced urgency.

A dozen holographic screens float above the main platform, each broadcasting live feeds — news, data streams, satellite trajectories.

At the center, the emblem of A.G.I.S. glows across the wall:

“IN SHADOWS, WE UNIFY.”

Leon walks through the main corridor — agents step aside instinctively, whispering in tones of quiet respect.

Few dare to look him directly in the eye.

“Specter’s back.”

“I thought he was stationed in Madrid.”

“If he’s here, it means something’s wrong.”

He ignores them. His expression doesn’t change.

At the far end of the command hall, a figure waits —

Major Erik Baumann, tall, broad-shouldered, his uniform crisp. His hair has begun to gray, but his eyes remain sharp.

He watches Leon approach, arms folded behind his back.

“So,” Baumann says quietly, voice low enough that only Leon hears.

“You’ve seen the news.”

Leon nods once. “Flight 209.”

Baumann’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t an accident.”

“I know,” Leon replies. His tone is flat, but his eyes flicker — just once, a brief crack in the armor.

Baumann studies him for a moment. “Then you also know what was on board.”

Leon lowers his gaze slightly, the memory of a codename echoing in his mind — Hades.

“Yes,” he says softly. “And I know who took it.”

The hum of machinery continues behind them — a quiet orchestra of controlled chaos.

Somewhere far above, the world still believes in accidents, coincidences, and weather.

Down here, beneath the surface, men like Leon know better.

The real storm has only begun.

The elevator doors slide open with a hiss. Leon steps out, the light from the command hall reflecting against his glasses.

At the center of the underground facility, behind reinforced glass, a round table glows with holographic projections: the shattered remains of Flight 209, lines of code, heat maps, and red tags blinking across the Alps.

Major Erik Baumann stands at the head of the table, hands behind his back. His face is hard, jaw set tight. Around him sit the key operatives of Division Aegis — each a weapon sharpened by loyalty and necessity.

Dr. Elara Voss, head of cyber operations, leans over the console, typing furiously. Her short blonde hair flickers in the blue light. “Satellite confirms total disintegration,” she says. “No distress signal. Black box unrecovered. That’s not weather — that’s precision.”

Across from her, Matteo Ricci, field recon operative, spins a pen between his fingers, his Italian accent slicing through the tension. “So, a commercial jet just drops from the sky and poof — nothing left but snow? I’ve seen coincidences, but not this beautiful.”

Elara glances at him sharply. “It’s not coincidence. It’s orchestration.”

Matteo shrugs, smirking. “Then whoever orchestrated it should compose symphonies.”

Sitting beside him, Sofia Moreau folds her arms, her French tone cold and analytical. “This isn’t art, Ricci. It’s a message. The moment the media calls it an accident, the enemy knows they’ve succeeded.”

The hologram shifts — wreckage replaced by a list of encrypted files. The codename HADES flashes in red.

Leon’s eyes focus on it. “Show me the cargo manifest.”

Elara taps her console. “Dr. Dimitri Patchenkov. Russian biochemist. Passenger 4A. He boarded with diplomatic clearance, carrying a sealed containment briefcase. Our records confirm AGIS had him under observation until twelve hours before takeoff.”

Baumann speaks, voice low but firm. “He never made it to Paris. Neither did Hades.”

A silence fills the room. The hum of the air system becomes the only sound.

Benjamin Roshfurd adjusts his glasses nervously, his thin frame nearly hidden behind holographic light. The youngest in the room, he’s an IT specialist from London — brilliant, awkward, easily overwhelmed by presence like Leon’s.

“Sir,” Benjamin begins, clearing his throat, “our tracking signal on Patchenkov’s encryption key was terminated mid-flight. Someone jammed our satellite feed for exactly seventy-two seconds.”

Leon narrows his gaze. “Enough time for a hijack and handoff.”

“Exactly,” Benjamin replies, pulling up digital telemetry. “And whoever did it used our own encryption — an AGIS-grade cipher. It means one thing—”

“Inside leak,” Elara interrupts flatly. “Someone had access to our ghost servers.”

Matteo whistles low. “That narrows it down to… what, seventy people?”

Sofia shakes her head. “No. Fewer. Only Division Aegis had authorization for Hades logistics.” Her tone sharpens as her eyes dart to Baumann. “That includes us.”

Baumann doesn’t flinch. “We’re not chasing ghosts in our own house.”

He turns to Leon. “Specter. You were closest to the project before it went dark. What’s your assessment?”

Leon’s expression doesn’t change. He studies the hologram — the debris, the briefcase outline, the red-marked names. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm but heavy.

“They wanted the payload, not the scientist. Patchenkov was expendable. This wasn’t theft — it was extraction.”

“Extraction by who?” Matteo asks.

Leon looks up, his gray-green eyes steady. “Black Veil.”

The name hits the room like a cold wind. Even Elara pauses her typing.

Baumann’s tone hardens. “You’re certain?”

Leon nods. “Too precise. Too clean. They don’t destroy targets — they erase them. Flight 209 is a smokescreen.”

Sofia exhales sharply. “If Black Veil has Hades, it’s not just biochemical anymore. They’ll weaponize it through code — merge it with adaptive AI. That’s global-scale warfare.”

Benjamin’s fingers tremble slightly as he scrolls the data feed. “Sir, I—I traced a data ping from the Alps crash site two hours ago. A single encrypted signal routed through Madrid.”

All eyes turn to him.

Baumann steps closer. “Madrid?”

Benjamin nods quickly. “Yes, sir. But the signal was brief — less than three seconds — and then it vanished behind multiple ghost relays.”

Matteo leans back, exhaling. “So the trail leads to Spain. The same place we sent Specter last quarter.”

Baumann’s eyes shift to Leon. “Then he goes back.”

Leon doesn’t react. He just straightens his coat, tone controlled. “When do I leave?”

“Tonight,” Baumann answers. “You’ll reestablish your civilian identity in Madrid. Same cover: IT consultant at Helios Systems Iberia. Sofia, you’ll handle European coordination. Matteo, extraction protocols. Elara, full cyber support. Benjamin—”

Baumann pauses, looking at the young analyst. “You’re his data relay. You monitor every signal, every movement. If Specter goes dark, you bring him back.”

Benjamin swallows. “Yes, sir.”

Elara’s fingers stop tapping. “If this mission is live, you should know something.”

She brings up another file — satellite photos, blurred but distinct. Six figures parachuting over the Alps.

“This was taken thirty minutes after the crash. Thermal readings show all six survived. No retrieval signatures. They vanished mid-air.”

Leon studies the image. One of the figures — larger, centered — wears a half-mask with a red optical lens.

The left eye glows faintly even through the storm distortion.

Leon’s voice lowers. “I know him.”

“Who?” Baumann asks.

Leon’s eyes darken. “They call him Hollow. Ex-Section 9 assassin. Cybernetic augmentation. Last confirmed sighting — Prague, three years ago. He was presumed dead.”

Matteo mutters under his breath, “Seems like everyone dead keeps coming back.”

Baumann’s tone turns final. “Then so will we.”

He faces the table, issuing orders with steel precision.

“Operation Mirage is active. Objective: recover Hades. Eliminate Hollow. No public trace. No survivors left behind.”

Leon nods once. “Understood.”

Baumann meets his eyes. “Specter, this time — don’t vanish.”

Leon allows the faintest hint of a smile. “No promises, sir.”

The meeting dissolves. Holograms fade, chairs slide back, footsteps echo across the metal floor. Leon remains a moment longer, staring at the frozen image of six dark figures falling through lightning. The storm from the Alps still flickers behind his eyes.

He finishes his coffee — now cold — and turns away.

The ghost returns to the field.

The meeting room empties.

Footsteps echo across the steel floor as the agents of Division Aegis scatter to their respective terminals.

The holograms fade, leaving only the quiet hum of servers.

Leon remains still, watching the digital remnants of the briefing dissolve into thin light. Then, slowly, he turns and approaches Major Erik Baumann, who stands by the operations board reviewing encrypted directives.

“Sir,” Leon says, his tone as steady as glass. “One request.”

Baumann looks up. “Go on.”

“I want Roshfurd to come with me.”

A beat of silence.

From the far side of the room, Benjamin Roshfurd — still packing his tablet and data drive — freezes mid-motion.

His pale face drains of color.

“M–me?” he stammers, voice cracking slightly.

Matteo Ricci, already heading toward the elevator, laughs under his breath. “You heard the man, cupo. Congratulations. You’re now field material.”

Roshfurd spins to him, panic flickering in his eyes. “Wait, that’s not—I’m not trained for—”

Baumann exhales, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Specter, are you certain? He’s a desk analyst. He’s barely seen sunlight.”

Leon doesn’t flinch. “I need someone who can process and decrypt field data instantly. Roshfurd’s the fastest.”

The young man swallows hard. Baumann studies Leon for a moment, then gives a resigned nod. “Fine. He needs field exposure anyway. Roshfurd—pack your gear. You leave with Specter in two hours.”

Roshfurd opens his mouth to protest, but the major’s gaze ends the argument. “Understood, sir,” he mutters weakly.

Ricci grins, slapping him on the shoulder as he walks past. “Try not to die, rookie.”

