Chapter 1 : HADES Protocol

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.

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