Hannah Adler, 24. April 2025

  Hannah Adler’s morning began with precision — almost mathematically exact.

  She rose at the first sound of the alarm, movements free of hesitation. On the chair beside her bed waited the clothes delivered from dry cleaning the night before: a gray blouse, dark trousers, a fine wool blazer. All in tones that didn’t draw attention — but commanded presence.

  In the mirror, the same ritual repeated as every morning: a few strokes of the brush, shadow across her eyelids, a clean, deliberate line. Last came the heavy gold medallion engraved with runes, settling against her collarbone like armor.

  She picked up her keys and bag from the dresser, left the apartment, and — as always — stopped by the small café on the corner. The barista didn’t need to ask. The order was memorized. The moment he saw her, he prepared two coffees.

  On her way to work, she picked up Leonid.

  “Right on the second,” he said, taking his cup as he slid into the passenger seat.

  “Silence until the first coffee,” she replied.

  They drove toward the central building of the Amber Directorate.

  In the office, folders, stamps, and forms awaited them. Paper after paper. Line after line. Left hand signing, right hand initialing.

  Somewhere between the second and third hour, the door opened and Anton entered.

  “Morning,” he muttered, collapsing into the chair across from them, tossing his backpack onto the desk.

  Then he grabbed a stamp and joined the rhythm.

  The steady cadence of keyboard clicks, the dull thud of stamps hitting paper, the scratch of pens formed the familiar background symphony of the Amber Directorate — until the door opened again.

  The sound of metal against metal cut through the room, and the figure in the doorway filled the air with authority before she even spoke.

  “We have a mission.”

  Vivian didn’t demand attention. She possessed it. Ceiling light slid down her shoulders clad in satin the color of smoldering bronze; each step echoed sharply, like a tempo imposed on everyone around her.

  They all looked at her at once. Then, without a word, they rose and followed her down the corridor.

  In the briefing room, Vivian paused until everyone had taken their seats. With a flick of her hand, the projector came alive. A yellow beam sliced through the dimness.

  “Yesterday, during an official trip abroad, one of our speakers and political figures was killed. Mr. Riley.”

  On the screen appeared the face of a man in a suit, smiling — a face they had all seen on television, in newspapers, on billboards.

  “By order of the Government,” Vivian continued, her voice stripped of warmth or pitch — a pure instrument of fact, “Amber Directorate is taking over the case. Objective: identify and detain the perpetrator or perpetrators.”

  Anton opened the file before him and paused. The crime scene photographs were raw. In one, blood had formed a stain in the shape of something almost like a fingerprint.

  In another, light reflecting off shattered glass looked disturbingly like an eye.

  His stomach turned. He glanced across the table — at Leonid and Hannah — searching for some sign that the images affected them too.

  There was none.

  Leonid flipped through the photos with a hand over his mouth, his expression clinically calm. Hannah read the text line by line, her gaze passing over the photographs with the calculated detachment she wore whenever she had to suppress everything human inside her.

  Vivian’s voice cut through the silence again.

  “On the ground, you will cooperate with local authorities,” she said, shutting off the projector, “as well as two of our agents who are already waiting.”

  A muted murmur rippled through the room.

  Everyone looked at her when she spoke the names.

  “John Everest and Theona Grey.”

  Anton smiled — quietly, sincerely.

  He had worked with John and Hannah on the yacht Pearl. Without question, it had been the most thrilling mission he had ever experienced. He remembered John’s stories about cross-border operations — reckless improvisations that ended in applause or explosions. Often both.

  Excitement flickered in his chest. His fists clenched under the table. His gaze shifted toward Hannah and Leonid.

  Hannah wore the faintest smile — not visible on her lips, but in her eyes. This time, however, it didn’t seem meant for John. It was for Leonid.

  Leonid, meanwhile, had already covered his face with both hands, rubbed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair, releasing a long, resigned sigh.

  Vivian pulled three plane tickets from the folder and placed them in front of them.

  “The flight is tonight,” she said. “You’ll receive the rest of the details on-site.”

  She closed the folder and added, as she walked away:

  “Good luck.”

  The door shut behind her. Only the faint trace of her perfume and the soft hum of the cooling projector remained.

  Anton was the first to arrive at the airport. He sat on one of the hard plastic chairs in the corner of the waiting area, his knee bouncing nervously, creating a subtle rhythm somewhere between excitement and dread. A bag of chips rested in his hand; he ate without appetite, more to occupy himself while his thoughts raced.