Sofia Moreau smirks faintly, adjusting her coat. “Or at least make sure your glasses survive.”

Baumann’s tone cuts through their laughter. “Enough. Go prepare. Both of you.”

Leon gives a curt nod and turns toward the far corridor. Roshfurd, still frozen in disbelief, adjusts his tie nervously before hurrying after him.

They move through the corridors of AEGIS — long tunnels lined with glass panels, glowing with faint blue data streams. The hum of the facility follows them like an echo.

Roshfurd finally speaks. “Sir— I mean, Specter— why me? I’m an analyst, not a field operative. My clearance doesn’t even cover firearm protocols.”

Leon’s reply is calm. “Then don’t carry one. Just bring your data.”

They stop at the entrance to the Cyber Operations Division, a massive hall filled with suspended screens and data columns climbing toward the ceiling. The smell of cold metal and electricity hangs in the air.

Roshfurd’s desk stands out immediately — a chaotic sprawl of open files, half-eaten protein bars, and tangled cables.

Leon surveys the mess without expression.

“This is your workstation?”

Roshfurd scratches his head, embarrassed. “Uh… technically, yes. I work faster this way.”

“Show me the passenger manifest,” Leon says. “Everyone aboard Flight 209 — I don’t care if it’s a dog or a flight attendant. I want names, faces, histories, all of it.”

Roshfurd blinks. “All— all of them?”

Leon’s gaze sharpens. “Every soul on that plane.”

Roshfurd gulps, then types rapidly across three keyboards. His fingers blur; code streams cascade across the monitors. Within seconds, holographic profiles bloom above the desk — 176 identities, rotating slowly in pale light.

“Done,” Roshfurd says breathlessly, trying to sound proud. “All passengers and crew accounted for. Full data cross-referenced with Europol, Interpol, and civil registries. Clean records, no anomalies.”

Leon studies the glowing grid silently, eyes narrowing behind his glasses.

He scans face after face — tourists, business travelers, families, crew — all ordinary, all harmless.

Too harmless.

“Too clean,” he mutters.

Roshfurd frowns. “Sir?”

Leon steps closer, his voice low. “In intelligence, ‘clean’ doesn’t exist. Perfect data is a lie — and whoever wrote this wanted us to believe it.”

He gestures toward the display. “Run correlation scans. Facial metrics. Background inconsistencies. Anything that doesn’t match civil behavior patterns.”

Roshfurd nods quickly, typing again. Data shifts, red highlights appear. “Scanning… running behavioral matches from the last three years.”

The system hums. One face flashes yellow, marked with a digital anomaly.

Leon’s eyes stop.

A male passenger — dark hair, average build, neutral smile — seat 11C. No criminal record, no occupation listed beyond consultant.

Roshfurd leans forward. “He looks ordinary enough. Do you know him?”

Leon’s expression hardens, the faintest tremor in his jaw. “Yes. Or rather, I knew the man who wore that face.”

Roshfurd stares. “What do you mean, ‘wore that face’?”

Leon doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingers on the holographic profile, the memory of a night long buried flashing behind his eyes.

“2018,” he says quietly. “During the Red Pulse Incident.”

Roshfurd blinks. “The Red Pulse—? The cyberattack that almost triggered World War III?”

Leon nods once. “He was there. A contractor hired under the alias Anton Valev. He worked with Section Nine — an off-grid mercenary unit specializing in biological smuggling. We intercepted him near Prague. He didn’t survive.”

Roshfurd’s eyes widen. “Then— how—?”

Leon finishes for him. “Either he didn’t die… or someone else is wearing his skin.”

The room goes silent except for the hum of data streams.

Roshfurd’s fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure what to do next.

Leon straightens. “Cross-check every medical, immigration, and surveillance record linked to passenger 11C. I want travel routes, facial reconstructions, DNA patterns, anything within the last two years.”

Roshfurd nods, already typing. “Running it now.”

Within seconds, the system displays fragmented data — travel logs from Switzerland, a hospital registry in Brussels, and one encrypted file labeled ‘D. Kesselring’.

Leon studies it, eyes narrowing.

“That’s not his name,” he mutters.

Roshfurd hesitates. “Do you think he’s part of Black Veil?”

Leon turns away, expression unreadable. “If he’s who I think he is, he’s not just part of it. He’s one of the architects.”

He starts walking toward the exit.

“Finish your search. We leave in two hours.”

Roshfurd stands frozen, watching him go — the faint reflection of Specter’s silhouette vanishing into the cold corridor light.

For a long moment, he stares at the screens, the endless rotation of 176 faces, and feels the weight of something he doesn’t yet understand.

He exhales shakily. “Two hours,” he whispers to himself. “What have I just gotten into?”

Two hours later, Hamburg International Airport hums beneath the pale afternoon light.

Announcements echo across marble floors, mingling with the metallic whir of luggage carts and the rhythmic footsteps of travelers.

Among the sea of ordinary faces, Leon Albrecht and Benjamin Roshfurd sit quietly by Gate C17, waiting for their flight to Madrid.

Benjamin looks nothing like an operative.

He wears a bright blue windbreaker, mirrored sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed hat — a combination that screams look at me in ten different languages. He fiddles nervously with his boarding pass, checking it every few seconds, as if it might vanish.

Leon watches him from behind his coffee cup.

His voice is calm, controlled. “Remove the hat,” he says without looking.

Benjamin blinks. “Sorry?”

“The hat,” Leon repeats, tone quiet but firm. “And the glasses. You look like a cartoon spy. Subtlety, Roshfurd.”

Benjamin fumbles with his hands, pulling them off immediately. “R-right. Sorry. I just thought it’d make me… fit in?”

Leon glances at him, expression unreadable. “You fit in by not being noticed.”

The younger man nods, cheeks red. He hides behind a sandwich, chewing nervously as he stares out toward the runway.

“So… uh,” he begins awkwardly, “should I call you Specter out there, or—”

“Leon,” comes the answer. “Leon Albrecht. That’s who I am for everyone outside A.G.I.S.”

Benjamin hesitates. “Right… Leon. Got it.”

A silence stretches between them — the kind filled with unspoken fear. Planes taxi across the distant tarmac, their engines roaring like muted thunder.

Benjamin clears his throat. “I’ll be honest, this is my first time in the field.”

“I know.”

“I’m not exactly sure what I’m supposed to do once we’re there.”

Leon doesn’t look up. “Breathe. Observe. Don’t attract attention. That’s all you need to do to stay alive.”

Benjamin swallows hard. “Stay alive. Right. Easy enough.”

Leon finally glances at him, his eyes cool, precise. “The essence of what we are, Benjamin, is simple. We are born, we live, and we die in shadows. No one out there will ever know our names, our faces, or what we’ve done. That’s the cost of our existence.”

Benjamin nods slowly, trying to hide his unease. “That’s… poetic, in a depressing kind of way.”

Leon shrugs. “It’s honest.”

The young analyst exhales, staring at his half-eaten sandwich. “My father always said I should work somewhere important. He’s a diplomat. Believes discipline builds character. So when A.G.I.S. approached me, he thought it was… perfect. Safe. He thought being an analyst would keep me behind a desk forever.”

Leon tilts his head slightly. “He’s not wrong. Most people in your position never see the field.”

Benjamin laughs weakly. “Then I guess I’m the exception.”

“You are,” Leon replies evenly. “And if you want to stay the exception, follow every protocol I give you. Coordination and discipline — that’s how we survive.”

Benjamin nods quickly. “Understood.”

Their boarding announcement crackles through the speakers:

“Flight 972 to Madrid now boarding. Passengers in Zone A, please proceed to the gate.”

Benjamin grabs his bag, excitement and anxiety warring in his eyes. “That’s us.”

Leon stands, adjusting his coat. His movements are quiet, deliberate. “Stay close,” he says simply.

They step into the slow-moving line at the gate.

Around them, chatter rises and falls — children arguing, businessmen on phones, a mother calming her baby. All ordinary. All harmless.

And then — something shifts.

Leon’s eyes flick toward a man two places ahead.

Tall, mid-forties, wearing a beige overcoat, face partially obscured by a newspaper.

Ordinary. Too ordinary.

The man’s right hand trembles slightly — not from nerves, but from the weight of the small, metallic object hidden beneath the paper.

Leon’s posture doesn’t change. He speaks softly, almost conversationally. “Benjamin.”

The younger man turns. “Yeah?”

“Look left.”

Benjamin glances toward the windows. “What am I—”

He doesn’t finish.

Leon moves.

In a blur, the pen in Leon’s hand slips free. His arm flicks once — smooth, surgical — and the pen disappears into the side of the man’s neck. A faint gasp, then silence. The body stiffens, collapsing against the rail without a sound.

The movement is so quick it looks like nothing at all — a stumble, a faint accident. The nearby passengers don’t even turn.

Benjamin freezes, eyes wide. “Wha— what did you just—”

Leon presses the button on the pen, retracting the thin, needle-like blade. He drops it casually into his pocket, his expression unchanged.

“Keep walking,” he murmurs.

Benjamin obeys, still pale. “He— he’s dead, isn’t he?”

Leon’s tone remains calm. “He would have been a problem in Madrid.”

