Chapter 5 : The Ghost of Pripyat

Paris, France.

The city breathes in rhythm with the wind — soft, elegant, almost deceptive in its tranquility. The world calls it the City of Love, but today, its charm is nothing more than camouflage. The Seine glimmers faintly beneath a velvet sky; laughter drifts from street cafés where tourists sip wine and whisper promises they’ll never keep. Artists sketch lovers by the river, unaware that beneath this gentle façade, another kind of art is being crafted — the art of espionage, of pursuit, of silence sharpened into a blade.

At a small restaurant near Boulevard Saint-Germain, Leon Albrecht and Sofia Moreau sit across from each other at a dimly lit corner table. A candle flickers between them, its reflection caught in Leon’s cold gray eyes. Around them, Paris moves at its usual pace — music, conversation, and the faint hum of life that has not yet realized it is in danger.

“Romantic, isn’t it?” Sofia teases, swirling her glass of Bordeaux with practiced grace. Her tone is calm, but her eyes scan every passerby through the restaurant’s wide window. “A perfect spot for a honeymoon, if one of us actually believed in love.”

Leon doesn’t even look up. “You said that because you’ve never had one.”

Sofia’s lips curl into a faint smirk. “And you said that because you’ve forgotten how to want one.”

He gives her a dry glance, the kind that says more than words ever could. The flicker of humor between them is thin, fragile — like smoke trying to survive the wind. They both know that under the pretense of banter lies a truth neither dares to touch: people like them don’t get honeymoons. They get missions, targets, and body bags.

Across the street, through the reflection of neon signs and wet cobblestones, Benjamin Roshfurd adjusts his earpiece inside a surveillance van parked between two delivery trucks. The soft whir of electronics fills the cramped space; next to him, Matteo Ricci watches through a long-range lens, his elbow resting lazily on the window frame.

“Target just entered Café du Nord,” Benjamin murmurs. His voice shakes slightly, not from fear, but from the realization that every step they take draws them closer to the center of something much darker. “Samuel Landberk, black coat, briefcase. He’s ordering coffee.”

Matteo yawns, clicking the camera’s shutter once. “Place your bets, ragazzi — what’s he having? Espresso? Cappuccino?”

Leon’s voice comes over the comm, smooth and low. “Double espresso. With cyanide, just in case people like us decide to catch him alive.”

Benjamin groans. “You know, that’s… probably not a joke.”

“It never is,” Sofia replies, rising from her chair, the trench of her coat brushing lightly against her legs as she straightens. Her movements are precise, rehearsed — like a dancer who’s learned to turn every step into deception.

“Visual confirmed,” Matteo mutters. “Target’s out. Espresso in hand. No tails detected. Crowd density at forty percent. Classic Paris rush hour.”

From another vehicle parked near the intersection, Felix Grüber’s gravelly voice joins the comms. “You’re all insane. Half of Paris is walking the damn streets, and we’re tailing a money-launderer like it’s a matinee show. Are we sure whatever we’re chasing even exists?”

Leon slips on his gloves as he exits the restaurant, his coat fluttering in the night breeze. “If it didn’t exist, Felix, the Frostfield would still be afloat.”

There’s silence on the line — the kind that only comes when truth cuts deeper than argument.

The team moves like clockwork. Sofia takes point beside Leon, her gaze locked on the man ahead — Samuel Landberk, short, nervous, adjusting his scarf every few steps. He moves with the posture of someone who’s never been followed before, but who now feels the phantom weight of eyes behind him.

“Target heading north on Rue de Rennes,” Benjamin reports from the van, eyes darting between screens. “No irregular movement yet. Stay close but not too close.”

Sofia keeps her voice even. “Relax, analyst. This isn’t your first field op anymore.”

“Yeah, but it’s my first one where everyone’s speaking French and I’m the only idiot who can’t order a baguette without starting an international incident.”

Matteo laughs quietly. “You’re fine, kid. Just don’t faint when the shooting starts.”

Leon ignores them. His attention is on Landberk — the subtle tremor in the man’s hand, the quick glances over his shoulder, the way he clutches his espresso like a lifeline. Years of reading people tell him one thing: Landberk knows.He knows he’s being hunted.

They cross another street, neon lights reflecting off puddles from the afternoon rain. Buses hiss to a stop; horns blare; a violinist plays beneath the awning of a bookstore. The entire city moves in a blur of ordinary chaos — the perfect cover for extraordinary violence.