  His gaze drifted toward the runway beyond the glass, where the tarmac stretched beneath pale moonlight.

  He had brought only what fit into his backpack. A tracksuit and a hoodie, the hood pulled over his slightly messy blond curls. He had never flown before. Buses were complicated enough — and he hated those too.

  He had reached the airport by asking strangers and taxi drivers for directions, somehow arriving earlier than expected.

  The sound of footsteps across tile broke the monotony of the hall.

  Hannah approached, holding a vending-machine coffee in one hand and pulling a suitcase with the other. Her long black hair was tied in a high, sleek bun — not a single strand out of place. Dressed as always — white blouse, dark trousers, low-heeled boots — she looked as though chaos did not exist in her world.

  Watching her, Anton thought that she radiated professionalism wherever she stepped. It didn’t matter what she wore or where she stood — everything around her seemed to align, as if the world only found rhythm when she walked through it.

  She sat opposite him, placed the coffee beside her, and pulled her phone from her pocket. Her fingers moved quickly across the screen. A short message sent. Then she looked up at him.

  “Did you pack the relic the way I explained?”

  Anton nodded.

  “Yes. In the black velvet box.”

  He hesitated, glanced at the floor, then back at her.

  “But why can’t I just carry it in my pocket? Like before?”

  Hannah showed not the slightest trace of a smile.

  “Relics are prohibited on aircraft,” she said calmly, as if reciting policy. “Of course, the Directorate operates under different regulations.”

  She lifted her coffee, took a sip, and continued without pause.

  “Every relic must be registered and stored in a secured case. We reclaim them upon landing. Clean, verified, and out of public sight.”

  Anton nodded again, though his attention drifted somewhere between her voice and the aircraft visible through the glass wall. He reached for another chip, bit down quietly, and remained lost in thought.

  More footsteps approached down the long corridor.

  The sound was heavy but even — as if the man walking never hurried, but time hurried toward him.

  Leonid appeared in the doorway frame, a bag slung over his good shoulder, his other hand casually tucked into his pocket. A familiar half-smile played on his face, never quite reaching full expression.

  He wore dark trousers and a plain gray T-shirt, no markings, no insignia — yet the way he carried himself made it unmistakable: a soldier’s composure in civilian clothes.

  He approached them, stopped beside Hannah, and sat in the chair next to her. Crossing one leg over the other, he rested his arm casually along the back of her seat — informal, as though this were routine, not a mission.

  “How’s it going, chessmaster?” he said, eyes sliding toward Anton. “First flight, huh?”

  Anton nodded once. Then again, as if confirming it to himself as much as to them.

  Leonid chuckled softly at the nervous enthusiasm, then stood and extended his hand toward him.

  “Alright. Give me the box, kid.”

  Anton immediately reached into his backpack and pulled out the black velvet box, carefully — as if holding something alive.

  At the same time, Hannah retrieved hers. Her movement was clean, precise, without wasted motion.

  Leonid stacked their boxes one atop the other, placing his own on top, balancing them as though they were porcelain.

  “I’ll drop these off,” he said, already turning, his tone leaving no room for questions.

  He walked down the corridor at an unhurried pace. Fluorescent lights slid across his shoulders, shifting his skin tone from warm to cold as he moved away.

  “See you on the plane,” he added without looking back.

  Anton followed him with his eyes, bit into another chip, and murmured quietly — more to himself than to Hannah:

  “Feels like we’re really going.”

  Hannah didn’t respond.

  She adjusted her sleeve, glanced at the departure board, and said:

  “Fifteen minutes to boarding.”

  The cabin smelled of metal, plastic, and a faint trace of coffee. Anton sat by the window, pressed close to the glass, eyes wide open. Outside, the runway lights flickered in steady intervals, as if someone were measuring his heartbeat. His hands rested on the armrests, fingers trembling slightly — not from fear, but from excitement.

  Hannah sat beside him, calm as if this were just another day at the office. A folder lay across her lap, unopened. She glanced at Anton briefly, half a breath suspended between concern and question.

  “Seatbelt fastened?”

  “Yes.” He nodded.

  “Good,” she said, adjusting the strap so it didn’t cut across his neck.

  Leonid appeared at the last moment, wearing a smile that never suggested urgency — even though he always arrived just in time. He shoved his bag into the overhead compartment, slammed it shut with a quick motion, and took the aisle seat.