“How— how did you know?”

“I didn’t.” Leon looks at him briefly. “But he did.”

They pass through the jet bridge, the hum of the engines growing louder, blending with Benjamin’s unsteady breathing.

As they step into the aircraft cabin, the steward greets them with a polite smile. Leon returns it with mechanical precision, showing his ticket like any other passenger.

Benjamin stumbles slightly, still shaken, mumbling his seat number.

They take their seats — row 14. Leon at the aisle, Benjamin by the window.

Benjamin exhales, rubbing his temples. “You just killed someone at an international airport and no one even noticed.”

Leon looks out toward the runway, voice low. “That’s the point.”

The cabin lights dim as the engines begin to spool. Outside, the sky fades to silver-gray.

Benjamin fastens his seatbelt, whispering under his breath. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Leon leans back, eyes half-closed. “Then don’t look down.”

The plane begins to taxi, rolling toward the runway.

In the glass reflection, Benjamin catches a glimpse of Leon’s face — calm, unreadable, almost inhuman.

As the engines roar and the aircraft lifts into the air, Benjamin feels a strange shiver crawl up his spine. Somewhere between fear and awe.

Leon speaks without opening his eyes.

“Welcome to the field, Roshfurd.”

Benjamin forces a shaky laugh. “This is insane.”

Leon’s tone is quiet, final.

“It’s Tuesday.”

The engines thunder. The city of Hamburg falls away beneath them — shrinking, vanishing, swallowed by the clouds.

Their mission has begun.

London, England — Headquarters of A.G.I.S.

The corridors of the A.G.I.S. London Command Division stretch long and cold, lined with steel and glass that reflect the morning light of Westminster. The sound of polished shoes strikes rhythmically against the marble floor — precise, authoritative, deliberate.

At the center of that rhythm walks Sir Alaic Welles, the Director of Global Oversight. Broad-shouldered, silver-haired, with the posture of a man who once commanded shadows. Before joining A.G.I.S., he ran MI6 for seven years — a legacy that still haunts those who worked under him. He carries himself like a soldier carved from stone, his every step followed by aides, analysts, and a secretary clutching a digital tablet.

Even in silence, Welles dominates the space.

People straighten as he passes. Some salute. Most look away. Respect and resentment trail him like ghosts — especially from men like Erik Baumann, who never forgave him for turning the intelligence world into a bureaucracy of fear.

“Status report,” Welles says, his voice low, roughened by age and tobacco.

His secretary steps closer. “Director McConroy is waiting for you in the command briefing room, sir.”

He doesn’t slow his pace. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.”

The reinforced doors slide open with a hydraulic hiss. Inside, the Global Command Center glows with blue holographic light — walls covered in data maps, encrypted waveforms, and thermal grids spanning continents. At the center stands Peter McConroy, head of field operations — ex-SAS Special Force, built like a man who’s been shot more than once and learned nothing from it.

“Morning, Peter,” Welles says, removing his gloves. “Tell me what the hell Baumann’s done this time.”

Peter exhales through his nose, tapping a display on the holo-table. “Baumann deployed Specter.”

Welles stops mid-step. His eyes sharpen. “Without my authorization?”

“Yes, sir.” Peter hesitates. “He’s gone dark — deployed under AEGIS division clearance. Mission: Operation Mirage.”

Welles’s jaw tightens. “Christ. That German bastard never could follow a chain of command.”

He leans forward, eyes narrowing on the digital projection of Leon Albrecht’s profile. “Specter is an asset, not a free agent. What gave him the right to move on HADES without oversight?”

Peter keeps his tone neutral. “He believes time is critical. The longer we wait, the more likely Black Veil will vanish with the payload.”

Welles cuts him off. “Belief doesn’t win wars, Peter. Intel does.”

Peter clears his throat, switching the display to two encrypted audio feeds. “We might have some of that, sir. Last night, our Egyptian relay intercepted a classified comm burst — parallel frequency hit in Mexico City. The audio’s fragmented, but it’s the first solid movement since the crash.”

“Play it.”

A distorted recording fills the room — static, broken speech, faint echoes of two male voices.

“—the serpent… its head’s been cut…”

“…and the venom has been taken…”

“—no trace left behind…”

The feed cuts out.

Welles stares at the projection, his frown deepening. “So now we’re chasing poetry.”

Peter smirks faintly. “If our analysts are right, the ‘serpent’ refers to Patchenkov, and the ‘venom’—HADES.”

Welles folds his arms. “And the location?”

“Difficult to say,” Peter admits. “The signal bounced across multiple ghost nodes. Could’ve originated in Cairo. Could’ve been rerouted through Mexico. Might even be somewhere else entirely. They knew we were listening.”

“That’s not an answer, Peter.” Welles’s tone sharpens. “We’ve poured millions into surveillance grids, and the best you can give me is ‘somewhere.’”

Peter stiffens but keeps his composure. “With respect, sir, whoever’s behind this knows our playbook. They’re not reacting to us — they’re anticipating us. Someone inside the system is feeding them information.”

Welles glares at him. “An inside leak?”

“Possibly. But there’s more,” Peter continues, zooming the display to highlight another file. “Baumann didn’t just send Specter. He paired him with a junior analyst — Benjamin Roshfurd.”

“Roshfurd…” Welles repeats, the name rolling out like a curse. “The diplomat’s son?”

“Yes, sir. Albert Roshfurd’s boy. Graduated Oxford top of his class in computational cryptography. Never set foot outside an office until yesterday.”

Welles scoffs. “So Baumann sent a field ghost and a glorified schoolboy to chase the most dangerous prototype in Europe. Brilliant.”

Peter hesitates. “Specter requested him personally.”

“Then Specter’s losing his edge.” Welles’s tone turns cold. “Roshfurd’s father has been pestering my office for months about keeping his son safe. Now the boy’s out playing spy with one of our most volatile operatives.”

He rubs his temples, exhaling slowly. “Tell me, Peter, what the hell is happening to this agency?”

Peter glances at the audio feed again. “Whatever it is, sir, it’s bigger than we thought. If the serpent is Patchenkov, and the venom is HADES, then someone already has it. The question is—who?”

Welles looks at the glowing world map — red dots pulsing over Cairo and Mexico.

His voice lowers. “Whoever it is, they’re not hiding. They’re daring us to come find them.”

Peter frowns. “Or leading us in circles.”

“That’s what worries me most,” Welles says. “They’re smarter than us.”

He turns sharply toward the door, his aides falling in step behind him. “I want full trace analysis. I don’t care if you have to burn through every satellite we own. Get me real coordinates, real voices, and a damn lead.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Peter,” Welles adds, pausing at the threshold. “If you ever bring me another half-answer like this again, I’ll have you reassigned to climate monitoring in Antarctica. Clear?”

Peter straightens, jaw tight. “Crystal clear, sir.”

The door slides shut behind Welles, leaving only the hum of machines.

Peter exhales slowly, hands gripping the edge of the console. The faint reflection of the world map flickers in his tired eyes.

He whispers to himself, “They’re not running from us… they’re toying with us.”

The screen pulses once — red to black.

Far beneath the surface of London, the hunt for HADES has already begun.

Madrid, Spain — One Week Later

Madrid breathes in color and chaos.

The air is thick with smoke, perfume, and the laughter of a thousand voices rising through the narrow streets. Ribbons of red and gold sway between the balconies as the annual San Arcadio Festival spills through the heart of the city. From above, the crowd looks like a moving ocean of joy — unaware that somewhere in that sea of faces, death is already watching.

High above the noise, Leon Albrecht crouches on the edge of a rooftop. The night wind brushes against his coat, carrying the scent of roasted almonds and fireworks. His gloved hands rest against the cold tiles as he watches the city with unblinking focus.

He moves with the stillness of a predator — a shadow between lights.

The voice in his ear breaks the silence.

“Specter, this is Control. I have you on visual. Target building should be one hundred meters north. Two heat signatures on the upper floor.”

Benjamin Roshfurd’s voice trembles slightly, young and careful, but competent. Leon listens without emotion.

“Understood,” he says.

He begins to move. His tactical suit flexes with every motion — silent, seamless. He leaps from one rooftop to another, his boots touching the ground without a single sound. The roar of drums and cheering below masks the rhythm of his movement.

The world down there dances. Up here, it hunts.

From his position, Leon can see the top of a beige building just across the street. A faint glow spills from the balcony. Two men stand there, talking — their faces partially hidden by smoke and distance.

Leon lowers his visor, zooming in. One of them he recognizes immediately.

Morgan Forstman.

Ex–CIA, vanished after the Kabul incident. A man with too much information and no allegiance to anyone but himself.

The other, he doesn’t need to confirm. The tailored white suit, the rings, the air of casual violence — Miguel Carnacho, leader of the Cártel de los Espectros.

“Target sighted,” Leon murmurs. “Forstman and Carnacho. Confirmed.”

Benjamin exhales into the mic. “Copy that. I’m opening the listening channel. You should hear them now.”

A faint crackle fills Leon’s ear, followed by distorted voices.

“The first test shipment will pass through Tangier,” Forstman says, his tone cool and professional.

“And the material?” Carnacho asks.