“Felix,” Leon murmurs. “You have the cross-angle?”

“Affirmative,” Felix grunts. “Visual clear. But something’s off. Traffic cams just glitched for half a block.”

Elara’s voice cuts through the channel from Hamburg, distant but sharp. “Repeat that, Grüber?”

“I said the cameras went blind. All of them. Simultaneously.”

The air in Leon’s chest tightens. He glances up. Streetlamps flicker once, twice, then steady again. The faint hum of power dips for a second — small enough for most to ignore, but not for him.

“Benjamin,” he says quietly. “Any interference?”

Benjamin’s fingers fly over his console. “Yes. Brief electromagnetic surge. Not natural. It’s being piggybacked from a drone signal, but— wait, I’m not detecting any drones.”

“Because you’re not supposed to,” Leon mutters, eyes narrowing. “They’re here.”

Landberk suddenly stops in front of a crossing, checking his watch. He seems to hesitate, then drops his empty espresso cup into a trash bin. A second later, he turns sharply down an alleyway.

Leon motions subtly with his hand. “He’s spooked. We move.”

Sofia slides her hand into her coat pocket, where the cold steel of her pistol waits. “If this goes sideways, I’m not babysitting another corpse.”

“Noted,” Leon replies, stepping into the narrow street behind Landberk.

The alley is soaked in the dim amber glow of a flickering lamp. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. The sound of footsteps echoes — Landberk’s quick, uneven ones, and Leon’s steady, ghostlike rhythm behind them.

“Felix,” Leon whispers into the comm, “I want eyes on rooftops.”

“Already on it,” Felix answers. “Thermal scan… wait. Shit.”

“What is it?”

“Three heat signatures above you. Stationary. Not civvies.”

Before anyone can react, the night detonates.

A flash of light bursts from the rooftop — not a gunshot, but something sharper, cleaner. The air splits with the hiss of compressed gas. A tranquilizer dart embeds itself in the brick wall inches from Leon’s head.

Sofia fires upward instinctively, her silenced pistol spitting two precise bursts. Concrete dust rains down. Leon grabs her by the collar and pulls her behind a dumpster just as another dart slices through the air where her shoulder had been.

Benjamin’s voice cracks through the comm. “What the hell is happening?”

Leon’s reply is calm, too calm. “We’re not the only ones hunting Samuel Landberk.”

Matteo’s tone hardens instantly. “On my way.”

“No,” Leon orders. “Stay in position. If Landberk runs, you track him. We’ll handle the ghosts.”

Through the narrow slit between the bins, Leon catches a glimpse of movement — a figure in tactical black descending the fire escape, silent as rain. No insignia, no flag, no sound.

“Felix,” Leon whispers, eyes locked on the intruder. “Tell me you’ve got a visual.”

Felix’s answer comes low and grim. “I’ve got one better, Specter. You’re looking at the same symbol we found in Madrid.”

Leon’s stomach knots. “The serpent?”

“Coiled around the burning sun,” Felix confirms. “Whoever they are… they’re not done yet.”

The lamp flickers once more, plunging the alley into shadow. And in that breath of darkness, Leon knows Paris has just joined the list of cities marked by the unseen hand of HADES.

The city wakes beneath the pale gold of dawn, unaware that blood is about to stain its cobblestone veins. Sunlight drifts lazily across rooftops, reflecting on café windows and the polished chrome of cars gliding through narrow streets. The rhythm of morning life beats as usual — chatter, laughter, footsteps, the faint whistle of a street violinist — but within that symphony of normalcy, a different melody plays: the whisper of pursuit, the tempo of danger building beneath the hum of routine.

Samuel Landberk walks briskly through the crowd, a man who knows that something unseen follows him but dares not look back. His breath fogs in the crisp air as he clutches his briefcase tighter, every step measured yet unsteady. The reflection in every shop window feels like an eye; every passing stranger feels like a shadow. He tells himself he’s being paranoid. But paranoia, he knows too well, is often the last thing that keeps a man alive.

Without a word, Leon Albrecht falls into stride beside him. Dressed like an ordinary businessman, his expression calm, unreadable — a ghost wearing the face of a man. The two stand shoulder to shoulder at the pedestrian crossing, waiting for the light to change, strangers to all who pass, hunter and prey sharing the same breath.

The light turns green.