  “Everyone ready?” he said, leaning back. “Anton, if you throw up, use the bag. Not me.”

  Anton laughed but didn’t look away from the window.

  “I won’t. I think I could watch this forever.”

  “One of my friends said that too,” Leonid muttered, “right before the plane dropped thirty meters.”

  Anton turned to him, horrified.

  Hannah cut in calmly, “Ignore him.”

  At that moment, the flight attendant’s voice filled the cabin — soft, rehearsed.

  “Please fasten your seatbelts and ensure your seats are in the upright position. In case of emergency—”

  Anton watched her as if she were casting a spell, his eyes jumping from one illuminated symbol on the ceiling to another.

  “Imagine,” he whispered, “if those masks really drop down.”

  “Don’t imagine,” Hannah said sharply, though there was something gentle beneath the edge of her voice — like an adult hiding a smile from a child.

  Leonid stretched, draping his arm casually behind their seats.

  “If the plane goes down, kid, grab Hannah’s folder. She can discipline gravity.”

  Anton laughed again. Hannah rolled her eyes.

  The engines roared louder. The cabin trembled. Through the window, the runway began sliding past like a river of light.

  Anton inhaled sharply as the plane lifted from the ground, then immediately turned to Hannah.

  “We’re in the air!”

  “I know,” she replied.

  In that one simple word lived everything — care, patience, and a quiet pride she would never voice aloud.

  Leonid leaned closer, as if confiding a secret.

  “Welcome to the heights, chessmaster. From up here the world looks smaller — but the problems stay the same size.”

  Anton smiled, resting his head against the window, watching the clouds part. Outside, everything turned white. Inside, it was warm and quiet — their small cabin suspended somewhere between earth and sky.

  Morning greeted them with the scent of water and rust. The city was half-asleep, wrapped in gray steam rising from canals and spilling into narrow streets. The taxi glided over small bridges and cobbled passages. Through the windows, kayaks bobbed lazily beside moss-covered walls. The buildings were low, pressed close together as if leaning on each other to avoid falling into the water.

  The colors faded in the early light — ochre, brick-red, weathered blue — washed by time but still alive. The smell of salt, damp wood, and coffee drifted from every corner. Somewhere in the distance, chains clinked against boats, and occasionally a bicycle bell rang or a fish vendor called out while opening his stall. The city breathed slower than they did — in the rhythm of water.

  Anton stared through the window as though trying to memorize every shade.

  “This place smells like it hasn’t decided whether it’s water or land,” he murmured.

  Leonid exhaled a quiet laugh.

  “That makes it the perfect place to disappear.”

  Hannah looked ahead through the windshield, her eyes tracking the street as it vanished between bridges. Sunlight pushed gently through the mist, water reflecting it like fractured glass.

  The taxi stopped at the end of a narrow street in front of a hotel with a faded stone fa?ade and golden letters barely clinging to their shine:

  Hotel Luna.

  Inside, the hotel hummed with ventilation and the faint scent of wax. Smooth marble walls framed by bronze columns. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their glass threads shimmering like drops of morning dew.

  The reception desk was narrow but immaculate. Behind it stood a man in an ivory uniform, dark circles under his eyes betraying that he had been awake far too long.

  Hannah approached without a word, retrieved a black leather identification wallet from her purse, and placed it on the counter.

  The receptionist glanced at the Directorate emblem and straightened immediately.

  “Miss Adler,” he said with a slight bow, his voice carrying the soft melody of the local language.

  Anton didn’t understand a word of what followed, but the way Hannah spoke made everything clear — calm, authoritative, someone who knew exactly where she was and why.

  The receptionist placed three metal keys on the counter, each bearing the hotel emblem and an engraved room number.

  Leonid was already a step ahead.

  He picked them up, nodded to the receptionist like an old acquaintance, and in the same motion grabbed Hannah’s suitcase and his own bag.

  “I’ve got these,” he said, heading down the hallway.

  Then he glanced over his shoulder with a teasing smirk.

  “Come on, kid, you don’t expect me to carry your backpack too, do you?”

  Anton blinked in confusion for a second, then grabbed his pack and hurried after him, his footsteps echoing against the corridor walls.

  Hannah shook her head, though for a brief second, a smile lingered at the corner of her lips before she masked it.