“Still being refined. They call it Hades.”

Leon’s breath slows. The name strikes him like a whisper from another lifetime.

“It’s not a toxin,” Forstman continues. “It’s precision. One drop of it doesn’t kill a man — it erases everything connected to him. No trace, no DNA, no ashes. It’s perfect.”

“And the Red Dove?” Carnacho presses.

Forstman smirks. “He’ll handle the test. Once it works, even nations will beg to buy it.”

The voices fade into static.

Leon stays still, his heartbeat steady.

“Benjamin,” he says quietly, “did you catch that name?”

“Red Dove?”

“Yes.”

“Never heard of it. Must be new.”

Leon’s gaze remains fixed on the two figures. “No. It’s old. Too old.”

He’s heard it once before — a codename buried in a mission file from years ago, during the chaos of the Red Pulse Incident. The kind of operative that leaves no trace, because there’s nothing left to find.

The festival erupts in cheers as fireworks explode above the city, lighting the rooftops in red and gold. Leon’s eyes narrow against the glare. For a brief moment, he feels the irony of it all — how the world can celebrate life so loudly, while its end is quietly negotiated one rooftop away.

Benjamin’s voice interrupts the thought.

“Do you want me to tag Forstman’s signal?”

“Not yet,” Leon says. “If we move now, we spook them. We wait.”

He adjusts his scope again, eyes sharp. The crowd below ripples with movement — a child chasing confetti, a group of tourists waving flags. None of them see him. None of them will ever know he’s here.

He was trained to live like that — to exist in the blind spot of the world.

The earpiece crackles again. “Leon, I’m picking up interference on your channel. You hearing that?”

A faint hum vibrates above him. Leon’s head tilts upward. Against the dark clouds, something hovers — small, silent, unmarked. A drone. Military design. Not A.G.I.S. property.

“Benjamin,” Leon says, voice low. “You have eyes on that drone?”

“Negative. That’s not ours.”

Then, a red light flickers beneath the drone’s body.

Leon doesn’t hesitate. “Benjamin—”

The explosion tears the rooftop apart. The sound crashes like thunder, scattering glass and stone into the air. For a split second, Leon is weightless — then the impact throws him backward, debris slicing through his coat.

Screams rise from below. Fireworks die midair, smoke swallowing the night sky.

Leon rolls, his shoulder hitting the cracked ledge, his ears ringing. His visor is shattered, one lens sparking. He rips it off and breathes through the smoke, scanning for movement.

Through the haze, he sees them — Morgan and Carnacho — already running toward the stairwell, their guards pulling them out of sight.

Benjamin’s voice returns, sharp with panic. “Leon! Talk to me, are you alive?”

Leon steadies his breath. “Alive. They tried to flush me out.”

He pushes himself up, pulling a pistol from his holster.

“Where are they headed?”

“Ground level exit. South side. But— Leon, the crowd’s in chaos. You can’t engage without exposure.”

Leon’s gaze falls on the festival below — the same crowd that was laughing minutes ago, now screaming and running.

“I’ll manage.”

He reloads the weapon, the click echoing through the smoke.

“Benjamin,” he says, his tone calm again, almost detached. “Track Forstman. Keep me updated.”

“What about Carnacho?”

“I’ll find him.”

And then, without hesitation, he steps off the broken ledge — into the chaos below.

Madrid is no longer a city of celebration.

The music has died, and the festival’s laughter turns into screams.

Shards of concrete and glass rain down from the rooftops as people scatter across the streets, their joy dissolving into chaos.

Above them, a figure runs.

Leon Albrecht moves across the burning skyline like a phantom pursued by fire. He leaps from one roof to another, smoke clinging to his coat. The whine of drones echoes above him — metallic vultures, circling, hunting. Their rotors slice through the night air with mechanical fury, their red lights blinking like angry eyes.

“Benjamin!” Leon shouts into his comm, landing on a narrow ledge. “Get into their network. Now!”

Benjamin’s voice crackles through the earpiece, breathless.

“I’m trying! These firewalls are—damn it—they’re military-grade! Who the hell built these things?”

A burst of gunfire answers him. Leon ducks as bullets chew into the rooftop behind him. A trail of sparks scatters across the tiles. One drone dives low, its cannon glowing. Leon rolls to the side, grabs the edge of a metal pipe, and vaults over the roof’s lip just as a barrage of rounds rip the air where he stood.

Below him, the streets are a storm of confusion. People run in every direction, trampling confetti and debris. Somewhere among them, Miguel Carnacho vanishes into a black SUV convoy, while Morgan Forstman pushes through the crowd toward a helipad two blocks away.

Leon climbs back to the rooftop, gun in hand.

“Benjamin, focus on the drones! I’ll handle Forstman.”

“I’m doing what I can!” Benjamin’s fingers fly over his keyboard miles away. Streams of code flood his monitors, each layer of encryption tightening like armor. “They’re rerouting every five seconds! I need more time—”

“You don’t have it.”

Another drone swoops in low. Leon fires, three precise shots. Two hit the fuselage; the third strikes its sensor array. The drone spirals, collides with a billboard, and explodes in a burst of sparks that rain onto the street below.

“Scratch one,” Leon mutters.

The second drone opens fire.

Bullets tear through the air, ripping into the stone wall beside him. Leon ducks behind a vent, reloads, and fires back — one shot after another, counting the rhythm of the bursts, waiting for the reload pause. When it comes, he rises, aims, and shoots through the gun mount. The drone shudders but keeps firing.

“Benjamin!” Leon barks. “Now would be a good time!”

“I’m in!” Benjamin yells triumphantly. “Found a backdoor through the telemetry signal—sending kill code—now!”

The drone freezes midair. Its rotors sputter, lights flicker, and then—silence.

It drops like a dead insect, crashing into the street below.

The noise in Leon’s ear softens.

Benjamin exhales hard. “All drones neutralized. Jesus Christ… you okay?”

Leon doesn’t answer right away. His chest rises and falls, breath steadying. He looks toward the horizon — the sound of rotor blades cutting through the night.

“Forstman,” he says finally. “He’s escaping.”

Benjamin zooms in on his satellite feed. “I see him! He’s boarding a helicopter. Carnacho’s already gone — he’s airborne. But Forstman’s still close.”

Leon doesn’t wait.

He runs.

The helipad is three buildings away, but Specter moves like gravity doesn’t apply to him. He jumps the gap between roofs, rolls, and pushes forward, ignoring the pain in his shoulder from the earlier blast. The wind howls against his ears, the smell of jet fuel thickening as he closes in.

Below, Forstman’s helicopter begins to lift. Leon sprints for the edge and leaps — twenty meters through the smoky air. His hand catches the landing skid with a sharp metallic clang. The force nearly tears his arm from its socket, but he holds on.

“Leon!” Benjamin’s voice is frantic. “You didn’t— oh, you did. You actually— damn it, hold on!”

The helicopter tilts, jerking violently. Inside, Forstman snarls, “Get him off!” The pilot banks hard, trying to shake the shadow clinging to the side.

Leon pulls himself upward, boots scraping the metal frame. The wind screams in his ears. Forstman reaches for his pistol, firing through the open door — wild, panicked shots. Bullets tear through the frame. One grazes Leon’s arm; the other punches through the window.

Leon grabs the barrel mid-swing, twists, and slams Forstman’s wrist against the doorframe. The gun goes off again — this time through the pilot’s shoulder.

The helicopter jerks.

The city spins below them.

“Mayday! Mayday!” the pilot gasps, clutching his wound. “We’re losing control—!”

Leon forces his way inside the cabin, fighting the pull of the wind. Forstman throws a punch; Leon blocks it and drives an elbow into his ribs. Forstman grabs a knife from his boot and swings wildly. The blade cuts across Leon’s coat, narrowly missing flesh.

They crash against the console, dials shattering. The helicopter lurches violently. Streetlights and rooftops spin outside the cracked windshield.

“Leon!” Benjamin’s voice cuts through the chaos. “What’s happening?”

Leon grits his teeth. “Forstman shot the pilot. We’re going down.”

Forstman roars, trying to drive the knife again. Leon catches his arm, forcing it sideways until bone cracks. The knife falls. Forstman’s scream drowns beneath the rising alarm of the dying engine.

Leon grabs the control stick, trying to level the aircraft. The city rushes up toward them — the lights of Madrid blurring into a swirl of gold and shadow.

“Benjamin—cut the street grid! Now!” Leon shouts. “Kill the lights below us!”

Benjamin’s hands fly across the keyboard. “Doing it—three seconds!”

The city lights beneath them blink out — a swath of darkness opening in the middle of Madrid.

It isn’t enough.

The helicopter’s tail clips a tower, shearing metal. Leon braces himself, pulling Forstman down, covering his head as the cabin erupts into a storm of fire and glass. The last thing he hears is Benjamin’s voice, breaking through the static:

“Leon—!”

Then the world slams into him.

The helicopter hits the street.

The explosion devours the night.

Smoke swallows the night.

Flames climb the shattered wreckage of the helicopter, painting the street in trembling orange light.

Screams echo through the narrow roads as sirens wail in the distance. Madrid — once a city of music and color — has become a crater of panic.