Landberk steps forward — and the world tilts. A black sedan surges out from the flow of traffic, engine screaming, cutting through the crosswalk with murderous precision. The reflection of its grille burns in Landberk’s widening eyes.

Leon moves before thought exists. He grabs Landberk by the collar and yanks him backward just as the car tears past, missing them by inches. The wind of its passing whips through their coats, scattering coffee cups and the terrified shouts of onlookers. Landberk stumbles, gasping, clutching Leon’s arm in shock.

“Th-thank you!” he stammers, trembling.

Leon says nothing. His eyes stay locked on the departing car. The sedan screeches to a stop at the curb, its tinted windows sliding up like a shutter closing over death.

A block away, Felix Grüber grips the steering wheel of a delivery van, watching the scene unfold through his rearview mirror. “Bastards,” he mutters, reaching under his coat for his silenced pistol. The moment the sedan begins to turn, Felix’s hand steadies. Two muffled shots break the hum of the city — pfft, pfft — and the car jolts violently before rolling to a halt against the sidewalk. Felix keeps driving, not bothering to look back. Two dead men now sit in the silence of their own failed ambush.

Across the comms, Benjamin Roshfurd witnesses it all through the surveillance feed. His fingers tremble slightly on the console. “They just— Felix, did you— oh, God.”

Beside him, Matteo Ricci strikes a match, lighting a cigarette with the calmness of a man watching the weather. “Relax, bambino. This is Paris. People die here all the time — just not always this early.”

Benjamin glances at him, frowning. “I don’t smoke.”

Matteo exhales a slow stream of smoke, eyes still on the screen. “You should start. It helps with the nerves.”

“Cigarettes kill you,” Benjamin mutters.

Matteo grins. “So does this job.”

Meanwhile, Leon keeps walking beside Landberk, matching his pace perfectly. He doesn’t break eye contact with the reflections around them — the shop glass, the bus mirrors, the polished metal of a parked motorcycle. Everything is a surface, everything a weapon. The predator in him is awake now, sharp and cold.

Benjamin’s voice crackles through the comm, his tone urgent. “Leon — black BMW approaching from the west. Two hostiles confirmed, armed.”

Leon’s jaw tightens. “Copy.”

From across the intersection, the sleek BMW glides into view, its windows tinted darker than regulation allows. It slows just slightly — the telltale hesitation of a predator lining up the kill.

“Down!” Leon hisses. He grabs Landberk again, forcing him behind a parked car just as gunfire erupts. The staccato bursts rip through the morning air, shattering the fragile peace of the Paris street. Glass explodes, alarms scream, and the crowd scatters in a frenzy of terrified motion.

Bullets spark against metal, tearing through windshields and storefronts. Leon draws his silenced sidearm, returns two quick shots, and ducks as another round slams into the hood beside him. Landberk cowers on the pavement, covering his head, too stunned even to scream.

Across the street, Sofia Moreau is already moving. She slides out from behind a café’s terrace pillar, her coat fluttering like a shadow in motion. With smooth precision, she raises her pistol, fires twice — thud, thud — both rounds punching clean holes through the BMW’s windshield. The driver slumps forward onto the horn; the second man inside jerks violently, then collapses.

“Sofia to Specter,” her voice cuts through the chaos. “Targets down. Get Landberk out of there — now.”

Leon doesn’t hesitate. He grabs Landberk by the arm, hauling him to his feet. “Move!”

A black SUV screeches to a halt beside them. The driver’s door flies open — Felix again, his face hard as granite. “Get in. Both of you!”

Landberk stares in disbelief, voice trembling. “Wh-who are you people? What is happening?”

Leon shoves him into the back seat, his tone sharp and final. “Shut up and stay down if you want to keep breathing.”

Sofia slides into the passenger seat, slamming the door just as another gunshot cracks from somewhere behind. A round punches through the rear window, glass scattering across Leon’s shoulder.

Felix floors the accelerator. The tires scream, smoke curling off the pavement as the SUV rockets forward through the narrow street. Pedestrians dive aside, shouting in panic. The car weaves between taxis and delivery trucks, horns blaring around them.

Benjamin’s voice is tight through the comm. “Felix, you’re heading east — I’m redirecting traffic cameras to clear your route. Police response time is four minutes!”

“Then we’re gone in three,” Felix growls, wrenching the wheel hard. The SUV drifts around a corner, narrowly missing a street vendor’s cart. Sofia reloads with practiced ease, her eyes cold as she scans the mirrors.