  Upstairs, the hallway smelled faintly of lavender. The carpet swallowed their steps. Antique brass numbers gleamed under dim light.

  Anton opened his room, tossed his backpack onto the bed, and paused to look at himself in the mirror — his face tired, but his eyes still bright.

  When he stepped back into the hallway, Leonid was exiting Hannah’s room, key spinning between his fingers.

  “All set?” Anton asked.

  “All set,” Leonid nodded, locking his own door.

  “So where’s John meeting us?”

  Leonid grinned, throwing an arm around Anton’s shoulders as they walked down the corridor.

  “Where do you think he always waits?”

  “No idea.”

  “The restaurant, of course. Where else would John Everest start his day?”

  Anton laughed. Their laughter cut through the quiet elegance of the hallway. Behind them, hotel doors closed softly. Ahead of them waited the first real trace of the mission — and John’s smile, which always meant trouble.

  The restaurant was almost empty. Only the clatter of dishes from the kitchen and the smell of coffee drifting between the tables filled the space.

  Anton and Leonid paused at the entrance. Before them unfolded a scene any photographer would want to capture: Hannah and John, seated across from each other like two worlds colliding — and somehow still orbiting the same gravity.

  In front of Hannah sat only a small plate with an untouched croissant and a cup of coffee. She sat upright, one hand resting lightly on the table, her gaze calm — not lifeless, but controlled.

  John, on the other hand, was pure contrast.

  Plates crowded his side of the table — empty ones, half-finished ones, and fresh ones just arriving. Fried eggs. A slice of watermelon. Thin cuts of dried meat. Something like pancakes dripping with honey. He talked and ate at the same time, mouth half full, gesturing wildly and laughing while his violet pupils trembled as if they couldn’t keep up with his own energy. His smile hovered somewhere between charm and chaos.

  Hannah listened with a half-smile that flickered on and off like a reflex. Whenever John became too animated, she would lower her gaze, take a sip of coffee, or rest her fingers lightly over her lips — trying to contain a smile that slipped free exactly when she didn’t want it to.

  Leonid didn’t announce himself. He simply pulled out a chair beside Hannah and sat down with the ease of someone entering his own home. Anton followed, slightly uncertain but visibly excited, and took the seat next to him.

  John noticed them immediately. His face lit up.

  “There you are, kid!” he boomed, far too cheerfully. “How was the flight?”

  Anton grinned and shrugged.

  “Great! I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen clouds from above.”

  John laughed loudly, ruffled Anton’s hair, then turned toward Leonid.

  “And you, Frost?” he asked, tearing off a piece of bread. “How are you? Back from sick leave?”

  Leonid was pulling a cigarette from the pack — slow, almost lazy. He lit it, inhaled, and replied through the smoke.

  “Work doesn’t know what sick leave is.”

  John nodded, swallowing his bite.

  “That’s the spirit,” he said — the smile hovering somewhere between praise and mockery.

  Anton watched them like he was observing a stage performance.

  Hannah shifted her gaze between them, then lowered it back to her coffee. For a moment she looked like the only adult at the table — the only one aware that this breakfast would very soon turn into chaos.

  The restaurant doors swung open suddenly, letting in a sharp breath of cold air. Heels struck marble. Not the delicate, careful kind — but steps that knew they had the right to be heard.

  Theona Grey entered as if stepping onto her own stage.

  Long brown hair flowed down her back. Her coat hung carelessly off one shoulder like a trophy. Her dress was tight, dark, elegant — but the way she moved suggested she could shoulder down a wall if necessary. In her hand was a golden cigarette holder. A thin column of smoke curled upward from it, scented faintly of vanilla and metal. Runes engraved along its length shimmered faintly.

  The first thing she did was plant both hands firmly on Leonid’s shoulders — no warning.

  He jolted as if electrocuted. The cigarette trembled between his fingers.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” she purred, laughter in her voice like metal clashing with wine. “Still tense, I see.”

  “Theona,” Leonid exhaled, pressing his forehead into his palm, “you could try approaching like a normal human being. Just once.”

  “You’re cute when you complain,” she replied, circling him before dropping into a chair across from the table. She swung one leg up onto the table without asking, ignoring John’s look and Hannah’s silence.

  John grinned widely.

  “You’re late.”

  “I arrive exactly when I intend to,” she replied coolly, removing the cigarette from the holder.

  Smoke drifted up across the scar cutting through her eyebrow and down her cheek.