Benjamin Roshfurd leans forward over his keyboard, his face pale in the glow of dozens of monitors. Street-camera feeds flicker one after another — smoke, chaos, people running. Then, amid the blur, he sees it: a heap of twisted metal in the middle of the avenue.

“Leon!” he shouts into his headset. “Leon, do you copy? Come on, answer me!”

Static.

No response.

Benjamin’s throat tightens. His hands tremble as he switches camera angles. The fire reflects off glass and blood. Then — a movement.

A hand pushes through the debris.

A man drags himself out, coughing, covered in dust and smoke. Morgan Forstman.

“Holy hell…” Benjamin whispers. “He’s alive.”

But on another feed, from a camera across the intersection, another figure moves. Leon Albrecht — bruised, blood on his temple, his tactical suit torn — climbs out from the other side of the wreck. He’s limping, but still standing.

“Leon!” Benjamin’s voice cracks with relief. “Thank God. I thought—”

“Track Forstman,” Leon interrupts, coughing. “He’s getting away.”

Through the haze, Forstman stumbles into the street, dragging his leg. He limps between overturned cars, his pistol clutched in one hand. Leon follows, every step heavy, his breath ragged but controlled.

Forstman glances back, eyes wide with rage and desperation. He raises his gun, pointing straight at Leon. Leon freezes and raises his own weapon in return.

For a moment, time slows.

Two silhouettes locked in aim beneath the glow of burning wreckage.

Forstman’s voice shakes but carries a strange calmness. “You don’t understand, Specter. This… this is already halfway done. You can’t stop what’s coming.”

Leon’s eyes narrow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The prophecy of the Red Dove,” Forstman says, almost smiling through the blood at the corner of his mouth. “It’s already begun.”

Before Leon can respond — a sharp crack splits the air.

Forstman’s head jerks back, a red mist blooming behind him. His body collapses to the ground.

Leon freezes.

The echo of the sniper shot fades into silence.

His eyes shoot upward — to the rooftops.

There, against the smoke, a figure stands — tall, clad in black tactical gear, face hidden behind a full mask. The sniper lowers his rifle and looks straight at Leon. For an instant, neither moves. Then the masked figure turns, stepping back into the shadows.

And just like that — he’s gone.

Leon keeps his weapon raised for several seconds, scanning the rooflines, but the ghost has vanished.

He exhales slowly, lowering his pistol, the sirens drawing nearer.

“Benjamin,” he mutters through the comm, “Forstman’s dead.”

“What?”

“Sniper. Unknown. Professional.”

Benjamin curses under his breath. “Goddamn it… He was our only lead on Hades.”

Leon kneels beside Forstman’s body, checking his pulse — nothing. The expression frozen on the man’s face is half smirk, half terror.

“Someone wanted him silenced,” Leon says quietly. “He was a vault full of secrets — and somebody just burned it down before we could open it.”

Benjamin’s voice softens. “Then what now?”

Leon looks up, the flames reflecting in his eyes. “Now we chase ghosts.”

He walks toward the edge of the street where emergency vehicles begin to arrive. Civilians are screaming, police shouting orders, cameras flashing. The city is chaos incarnate. Leon pulls his hood up and melts into the crowd — just another shadow among many.

A.G.I.S. Field Command — Hamburg, Germany.

Erik Baumann sits alone in his office, head in his hands. A dozen reports flash across his tablet — “EXPLOSION IN MADRID,” “UNIDENTIFIED COMBATANTS,” “HELICOPTER CRASH IN PUBLIC AREA.”

Every headline screams the same thing: Failure.

The door bursts open. A comms officer hesitates in the frame. “Sir, London’s on the line. Director Welles demands immediate response.”

Baumann exhales slowly, straightening his suit. “Patch it through.”

The holo-screen flickers to life, revealing Sir Alaic Welles — his face tight with restrained fury. Behind him, the London war room glows cold blue.

“Baumann,” Welles begins, his tone dripping with venom. “Do you know how many diplomatic calls I’ve had to answer this morning?”

Baumann doesn’t flinch. “I can imagine.”

“Oh, I don’t think you can,” Welles snaps. “Because while your best agent was turning the center of Madrid into a war zone, I was receiving calls from the Spanish ambassador, the European Council, and—oh yes—the bloody Prime Minister’s office. They’re demanding answers. Answers that I don’t have because you went rogue.”

Baumann adjusts his tie calmly. “Specter operates under Hamburg command. He’s my responsibility, not yours.”

Welles’s jaw tightens. “You overstepped protocol, Erik. You had no authorization to deploy an active assassin without central clearance.”

“Specter isn’t an assassin,” Baumann says evenly. “He’s an operative. And he was closer to uncovering Hades than any of your analysts sitting behind their desks.”

Welles’s laugh is cold. “And now Forstman is dead. The only lead we had is gone. Tell me, Erik — is that your definition of success?”

Baumann’s voice hardens. “We both know what this is really about. You’re not angry because of Madrid. You’re angry because Specter answers to me, not you.”

For a moment, silence. The tension hums like a drawn wire.

Welles leans closer to the camera. “You’re playing a dangerous game, old friend. And when this collapses — when the truth about Hades comes out — it won’t be my name that burns. It’ll be yours.”

The screen cuts to black.

Baumann exhales, his reflection staring back from the dark glass. For a long time, he says nothing.

Then, quietly: “You have no idea what you’ve unleashed, Alaic.”

He turns toward the window overlooking the rain-slicked streets of Hamburg. Somewhere out there, Specter is still alive — and the world is already starting to whisper one name:

The Red Dove.

Morning breaks over a wounded world.

A week has passed since Madrid burned, yet the smoke of that night still clings to every headline.

Television anchors speak with the same plastic calm, reading words carefully chosen by governments. Gas explosion.Helicopter malfunction. Structural collapse. Their voices are smooth, rehearsed — designed to make chaos sound like routine.

But the people aren’t buying it.

Across cafés, newsrooms, and encrypted forums, whispers rise. Footage of the blast circulates in fragments — drones, flashes of muzzle fire, an object falling from the sky. Too precise, too coordinated. No one believes in coincidences anymore.

And when General Luis Noriega, the head of Spanish security, finally stands before the press, the illusion begins to crumble. Cameras flash as he clears his throat and declares:

“We are investigating the possibility of a professional operation — a coordinated strike by a group with military-level expertise.”

The words hit every network like a shockwave.

Governments begin asking questions. Allies demand explanations. Enemies smile in silence.

The world, for the first time in years, looks afraid.

At the same hour, far from the cameras and microphones, a storm brews inside the underground fortress of A.G.I.S. Headquarters, Hamburg.

The corridors hum with tension — the kind of silence that comes before an explosion of anger.

Felix Gruber, head of field operations, storms down the hallway. His boots echo off the steel floors, his jaw clenched tight.

Everyone in his path moves aside. They know that look — the same one he wore in Prague, years ago, when an entire mission collapsed because of one bad line of code.

He reaches the Cyber Division Control Room, slams the door open. The air inside hums with the sound of servers and overlapping voices. Holographic monitors float midair, filled with lines of code, satellite grids, and blurred heat signatures.

At the center of it all stands Dr. Elara Voss — tall, sharp, and unflinching. Her hair is tied in a severe knot, her eyes darkened by sleepless nights. She’s surrounded by analysts, each one frantically cross-referencing data streams.

Felix doesn’t wait for formality.

“Tell me, Elara,” he snaps, “how do you lose a shooter in the middle of a city when you have half the world’s satellites at your disposal?”

Elara doesn’t look up. Her fingers fly across the virtual keyboard, adjusting algorithms faster than he can blink. “Maybe because, unlike your field toys, the digital world doesn’t bleed when you hit it.”

Felix’s voice hardens. “Don’t start with your philosophy, Doctor. You were supposed to anticipate the interference. Those drones didn’t appear out of thin air.”

“They might as well have,” Elara fires back. She gestures toward one of the hovering screens — a blurred, static-heavy image of the rooftop moments before the explosion. “I’ve seen electromagnetic cloaking before, but this—this is different. The drones’ signal patterns changed every six seconds. Whoever deployed them wasn’t improvising. They were orchestrating.”

Felix folds his arms. “And while you were studying their signal patterns, my best operative was falling out of the sky.”

Elara finally turns to face him, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, please. Don’t act like your man was some untouchable ghost. Specter went in blind because someone—” she stabs her finger toward Felix’s chest, “—couldn’t keep their field data consistent. Maybe next time you should bring your guns to the server room.”

Felix’s temper flares, but he keeps his tone low, dangerous. “You talk big for someone who’s never had blood on her hands.”

A tense silence falls.

Every analyst in the room freezes, pretending not to listen.

Elara takes a slow step closer. Her voice is calm but sharp enough to cut through metal.

“Do you think killing makes you better, Gruber? You think death gives your work meaning? Try staring at five hundred terabytes of corrupted data from a massacre you didn’t prevent — then talk to me about blood.”

Felix exhales through his nose, eyes narrowing. For a moment, the only sound between them is the soft hum of machines.

He finally mutters, “Specter was close. He almost had Forstman talking.”