“Leon,” she says, “we just turned a Paris morning into a war zone. You better tell me he’s worth it.”

Leon looks back at Landberk — pale, sweating, terrified. The man clutches his briefcase to his chest as though it were his last lifeline.

“He will be,” Leon replies quietly. “Or this city dies next.”

Outside, sirens rise in the distance, the echo of chaos rolling through the streets of Paris. The SUV vanishes into the flow of traffic, leaving behind a street littered with shell casings, shattered glass, and the faint scent of gunpowder — another day, another illusion broken.

And as sunlight pierces the smoke above the boulevard, the City of Love forgets how to breathe.

The SUV cuts through the morning traffic like a black arrow slicing through silk. Sunlight glares against the windshield, flashing across Leon’s cold expression as the chaos of Paris streams past — horns blaring, pedestrians shouting, the scent of exhaust and adrenaline thick in the air. Inside, tension presses down like gravity. Every breath, every vibration of the engine hums with the sound of survival.

Samuel Landberk sits between Leon and Sofia in the backseat, trembling so violently that the inhaler nearly slips from his shaking hands. He takes a deep breath, his lungs rasping as the medicine steadies him. Sweat glistens on his forehead. His voice cracks when he finally speaks.

“Y-you’ve made a mistake,” he stammers. “You’re kidnapping the wrong man.”

Leon’s gray eyes flick toward him, unblinking. “No,” he replies coolly. “We’re kidnapping the right one. You just don’t know it yet.”

Landberk swallows hard, clutching his briefcase tighter, as if it could shield him from the storm closing in around him. “Listen to me— I’m just an accountant! I handle books, transfers, numbers. I don’t even know who my clients are half the time!”

Sofia leans closer, her voice smooth but sharp as glass. “Then maybe you should start remembering. Because those numbers you handle? They’re buying weapons, funding massacres, and building ghosts that walk under names like Hades.”

At the sound of that word, Landberk freezes. His eyes dart toward her, wide with fear.

Leon notices. “You’ve heard it,” he says flatly. “Haven’t you?”

Landberk exhales shakily, the truth clawing its way up his throat. “I… I don’t know what it is,” he mutters. “But I know the pattern. Transfers routed through shell accounts in Zurich, Dubai, then routed again through shadow banks in Singapore. Money so clean it doesn’t even smell like crime anymore.”

Sofia folds her arms. “And the clients?”

Landberk hesitates. “They never give names. Just symbols. Codes.”

Leon’s tone darkens. “How much?”

Landberk blinks. “What?”

“How much do they pay you to keep their ghosts invisible?” Leon repeats.

The accountant’s lips tremble. “One… one million dollars. Per transfer.”

Felix whistles from the driver’s seat, his tone laced with grim amusement. “That’s one hell of a paycheck for a man who can’t look his clients in the eye.”

Sofia’s gaze cuts through him like a knife. “For that kind of money, they’re not clients, Landberk. They’re monsters — and you’re their bookkeeper.”

Landberk shakes his head wildly. “You don’t understand. I don’t ask questions. I just make sure the numbers balance.”

Leon’s voice is calm, but deadly. “Then start asking. Because the world’s bleeding, and somewhere in those numbers is the name of the hand holding the knife.”

Landberk grips his knees, his breath trembling. “There was one… last week. An account labeled Dove Rouge — ‘The Red Dove.’ I processed a transfer for them yesterday.”

The car falls into stunned silence. Even Felix glances back in the rearview mirror, his brow furrowed.

“Say that again,” Sofia whispers.

“‘The Red Dove.’ That’s what the ledger said. The client requested full encryption. No trace, no record.” Landberk’s voice falters. “I thought it was a codename for a government shell. Maybe… maybe intelligence work.”

Leon exchanges a look with Sofia. The faintest spark of realization flickers in his eyes — the same phrase Frostman had muttered before dying in Madrid.

“Congratulations, Landberk,” Leon says quietly. “You just became the most valuable man in Europe.”

Before Landberk can respond, Benjamin’s panicked voice explodes over the comms.

“Leon! You’ve got company — three SUVs, full tint, closing from your six! They’re moving fast.”

Felix curses under his breath. “I see them.” He slams the accelerator. The SUV jolts forward, engines roaring as the tires screech against the pavement. “Hold on.”