  Then her eyes landed on Anton.

  She sized him up from head to toe as if calculating how much weight he could carry.

  “And you must be the rookie,” she said with a smirk. “Sweet little thing.”

  Before he could react, she leaned forward and pinched his cheek — gently, but with a strength that didn’t request permission.

  Anton flinched. His face flushed red.

  “Where does Amber find you? Do they recruit based on smiles?”

  Leonid rolled his eyes.

  “Theona, don’t.”

  “What? I’m just reviewing the selection,” she replied, her smile less joke than challenge.

  Hannah set down her coffee cup and looked at Theona.

  Her voice was mild — but sharp enough to cut through any game.

  “Glad you made it. We have a serious case.”

  Theona exhaled smoke, dropped the cigarette holder onto the table, and nodded.

  “Good. I was getting bored with easy jobs.” Her eyes sharpened. “Let’s see who decided to dip their hands into politics this time.”

  At that moment the restaurant seemed to wake up around them. A waiter passed with a tray. A cup clinked somewhere in the distance.

  But the weight of the room remained centered on their table. The team was complete. Each of them, in their own way, ready to begin.

  The café sat along the canal, wedged between two leaning buildings whose upper walls nearly touched. Outside the entrance, a strip of Amber Directorate tape fluttered in the damp wind.

  Inside, it was cold. The air smelled of dust, stale steam, and wine that had been spilled too long ago for anyone to bother cleaning.

  The body was already gone. Only the traces remained — a chair overturned on its side, a shattered glass fused to the floor, blood dried into a thin arc across the dark wooden planks. Two empty plates sat on the counter, along with the ash of a cigarette. Everything else felt suspended, as if time had frozen in place, waiting for someone brave enough to set it moving again.

  John entered first, lifting the tape to let the others pass. His gaze swept the walls, the floor, the ceiling, his lips barely moving as he muttered under his breath.

  “No signs of struggle,” he said after a brief silence. “It was over fast.”

  “As if he either knew… or was caught completely off guard,” Hannah added.

  Anton stood near the bar, hands tucked into his pockets, staring at the blood. It was dark — almost black — spread in an irregular shape.

  Theona was already kneeling, lifting one of the tables and checking underneath.

  “Hit from behind,” she said. “Precise. Sharp. No scuffle. No drag marks.”

  Leonid stood by the window, cigarette smoking between his fingers.

  “So. A public figure murdered in a café. No witnesses. In a city full of tourists.”

  “Sounds familiar,” John replied with a humorless smile.

  Hannah approached the counter and lightly touched the rim of a glass. The gesture was careful — almost gentle — as if she were speaking to the objects.

  “The energy here is unstable,” she said quietly.

  Anton held his breath. And she was right. The air felt thick, like something still writhed within it — like the room remembered.

  “A relic?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Theona straightened up, brushed her hand against her dress, and slid her cigarette back into its golden holder.

  “Whoever did this wasn’t an amateur. And they knew exactly where to strike.”

  “And who to strike,” Leonid added, looking out through the glass where early pedestrians were beginning to gather.

  John stepped toward the window, watching his violet eyes reflect faintly in the pane.

  “Then, ladies and gentlemen,” he said slowly, “we’re in a city hiding a murder… and a missing relic.”

  Silence followed.

  Only the drip of water from a pipe and the distant sound of a kayak gliding through the canal.

  “Alright, amateurs — outside.”

  Theona’s voice cut through the air, deep and rough, a thin stream of smoke rising from her lips. The cigarette holder gleamed in the dim light. Her gaze didn’t linger on anyone in particular — she simply commanded.

  Hannah moved toward the exit immediately. John gave a short nod and followed, his half-smile more acknowledgment than joke.

  Anton remained frozen for a second, unsure if he’d done something wrong. Leonid stepped beside him, draped an arm casually over his shoulders, and guided him toward the door.

  “Come on, kid,” he said calmly. “When Theona says outside, even the walls listen.”

  The moment they stepped onto the street, the cold air hit them. The wind carried moisture from the canal. The city was waking — trash bins scraping, birds stirring, footsteps crossing a bridge.

  Through the café’s shuttered windows, white light suddenly spilled out. Sharp. Pulsing. Alive. Anton instinctively shielded his eyes, pale reflection washing across his face.

  “What is Theona doing?” he asked, looking at Leonid.

  Leonid calmly pulled a cigarette from his pack, lit it, and took a slow drag without taking his eyes off the building.