Elara shakes her head. “Almost doesn’t matter. Your ‘ghost’ went in without proper backup, and now we have nothing — not even a trace of the sniper who killed him.”

Felix’s tone shifts, quieter now. “You mean the one who killed Forstman.”

She pauses. “Same difference. The result’s the same: our only lead on Hades is gone.”

Felix glances at the display again — a grainy silhouette on the rooftop, a figure in black before the image cuts to static. “You can’t track him?”

“No.” Her voice tightens. “He doesn’t exist on any grid. No thermal trail, no heat signature. It’s like the air itself erased him.”

Felix mutters, almost to himself, “A ghost killing another ghost.”

Elara smirks faintly. “Welcome to your kind of poetry.”

He ignores the jab. “Do you think it’s him?”

Her fingers pause over the console. “Who?”

Felix meets her eyes. “The Red Dove.”

The name hangs heavy in the room. A few analysts exchange uneasy glances, pretending they didn’t hear it.

Elara looks away, crossing her arms. “Rumors. Files older than any of us. There’s no proof he even exists.”

Felix steps closer. “There wasn’t proof of Hades either — until Madrid burned.”

Elara doesn’t respond. She just stares at the screens, where the frozen image of the masked sniper lingers like a phantom in grayscale.

The hum of the servers fills the silence again.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Finally, Elara exhales. “Whatever happened out there, it was deliberate. Someone wanted Forstman dead — not captured. They wanted to erase him.”

Felix nods slowly. “And they succeeded.”

He turns toward the door, his shadow stretching across the cold metallic floor.

“Keep looking, Doctor,” he says without turning back. “Find that ghost. Because if you don’t…”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes like steel.

“…he’ll find us first.”

The door closes behind him, leaving Elara staring at the flickering monitor. The sniper’s outline pulses one last time before the screen fades to black.

Night drapes itself over Madrid like a shroud of smoke and ash.

What was once a city of light now breathes in ruin. Sirens cry from far away, echoing through the narrow streets like dying memories. The fires have dimmed, but the scent of burned fuel and concrete lingers — heavy, unrelenting.

From an alley half-swallowed by shadows, Leon Albrecht stirs.

He lies amid broken glass and torn metal, half-conscious, one hand pressed against his bleeding shoulder. His body screams in pain, his mind flickering in and out of coherence.

For a long moment, he simply breathes — shallow, uneven — the way men do when they’ve forgotten how to feel alive.

The last thing he remembers is the crash — Forstman’s scream, the engine’s dying roar, then silence and flame. Now the world is quiet, save for the faint hum of emergency drones above the skyline.

Leon drags himself to his feet, one hand braced against the alley wall. His mask is gone, his commlink shattered. He’s alone.

And for the first time in years, Specter doesn’t feel like a ghost — he feels human. Weak, cold, and painfully real.

He stumbles down the alley, every step leaving a trace of red on the cracked pavement. His breath forms clouds in the night air. When he reaches the end of the narrow street, he sees the reflection of blue police lights washing over the buildings. Too many eyes. Too much noise.

He slips into the backstreets, blending into the dark.

Minutes pass like hours. He doesn’t know how far he’s walked until the world narrows into one small street — quiet, lined with old apartments, the kind of place untouched by tourists. A faded sign above a doorway reads “Calle del Silencio.”

He almost laughs at the irony.

Then his vision blurs. His knees give way. He collapses.

The sound of footsteps follows — light, hesitant.

A door creaks open. A soft gasp pierces the night.

A woman steps into the light spilling from her apartment doorway. She wears a thin sweater over her nightdress, her hair loose, her eyes wide in shock.

“¡Dios mío!” she whispers, rushing forward. “Señor, are you—?”

Leon raises his hand weakly. “Don’t… call anyone.”

She kneels beside him anyway, ignoring the command. Blood stains her hands as she tries to steady him. “You’re hurt— you need a hospital—”

“No hospital,” he says, his voice low but sharp. “Please.”

There’s something in his tone — not threat, but desperation. It stops her for a moment. She studies his face, sees the cut across his temple, the exhaustion behind his eyes.

“What happened to you?” she asks quietly.

Leon hesitates, forcing a faint smirk. “Let’s just say… I fell from the sky.”

She doesn’t laugh. She just helps him up, slipping an arm around him despite his weight. “You’ll die if you stay out here. Come on.”

He doesn’t resist. He’s too tired.

Inside her small apartment, the air smells faintly of tea and ink — a translator’s home. Books line the shelves, mostly Japanese and Spanish titles. A cat lifts its head from a chair, then returns to sleep as she lowers Leon onto the couch.

She moves quickly, fetching a towel, water, and a small medical kit. Her hands tremble slightly, but her eyes stay focused.

“You’re lucky,” she murmurs, cleaning the wound on his arm. “Another inch, and that bullet would’ve taken your shoulder.”

Leon watches her silently. She doesn’t ask who he is, or why he carries the kind of scars soldiers do. She simply works — calm, patient, like she’s done this before.

Finally, she glances up. “What’s your name?”

He pauses. The instinct to lie comes naturally — Specter, Agent 009-A, AGIS operative. But tonight, none of those names belong to him.

“Leon,” he says at last. “Leon Albrecht.”

She nods slowly, repeating it as if testing its weight. “Leon.”

He studies her in turn. “And you?”

“Hana,” she replies softly. “Hana Sato.”

The name settles between them, gentle as the sound of rain on the windows.

For the first time in hours, Leon lets his guard slip. His shoulders ease slightly, though his mind still spins with chaos — Forstman’s death, the sniper’s face, the word that refuses to leave his thoughts: Red Dove.

Hana notices his distant gaze. “You’re safe here, Leon. You can rest.”

He almost laughs. “Safe isn’t real.”

She tilts her head, as if reading him. “Maybe not. But for tonight, pretend it is.”

Her words hang in the air. Simple, but disarming.

Leon leans back on the couch. The pain dulls under the warmth of the room. The city outside still screams — sirens, shouts, confusion — but inside this small apartment, it’s quiet. Peaceful.

Hana lights a candle, sets it on the table, and sits across from him.

“I teach Japanese,” she says after a moment, almost as if to fill the silence. “Translation work too. You… you look like someone who travels a lot.”

Leon gives a faint smile. “Something like that.”

He doesn’t tell her that he’s a man who travels through shadows — that his passport is a lie, his name a weapon, his life built on silence. He doesn’t tell her that somewhere out there, the entire intelligence world is hunting him.

Instead, he closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

Hana’s voice softens. “You can stay until you can stand again.”

He opens his eyes to meet hers — kind, unwavering, almost too honest for a world like his.

For the first time in years, Leon feels something he can’t define. Not relief. Not safety. Something quieter. Something human.

Outside, the night fades toward dawn.

The world burns in confusion, governments scramble for answers, and in a small forgotten street, a wounded ghost rests in the care of a stranger who doesn’t yet know she’s saving the world’s most dangerous secret.

The storm outside has softened into a light rain, the kind that brushes against glass without sound.

Inside Hana’s small apartment, the air is warm — scented with tea and antiseptic. Leon sits on the couch, his shoulder wrapped in white bandages. Across from him, Hana pours another cup of jasmine tea, her movements calm, delicate.

For a while, neither speaks. The only sound is the quiet rhythm of the clock on the wall.

Then Leon’s phone vibrates.

He glances down at the cracked screen — Benjamin Roshfurd.

Hana tilts her head slightly. “A friend?”

Leon hesitates. “Yes,” he says softly. “Someone who worries too much.”

He answers. “Benjamin.”

The voice on the other end explodes with relief.

“Leon?! Jesus Christ— you’re alive! I thought you were dead!”

Leon exhales through his nose, weary but composed. “I’m still breathing.”

“Breathing? That’s what you call it?” Benjamin’s voice cracks between frustration and panic. “You crashed a helicopter in the middle of Madrid! I’ve been scanning every camera feed in this city trying to find you—”

“Calm down,” Leon cuts in gently. “I’m fine.”

“Fine? You’ve got half the Spanish military crawling over the streets, and you want me to calm down?”

Leon glances toward Hana. She’s standing by the window now, pretending not to listen, her hands clasped. “I got lucky,” he murmurs.

On the other end, Benjamin exhales sharply, his tone lowering. “Where are you? Baumann’s furious, Elara’s tearing through satellite archives, and Welles— well, let’s just say London’s on fire. I’ve got a car nearby. Give me your coordinates, I’ll pick you up.”

Leon pauses, then turns toward Hana. “My friend… wants to pick me up. Could you tell him where we are?”

Hana nods, taking the phone carefully. Her English carries a soft accent, gentle but clear. “Hello? This is Hana. Leon is safe, but he’s injured. We’re at Calle del Silencio, number twelve.”

Benjamin’s voice instantly steadies. “Thank you, miss. I’ll be there soon. Please… keep him alive until I arrive.”

She smiles faintly. “I’ll try my best.”

When the call ends, Hana hands the phone back. “Your friend sounds… intense,” she says, her eyes kind.

Leon chuckles quietly. “That’s one word for him. He’s like that when he cares too much.”

“So you’re lucky,” she replies softly.

Leon leans back against the couch, watching the steam rise from his cup. “Luck isn’t usually my thing.”