Landberk lets out a yelp, clutching the seatbelt. “They’re following us!”

Leon’s patience snaps. He turns and slaps the man hard across the cheek — not cruelly, but sharply enough to shock him into silence. “If you want to live, act like it. Stay quiet. Breathe. Do not panic.”

Landberk nods frantically, his eyes wide with terror.

“Felix,” Leon says, his tone steady again. “Weapons.”

“Under the seat,” Felix grunts. “MP7s, two mags each. Don’t scratch the upholstery.”

Leon reaches down, pulling the compact submachine gun free from its hidden compartment. Sofia does the same, chambering her weapon with one clean motion. The metal clicks echo like a countdown.

Through the back window, the first SUV appears — sleek, armored, tinted black like liquid obsidian. It swerves through traffic, closing the gap. The second and third follow, forming a triangular pursuit formation.

“Benjamin,” Sofia calls. “Find me a route — something off the grid. Less civilian traffic.”

“I’m trying!” Benjamin’s voice crackles. “Half the cameras in the district are looping — someone’s jamming the feed. They knew you’d take this road!”

Felix growls. “Then they’ll regret it.”

Gunfire erupts. The rear windshield shatters, glass raining over them like a sudden storm. Leon ducks, returning fire in short, surgical bursts. Bullets strike the grill of the nearest SUV, sparking against metal.

Felix veers left, narrowly avoiding a bus. The pursuing vehicles follow relentlessly, engines snarling, their drivers unnervingly precise — not amateurs, but trained killers.

“Matteo, talk to me!” Leon barks.

“I’ve got eyes,” Matteo replies from his vantage point on a nearby rooftop, sniper rifle steady. “Two hostiles per car minimum, all heavy armor. And guess what? No plates. These bastards don’t exist.”

Leon reloads. “Then we erase them again.”

Sofia leans out the window, her pistol coughing soft bursts of smoke. One bullet finds its mark, punching through a front tire. The SUV swerves violently, slamming into a lamppost before spinning out in a haze of screeching metal and sparks.

“Nice shot,” Felix mutters, yanking the wheel hard to the right. The city blurs past — narrow streets, vendor stalls, frightened faces diving for cover. The smell of burnt rubber fills the air.

But the other two SUVs keep coming. One rams their rear bumper, jolting the entire car forward. Landberk screams; Leon braces himself against the seat, eyes flicking to Sofia.

“Now,” he says.

She nods, drops her spent magazine, and reloads. Leon pushes his door open, leaning halfway out into the rushing wind. Bullets slice past him. He squeezes the trigger — the recoil vibrates through his arms as the second SUV’s windshield explodes in a shower of glass and blood.

Benjamin’s voice returns through the static, desperate. “Police scanners just lit up! You have thirty seconds before every siren in Paris converges on you!”

Leon exhales through his nose, calm even in chaos. “We’ll be gone in twenty.”

The last SUV rams them again, harder this time. Felix grits his teeth and hits the brakes — hard. Tires scream. The pursuer, caught off guard, collides into their rear. Felix slams the gear forward and floors it again, the sudden shock sending the enemy vehicle spinning out of control into a parked truck.

Smoke and screams fill the air behind them.

Sofia lowers her weapon, checking her watch. “We’ve got five minutes before we’re boxed in.”

Leon looks out the window — the morning sun still shining, the air deceptively calm despite the wreckage trailing behind them. He meets her gaze, his voice low but unwavering.

“Then let’s make them count.”

Felix speeds through a red light, vanishing into the Paris maze. And as their SUV disappears down the next boulevard, the echoes of the gunfight fade — replaced only by sirens, smoke, and the lingering question of just how deep The Red Dovetruly flies.

The city still trembles behind them, its morning calm shattered by the chaos they left in their wake. Sirens echo through the narrow Parisian streets, carried by the wind like distant cries of judgment. Smoke rises from the wreck of the last SUV, black against the soft blue dawn. Felix drives in silence, his jaw tight, eyes flicking between the mirrors and the road ahead. Beside him, Sofia reloads her weapon with slow, deliberate motions, each metallic click slicing through the thick silence inside the car. In the backseat, Leon sits beside Landberk—who is shaking so violently that the seatbelt rattles—and Benjamin, pale and sweating, still clutching the portable decryption pad like it’s a lifeline. The city blurs past, sunlight glinting off glass towers and café windows, but none of them dare look outside.

