Chapter 3 : Echoes Beneath The Rain

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.

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