“Maybe it’s time you changed that.”

For a moment, they both smile — a small, fragile peace blooming between two strangers who should never have met.

Hana glances toward the television. The screen flickers with breaking news: aerial footage of the explosion, the twisted remains of a helicopter, streets sealed by soldiers. The anchors speak with the same rehearsed calm Leon has heard his whole career.

“Authorities confirm a series of gas explosions and mechanical malfunctions…”

Hana shakes her head, sighing. “They always say that. Gas leaks. Equipment failure. They make it sound normal.”

Leon doesn’t respond. His gaze stays on the television, his expression unreadable. The voice of General Luis Noriegaplays through the speakers:

“We have reason to believe this was a coordinated attack carried out by an unidentified group of professionals.”

Hana’s fingers tighten around her teacup. “That’s terrifying,” she whispers. “So many people hurt… and they still don’t know who did it.”

Leon finally looks away from the screen. “Sometimes,” he says quietly, “the people who know can’t say.”

She studies him curiously. “You sound like you’ve seen things like this before.”

He gives a faint, careful smile. “I work with computers. Information security. It comes with reading too much news.”

Hana nods slowly, though she doesn’t entirely believe him. “An IT engineer, right? From… where?”

“Hamburg,” he says smoothly. “Helios Systems GmbH.”

She repeats it softly, as if memorizing it. “Germany. That’s far. Are you here for work?”

He chuckles lightly. “No. Supposed to be on vacation. Bad timing, I guess.”

She smiles for the first time that night — a real, warm smile that softens everything about her. “Well, I’m glad you chose this neighborhood to fall into.”

Leon can’t help but laugh. “Trust me, I didn’t plan it.”

They share a brief moment of laughter, quiet but genuine.

The kind that feels almost foreign to him — laughter without blood or lies behind it.

After a while, Hana sets her cup down. “I was teaching when it happened. My students begged me to stay until it was safe. They were right.”

“You teach languages?” Leon asks, his tone lighter now.

“Yes. Japanese and Spanish mostly. Translation work, sometimes for films or books.” She shrugs. “It’s not much, but it makes me happy.”

He studies her — the calm in her voice, the gentle way she says happy as if it’s something attainable. “Happiness,” he murmurs, “is harder than it looks.”

She looks at him with quiet curiosity. “Maybe. But sometimes it’s also simple — like this.”

He arches an eyebrow. “This?”

Hana nods. “A warm room. Tea. Someone to talk to.”

Leon looks down at the cup in his hands. “I haven’t had that in a long time.”

“Then maybe you needed to crash here,” she says softly.

He glances up, caught off guard by her tone — light, teasing, but sincere underneath. He almost says something, then stops himself.

Instead, he smiles faintly. “You’re not afraid of strangers, are you?”

“Only when they stop being human,” she replies.

Her words linger longer than either of them expects.

Outside, the rain strengthens, drumming gently against the glass. Leon leans back, letting his eyelids lower, exhaustion catching up with him.

Hana rises quietly, draping a blanket over his shoulders. “Rest. Your friend will be here soon.”

Leon opens his eyes just long enough to see her silhouette in the candlelight — soft, kind, impossibly steady.

He whispers, half-conscious, “You saved me.”

Hana smiles faintly. “Then don’t waste it.”

He closes his eyes. The world fades into silence — no gunfire, no sirens, no orders.

Just the sound of rain, and the heartbeat of a city that still believes in coincidence.

Rain falls heavier now, blurring the windshield into streaks of silver and shadow.

Benjamin Roshfurd grips the steering wheel with one hand, the other drumming nervously on the dashboard as the radio murmurs in Spanish.

“Breaking news: local authorities confirm two fatalities and more than twenty injured following what officials describe as a series of unrelated urban accidents…”

Benjamin exhales through his nose, switching to English under his breath. “Unrelated accidents, my ass.”

The voice on the radio continues, describing fallen debris, damaged rooftops, a “malfunctioning aircraft.” To the public, it’s a coincidence. To anyone who’s ever worked in intelligence, it’s too precise, too timed, too clean.

He adjusts his earpiece, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. The city lights smear across the wet glass, every reflection reminding him of fire and wreckage.

Then his phone buzzes on the console. Matteo Ricci.

Benjamin answers, voice low. “Make it quick, Ricci. I’m driving.”

Matteo’s accent bursts through the speaker, loud and impatient. “Driving? Where the hell are you, Benji? Tell me Specter’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” Benjamin replies immediately. “Injured, but stable. I’m on my way to get him.”

A pause. Matteo exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. “Thank God. You don’t know the circus here, man. The cyber team’s about to lose their minds — Elara hasn’t slept in three days, Felix nearly punched a server, and Baumann…”

Benjamin winces. “Let me guess. Welles tore him apart?”

“You think?” Matteo scoffs. “London’s furious. They’re calling it a breach of European security protocol. Half of Division Aegis is under review.”

Benjamin rubs his temple with one hand, eyes on the rain-slick road ahead. “That’s just great. First the crash, now a political meltdown. What’s next, they start a war over it?”

Matteo laughs, but it’s humorless. “Baumann’s trying to keep the unit together. But between you and me, the man’s carrying more pressure than a damn nuclear core.”

Benjamin sighs, eyes narrowing as he passes a line of emergency vehicles. “He always does.”

Then, as if the universe has perfect timing, another name flashes on his screen — Major Erik Baumann.

Benjamin freezes for a second. His stomach drops.

“Oh, hell.”

“Is that him?” Matteo asks.

“Yeah. I’ll call you back before he kills me.”

“Good luck, brother.”

Benjamin switches the line, his hand clammy on the phone. “Sir?”

Baumann’s voice is calm, but there’s a weight to it — the kind that makes even silence feel like discipline.

“Roshfurd. Where is Specter?”

Benjamin swallows. “He’s alive, sir. Wounded, but alive. I’m en route to extract him now.”

“Why wasn’t I informed sooner?” Baumann’s tone doesn’t rise, but the words land like steel.

“I tried, sir. His commlink was destroyed in the crash. I only made contact a few minutes ago.”

A short pause. The faint hum of machinery filters through the line, followed by Baumann’s steady exhale.

“Good. I need him to report within the hour.”

Benjamin blinks. “One hour? Sir, with all due respect, he’s—”

Baumann cuts in sharply. “I don’t care if he’s bleeding or half-dead. London’s demanding answers. Welles is already drafting a statement, and if Specter doesn’t check in, they’ll assume he’s compromised. Do you understand me?”

Benjamin grips the wheel tighter. “Understood.”

“Then make sure he walks through that door alive, Roshfurd. I trust you know what’s at stake.”

The line goes dead.

Benjamin exhales shakily, lowering the phone. His heart hammers against his ribs. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice bitter. “I know exactly what’s at stake.”

He leans back in the seat for a moment, letting the tension drain — or trying to. The hum of the engine fills the car like white noise. Outside, the rain pounds harder, as if trying to drown the city itself.

In the faint reflection of the windshield, Benjamin sees his own tired eyes staring back at him. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept in days — and he hasn’t.

He runs a hand over his face. “Great. One hour. No pressure.”

Then he glances at the small photo clipped to his dashboard — a blurry team picture from two years ago. Leon standing in the back, stoic as ever. Matteo grinning like an idiot. Elara pretending she didn’t want to be there. Felix scowling at the camera. And him — awkward smile, half nervous, half proud.

He shakes his head. “You owe me for this, Leon.”

The radio murmurs again, replaying Noriega’s statement:

“The Madrid attacks demonstrate a level of precision unseen in recent years…”

Benjamin lowers the volume, muttering under his breath. “Yeah. Precision. Like everything’s just one big damn equation.”

The rain begins to ease as he turns onto Calle del Silencio. The streetlights flicker weakly in the mist. His GPS blips softly — Hana’s address glowing faintly on the display.

He slows the car to a crawl. The neighborhood is quiet, untouched by the chaos that devoured the rest of Madrid.

Benjamin exhales, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. “One hour, huh? Baumann’s gonna have my head if I screw this up.”

Then, with a small, weary laugh, he adds under his breath, “Knowing my luck, Leon’s probably fallen in love already.”

He parks by the curb, rain dripping from the windshield, and stares up at the dimly lit apartment window where he knows Leon is hiding.

“Please,” he murmurs to himself. “Let this be simple for once.”

It won’t be.

But for now, he kills the engine, grabs his coat, and steps out into the rain.

The rain hasn’t stopped when Benjamin reaches the building. The narrow street of Calle del Silencio lives up to its name — silent, almost detached from the chaos that swallowed the rest of Madrid. A faint hum of electricity echoes between soaked streetlamps. Somewhere above, a curtain moves; a shadow crosses a window.

Benjamin takes a breath, slicks his hair back, and knocks on the door.

It opens halfway. Hana stands there, wearing a loose cardigan and cautious eyes. Her expression softens when she sees the soaked, disheveled young man in front of her.

“You must be Benjamin,” she says.

He blinks, surprised. “Uh—yes. Benjamin Roshfurd. From Hamb—uh, from Leon’s office.”

Her smile is polite but knowing. “You mean from wherever he really works.”