Felix turns sharply, steering the car off the main avenue into an industrial district lined with warehouses and rusted fences. The further they go, the quieter it gets, until even the city’s pulse seems to fade. They pass through an old iron gate marked “Garage Desmarais.” The sign hangs crooked, half eaten by rust. Felix drives the car inside, stops behind a stack of decaying crates, and kills the engine. For a moment, only their breathing fills the silence. Then the distant hum of a metro train rolls through the air like a heartbeat.

Leon steps out first, his boots echoing against the cracked concrete floor. The air inside the garage smells of oil, dust, and the ghosts of long-abandoned work. He glances around—old car frames, scattered tools, and a broken neon sign flickering weakly in the corner. “This place still stands,” he mutters.

Felix gets out and slams the door. “Barely. It’s one of Baumann’s old safehouses from the Cold War. No cameras, no heat signatures. Perfect for ghosts like us.”

Sofia walks past them, her heels clicking softly as she draws the blinds and checks every window slit. “Let’s hope the people chasing us aren’t better ghosts,” she says, her voice calm but razor-sharp.

Leon opens the rear door and yanks Landberk out by his coat. The accountant stumbles, nearly falling. “S-sir, please, I don’t—”

Leon pushes him onto a chair near a workbench. “Save it,” he says flatly. “You talk when I ask.” He takes a slow step closer, his tone measured, quiet—but there’s something dangerous in that calm. “Start from the beginning. Who were those men?”

Landberk wipes the sweat from his forehead, his breathing uneven. “I—I don’t know! I swear! I just handle accounts, not people!”

Sofia leans against the wall, arms crossed. “You handled money for someone who can order hits in broad daylight. That makes you more than just an accountant, Landberk.”

He shakes his head rapidly. “They were supposed to be anonymous! Offshore clients—encrypted transactions—”

Leon interrupts, his voice low, controlled. “Anonymous to the world, maybe. But not to you.” He picks up a wrench from the table, twirling it between his fingers, the metallic clink echoing in the empty space. “You transferred millions through channels so hidden even our systems struggled to trace them. Tell me something useful, or I start breaking the things you value most—starting with your silence.”

Benjamin swallows hard, glancing between them. “Leon, maybe we should—”

Leon doesn’t even turn. “Not now.”

Felix crosses his arms. “Baumann said he’s valuable. Try not to kill him before we know why.”

Sofia sighs softly, pushing off the wall. “Leon’s not going to kill him. He just likes watching people sweat before they talk.”

Leon’s cold gaze stays fixed on Landberk. “Then let’s see how long he lasts.”

Landberk’s trembling hands fumble for his inhaler again. He takes a wheezing breath, then finally speaks. “There was… one client. He called himself Dove Rouge. All communication was one-way. No questions, no returns. He sent me encrypted orders for fund transfers—large ones. Then two days ago, he sent a message.”

“What message?” Leon asks, his voice quieter now.

Landberk’s eyes dart nervously. “Coordinates. In the Mediterranean. I didn’t open them—I swear! I only noticed the attachment format. It wasn’t text—it was audio. A sound file.”

Sofia frowns. “Audio?”

Landberk nods. “Yes. Like sonar or… underwater frequencies. It didn’t make sense. I thought it was a mistake.”

Felix whistles low. “Underwater frequencies? Sounds a little too close to the Frostfield incident, don’t you think?”

Leon glances at him, then back at Landberk. “What else?”

“That’s all I know,” Landberk insists. “Please—you have to protect me. They’ll come for me. They always come.”

Leon studies him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he sets the wrench down and steps back. “They already did,” he says. “You’re alive because we got there first. Don’t waste that luck.”

Sofia sits across from Landberk, her tone softer now. “We can’t protect you forever. But if you help us find who’s behind Dove Rouge, maybe we can stop this before another city burns.”

Landberk stares at the floor, his face pale. “You don’t understand… they’re not just rich. They’re connected. They own politicians, banks, entire military units. You can’t stop them.”

Leon’s eyes harden. “Watch me.”

Silence falls. Somewhere outside, a dog barks, distant and hollow. Benjamin taps rapidly on his tablet, scanning the frequencies in the area. “No signal traces. Whoever attacked us, they’re gone—or regrouping.”

Felix stretches his neck. “We should move again before nightfall.”

Leon shakes his head. “Not yet. They expect us to run. We stay put, regroup, and find out what’s in that audio file.”

Benjamin glances up. “Assuming Landberk still has it.”

Landberk nods quickly. “I—I backed up all my data to an offline drive at my office. It’s encrypted, but I can access it.”

Sofia looks unimpressed. “So we go back to the place everyone already tried to kill you.”

Leon’s tone doesn’t waver. “Then we go quiet. In and out before anyone notices.” He turns toward Benjamin. “Get Elara on the line. Tell her to prep decryption for an underwater audio file.”

Benjamin nods, already dialing through the secured comm link. Static hisses before Elara’s voice filters through, brisk and irritated. “If this isn’t about Frostfield, I’m hanging up.”

“It is,” Leon replies.

A pause. Then: “Good. I’m listening.”

Benjamin forwards the technical details from Landberk’s statement. “Audio format encrypted through multi-wave sonar pattern. Possibly coordinates embedded in pulse frequency.”

Elara’s tone sharpens. “Sonar encryption? That’s military-grade. Whoever designed that file isn’t just rich—they’re ghosts with clearance.”

Leon folds his arms. “Can you crack it?”

“I can try,” she replies. “But if it’s what I think it is… this isn’t about money anymore. It’s a signal.”

Leon exchanges a look with Sofia. “A signal for what?”

Elara hesitates. “For something that’s still moving underwater.”

The line goes dead.

For a long moment, nobody speaks. The sound of the wind outside fills the silence, whispering through the cracks of the old garage.

Felix exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Well… that’s comforting.”

Sofia smirks faintly, though her eyes are distant. “Paris, Madrid, Frostfield… it’s all connected. And whatever this Dove Rouge is—it’s watching us move like pieces on a board.”

Leon stares out the grimy window, his reflection staring back like a stranger. “Then it’s time we flipped the board.”

The silence stretches again, heavy and electric, until Benjamin’s soft voice breaks it. “Leon… what if Elara’s right? What if this isn’t just a message?”

Leon doesn’t turn. “Then we stop it before the next city drowns.”

Outside, the first drops of rain begin to fall, splattering against the metal roof of the garage. The sky darkens above Paris. Inside, Leon’s shadow stretches long across the floor—silent, steady, unyielding. The kind of shadow that doesn’t vanish when the lights go out.

The rain outside grows heavier, each drop hitting the tin roof like the ticking of a distant clock counting down to something inevitable. The safehouse smells of dust and tension, the air thick with exhaustion and adrenaline. Felix sits against the wall cleaning his weapon, Sofia stands by the cracked window keeping watch, and Benjamin hunches over his laptop, the glow of the screen painting his tired face in pale blue. Leon walks toward the water dispenser, fills a paper cup, and quietly hands it to Landberk.

“Here,” Leon says softly. “Drink. And… I’m sorry.”

Landberk looks up, surprised by the apology. His hands still tremble, but he accepts the cup with a small nod. “You were just doing your job,” he murmurs, voice unsteady. “I understand.”

Leon pulls a chair and sits across from him. His tone is calmer now, though his eyes remain sharp, dissecting every flicker of Landberk’s expression. “Let’s start over. You said you handled accounts for several clients. Tell me about your employer — the one before you started working for… them.”

Landberk takes a long breath. “My boss was named Dr. Dimitri Patchenkov,” he says slowly. “He was… meticulous, paranoid even. Kept everything double-locked, encrypted, hidden behind layers of systems even I couldn’t access. A week ago, he died in that Harva Air crash. At least, that’s what they said.”

Leon’s gaze narrows. “Harva Air…”

The name cuts through the air like a blade. Benjamin looks up from his laptop, recognition dawning in his eyes. Sofia turns too, her voice quiet. “The same flight from Moscow to Paris… the one that fell over the Alps.”

Landberk nods. “Yes. Everyone called it a tragedy. I believed it too. Until now.”

Leon leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the trembling man. “That wasn’t an accident,” he says flatly. “That plane didn’t fall — it was brought down.”

The words hang in the air like smoke. Landberk’s face drains of color. “My God…” he whispers.

Benjamin’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. “If Patchenkov was your superior… then he must’ve known something he wasn’t supposed to.”

“Exactly,” Leon replies, his voice cold, certain. “They silenced him. Which means he wasn’t just transferring money. He was involved. Maybe not by choice.”