Benjamin stiffens. “He told you?”

“No,” she says, stepping aside. “But I can tell when someone lies to protect something important.”

He hesitates, then nods respectfully and walks in. The warmth of the apartment hits him like sunlight after a storm. It smells faintly of tea, antiseptic, and something sweet — maybe vanilla.

Leon sits on the couch, his shoulder still bandaged, a blanket over his legs. His eyes flick up the moment Benjamin enters. Calm. Composed. Alive.

Benjamin exhales. “You look like hell.”

Leon raises an eyebrow. “Good to see you too.”

Hana hides a small laugh behind her hand. “He said you’d worry.”

“Of course I worry!” Benjamin retorts, tossing his jacket over a chair. “You crash a helicopter, vanish for half a day, and then text me a location through a stranger! Do you have any idea what Baumann’s doing to me right now?”

Leon gives a half-smile. “Tearing you apart verbally, I assume.”

“Verbally, emotionally, existentially—take your pick.” Benjamin slumps into the chair opposite him. His eyes dart to the clock. “You’ve got forty-five minutes before you’re officially classified as missing in action.”

Hana’s brow furrows. “He’s still hurt. Can’t that wait?”

Benjamin looks at her, then at Leon. “She’s… not wrong.”

Leon shakes his head. “You know the rules. Baumann’s orders.”

Hana crosses her arms gently. “So your boss gives you orders while you’re bleeding?”

Benjamin opens his mouth, then closes it. “Ma’am, in our line of work—”

Leon interrupts softly. “He’s right. In our world, time isn’t mercy.”

For a moment, the room falls quiet. The ticking clock feels louder than before. Hana studies them both — two men shaped by a world she doesn’t understand, yet both somehow human enough to sit dripping rainwater on her floor.

Finally, she exhales. “Then drink something warm before you go.”

Benjamin blinks as she disappears into the kitchen. “She’s… very calm about all this.”

Leon watches her silhouette move behind the frosted glass. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

Benjamin leans forward, lowering his voice. “You realize she shouldn’t even know your face, right? The moment London finds out, Welles will—”

“I know,” Leon cuts him off, his tone sharp but not angry. “But she saved my life. That’s not something I erase.”

Benjamin rubs his temple. “You’re going to get me fired.”

Leon’s mouth twitches. “You’d hate retirement anyway.”

When Hana returns, she carries two mugs of tea. One for Leon, one for Benjamin. “You look cold,” she says kindly to him.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Benjamin replies awkwardly, taking it with both hands. “And, uh, you can just call me Ben.”

“Ben.” She smiles. “Shorter. Easier to remember.”

He nods, cheeks slightly pink. “Yes, ma’am—I mean, yes, Hana.”

Leon watches the exchange in silence. For the first time in a long while, he feels something disorienting — normalcy.

Outside, a thunderclap rolls across the city.

Benjamin glances toward the window. “We need to move soon. The local police will start re-checking this block in under an hour.”

Leon downs his tea, stands carefully, and adjusts his coat. Pain flickers across his face, but he hides it well.

Hana notices anyway. “You shouldn’t move like that. Your stitches—”

Leon meets her eyes. “I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not a comfort,” she replies softly.

Benjamin moves toward the door. “We’ll patch him up again at the safehouse.” He pauses, looking back. “You’ll be okay here?”

“I’ll be fine,” Hana answers, but there’s a trace of worry beneath her voice. “Will I see you again, Leon?”

For the first time, the question cuts deeper than it should. Leon hesitates at the doorway, rain glinting behind him.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly.

She nods slowly, accepting the truth for what it is. “Then I hope you both stay alive long enough to find out.”

Leon’s expression softens. “You have my word.”

Benjamin opens the door. The rain has eased, leaving only the smell of wet stone and distant sirens.

Leon steps out first, then stops and turns back. “Thank you, Hana.”

She smiles faintly. “For what?”

“For reminding me what normal feels like.”

He walks into the night.

Benjamin follows, muttering as they descend the steps. “You know, for a guy named Specter, you leave way too many emotional footprints.”

Leon glances at him. “You talk too much.”

“Yeah,” Benjamin says with a tired grin, “and you fall for civilians.”

Leon doesn’t answer. The rain starts again, soft but relentless. The city lights reflect off the puddles like shattered stars — a thousand tiny lies shimmering in the dark.

The rain has thinned into mist, weaving silver threads through the night. The street outside Hana’s apartment is quiet now—too quiet, as if the city itself holds its breath. Leon and Benjamin stand by the curb beneath the faint glow of a flickering lamp. The world around them feels suspended, fragile, as though a single sound might shatter it.

Leon turns once more before stepping into the car. Through the window above, Hana stands behind the sheer curtain. Their eyes meet across the distance, two strangers tied by chance and circumstance. For a moment, nothing exists—no mission, no orders, no blood. Only her gentle gaze and the quiet promise it carries. Then the curtain falls, and she is gone.

Inside, Hana closes the door and leans against it, her chest rising softly, her fingers trembling with something she cannot name. A warmth spreads across her face as she presses a hand to her lips, smiling without meaning to. The apartment feels different now—brighter, lighter, as though the presence of that wounded stranger has somehow changed the air itself.

She exhales, whispering to the silence, “Who are you, Leon?”

Benjamin drives in silence, the hum of the engine the only rhythm between them. Outside, Madrid drifts by—wet streets, flashing lights, police tape glinting like broken glass under the lamps.

Leon watches the city fade through the rain-streaked window, his reflection a ghost staring back.

Benjamin breaks the silence first. “You really know how to make an exit. She looked like she actually cared.”

Leon doesn’t answer.

Benjamin exhales, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that? Baumann’s going to kill us both. And Welles… he’ll probably do it twice for sport.”

Leon turns his gaze forward, his voice steady. “Baumann I can handle. Welles just likes to bark.”

Benjamin glances at him. “You think this is funny?”

Leon’s lips curve faintly. “Not funny. Predictable.”

Benjamin sighs and passes him the phone. “Then predict what happens next. He’s been calling non-stop.”

Leon takes it, dials the encrypted line, and waits. The voice that greets him is deep, calm, and sharp as a blade.

“Specter.”

“Major.”

Baumann’s tone is measured, but exhaustion hides beneath the discipline. “You’ve caused quite the storm. Welles nearly tore my head off. Half of London wants answers, and the other half wants blood.”

Leon leans back, eyes half-lidded. “Tell them they can have neither.”

A pause. Then Baumann’s voice lowers. “You disobeyed direct protocol. You turned a surveillance mission into an international incident.”

Leon lets the silence breathe for a moment before speaking. “And yet we have something they don’t.”

Benjamin frowns but keeps driving. Baumann’s voice sharpens. “I’m listening.”

“Before the drones hit,” Leon says, “Forstman and Garnacho mentioned a name. Samuel Landberk. Whoever he is, he’s connected to Hades. Maybe even controlling it.”

The line goes quiet. Only the faint hum of the encrypted signal remains.

Baumann finally speaks, slower this time. “Are you certain?”

Leon’s tone hardens. “I don’t deal in ghosts, sir. Only evidence.”

Benjamin mutters, half to himself, “Yeah, and explosions.”

Leon ignores him.

Baumann exhales, the faint sound of papers shifting on the other end. “I’ll assign Elara to run a trace. If Landberk exists, she’ll find him. Rest for now. You’ve already bled enough for one night.”

Leon nods slightly, though Baumann cannot see it. “Understood.”

“And Specter,” Baumann adds, his voice softening just enough to betray concern, “next time—try not to fall out of the sky.”

A ghost of a smile touches Leon’s lips. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Baumann’s tone steadies again. “Matteo and Sergei will join you once you’re cleared for field work. Don’t make me regret it.”

Leon’s eyes flicker with dry amusement. “Tell Matteo his debt just doubled.”

Baumann chuckles quietly, the kind of sound only soldiers make when laughter feels out of place. “Still the same Specter.”

The call ends.

The car moves through the empty avenue, the sound of rain a whisper against the roof. Benjamin keeps one hand on the wheel, the other drumming nervously. “You really think Baumann’s going to let this slide?”

Leon doesn’t answer at first. His gaze lingers on the mirror, where the reflection of a faint apartment light still flickers in the distance. “No,” he says finally. “But he’ll understand.”

Benjamin snorts. “You’re lucky he likes you. If it were me, he’d have me cleaning toilets in the Siberian branch.”

Leon smirks. “You’d freeze before the first flush.”

Benjamin rolls his eyes. “Real comforting, thanks.”

The rain begins to fade, leaving behind the scent of wet pavement and gasoline. The city around them glows faintly under the storm’s aftermath—silent, wounded, beautiful.

Leon looks out the window one last time, the thought of Hana lingering like a faint echo. There’s something about her—something disarming, something real in a world built on deception.

Benjamin glances at him and mutters, “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”

Leon turns his gaze forward again, his voice low. “She’s just… kind.”

“Kind gets you killed,” Benjamin replies quietly.

Leon doesn’t argue. He just stares into the night, where the reflections of red and blue lights stretch across the wet streets like veins of fire.

For now, the city sleeps under the illusion of safety.

But somewhere beneath that calm, another storm is already gathering.