Landberk stares down at his cup, his reflection rippling in the water. “Before he left, he sent me a file,” he says quietly. “Told me to lock it away, to never open it. It contained client lists, payment channels… everything he handled in the last six months. Including the transfers made to a code name I’d never seen before — The Red Dove.”

Benjamin looks up sharply. “You still have it?”

Landberk nods and reaches into his coat. His hand emerges holding a small silver flash drive, scratched and dented, but intact. “This is everything,” he says, his voice trembling. “The money, the names, the accounts. If they’re looking for anything… it’s this.”

Leon takes it from him, his grip firm but careful, as though he’s holding a live explosive. He glances at Benjamin. “Open it.”

Benjamin plugs the drive into his laptop, his fingers dancing over the keyboard as layers of encryption unfold like locks in a vault. Sofia kneels beside him, her eyes narrowing at the strings of symbols appearing on the screen.

“What the hell is this?” she mutters. “It’s not even in one language.”

Benjamin frowns, his brow furrowed in concentration. “No… it’s coded across several languages. French, Russian, Hebrew, even fragments of Mandarin. The numbers aren’t random either. They’re coordinates.”

Felix looks up from the corner. “Coordinates to what?”

Benjamin doesn’t answer. His eyes dart across the screen, decoding patterns, merging symbols. Suddenly, his fingers freeze. One name begins to form from the mess of letters and numbers — clear, deliberate.

ALAN BAXTON.

Sofia blinks, reading it aloud. “Alan Baxton? Who the hell is that?”

Benjamin begins searching. His voice is quiet but quick, nervous. “Cross-referencing… CIA files, black ops… Jesus Christ. There’s barely anything here. No photo, no trace. Just one record — classified operations in Eastern Europe, 2018.”

Felix whistles low. “2018? That’s the year the world almost lost its mind. The near–World War incident.”

Benjamin nods slowly, eyes still on the screen. “He was there. He was part of it.”

Before he can finish, Leon’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. “He’s dead.”

Everyone turns to him. The rain intensifies outside, a low rumble of thunder following seconds later.

Benjamin frowns. “How do you know that?”

Leon doesn’t blink. “Because I killed him.”

The room falls silent. Only the soft hum of Benjamin’s laptop remains. Landberk stares at Leon as if seeing him for the first time — not as an agent, but as something else entirely.

Sofia’s voice breaks the stillness, soft but sharp. “Pripyat.”

Leon nods once. “Chernobyl Exclusion Zone. Two years ago. Baxton went rogue. He was trying to trigger an automated missile launch — twenty-seven nuclear warheads targeting major capitals. He believed he could ‘reset’ the global order.”

Felix mutters under his breath. “And you stopped him.”

Leon’s gaze drifts, his eyes distant, haunted. “I stopped the missiles. Barely. He and I fought in the reactor tunnels. He was fast — strong — but his mind was already gone. He kept saying something about ‘The Red Dove.’ Said it would finish what he couldn’t.”

Benjamin’s voice trembles. “So this—” he points to the name glowing on the laptop “—this isn’t coincidence.”

Leon shakes his head slowly. “No. The Red Dove isn’t new. It’s something Baxton left behind. Maybe an organization. Maybe a legacy. Whatever it is… it’s not finished.”

Thunder cracks above the city, echoing through the metal rafters. The lights flicker. Sofia moves closer to the laptop, her reflection blending with the screen’s glow. “If Baxton’s ghost still moves through the system, then someone’s using his network — his people, his codes.”

Felix loads his pistol, the metallic sound echoing in the tense silence. “Then we’re not chasing a man. We’re chasing a ghost army.”

Leon stands, staring at the rain sliding down the window. His voice is low, calm, but it carries the weight of the storm outside. “Baxton died believing the world needed to burn to be reborn. Whoever carries his name now… they believe the same thing.”

Benjamin closes the laptop slowly, his hands trembling. “Leon… if this is true, then The Red Dove didn’t just inherit Baxton’s mission. They inherited HADES.”

Leon turns, his face half-lit by the flicker of the weak neon sign. “Then they’ll find out what happens when the ghosts of the past meet the men still willing to fight them.”

The thunder rolls again, shaking the walls. Outside, Paris disappears beneath the curtain of rain. Inside, the five of them sit in the dim safehouse — tired, bruised, but alive — as a new shadow begins to take form in the distance.

And in that silence between storms, Leon’s eyes linger on the screen — on the name Alan Baxton — as if it were a grave that refused to stay closed.

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