  “Let’s review, kid.”

  Anton straightened, attention sharpening instantly.

  Leonid rested a hand on his shoulder.

  “How do ‘abnormal’ relics differ from the others?”

  Anton frowned slightly, fingers brushing his chin as he sorted his thoughts.

  “They’re both offensive and defensive… but they also possess a unique ability other relics don’t,” he answered carefully.

  Leonid nodded dramatically and pointed at him with a grin.

  “Bingo! You’ve seen my lady of darkness, right?”

  “Nyx?” Anton asked.

  “Exactly.” Leonid exhaled smoke through his teeth. “Classified as ‘abnormal.’ Strong in attack and defense, sure — but her true power is utility. She can create a smoke veil, conceal presence, disable cameras, or lull people to sleep with a whisper. I once watched an entire nightclub go silent in seconds.”

  Anton nodded eagerly. He remembered that mission — Nyx had put the guard to sleep. Not a single camera caught them.

  Hannah stepped beside them, pulled the cigarette from Leonid’s fingers, and took a drag.

  “Theona’s relic has a specific power too,” she added.

  Leonid didn’t protest — he simply pulled out another cigarette and lit it with the same flame.

  Hannah’s gaze remained fixed on the pulsing light still flickering through the café windows.

  “Hers can rewind time,” she said calmly. “When she observes a scene, she can play it backward — up to three days, if I recall correctly. That’s how she’ll see how the politician was killed.”

  Anton stared at her as if she were describing gods.

  “So… she can see the past?”

  “If she wants to.”

  Inside, the light flickered once more — like a camera flash — and then vanished.

  Leonid flicked his cigarette into the canal. The smoke dissolved into the morning mist.

  “There you go, chess player,” he said. “Now you know what it looks like when time decides to tell the truth.”

  The café door creaked open.

  Theona stepped out, coat still hanging from one shoulder, cigarette holder glowing faintly at the tip.

  “Done,” she said.

  Her voice was rough but steady.

  The others turned toward her.

  “And?” Hannah asked.

  Theona leaned against the canal railing, inhaled once more, and exhaled slowly.

  “The killer used a relic,” she said shortly. “The politician had one on him as well. That’s why he was killed.”

  Anton looked up immediately.

  “So… robbery?”

  “Robbery and evidence erasure,” she confirmed. “Whoever did it knew exactly what they were after. Took the relic and disappeared. It all happened in seconds. Mask. Black clothing. Loose fit. No visible face. The relic flashed brightly — strong burst of light — then nothing. Like it swallowed the light and left.”

  Leonid shrugged lightly, as if that kind of chaos was routine.

  “Sounds like someone who knows the rules of the game,” he remarked.

  They walked together along the canal, the city fully awake now. The scent of fish, baked dough, and fresh coffee drifted from market stalls, while bridges echoed with footsteps. The sun slowly pierced through the mist, and the water shimmered like glass.

  John was the first to derail the topic. He stopped in front of an ice cream stand and spread his arms wide as if standing before treasure.

  “Look at this!” he exclaimed. “Twenty flavors! They even have lavender!”

  Anton laughed and stepped closer as John pointed to each container one by one, completely serious — as if presenting evidence.

  “This one’s pistachio. See the color? Green like Frost when someone takes his cigarette.”

  Leonid raised an eyebrow.

  “Keep talking and you’ll see another color — black. Around your eye.”

  John laughed and waved at the vendor.

  “Two doubles, pistachio and caramel!” he ordered, shoving one into Anton’s hand.

  “No, I can’t—”

  “You can,” John cut him off. “Scientifically proven — sugar reduces stress after encountering a relic.”

  Leonid flicked him lightly on the head just as Anton took his first bite.

  “Scientifically proven that stupidity has no limits,” he muttered.

  Hannah watched from the side, arms crossed, but there was a quiet, unspoken smile in her eyes.

  “Alright,” she said finally. “Since we know the relic was the motive, I’ll pull records of every relic that crossed the border in the past month. Maybe we’ll find a lead.”

  “And until then?” Anton asked, wiping a drop of melting ice cream from his finger.

  John beat everyone to it, throwing his arms out dramatically.

  “Until then… we explore the city!”

  Theona laughed deeply, blowing smoke to the side.

  “If you survive my pace, sugar, you might deserve to stay on the team.”

  Anton looked at her, confused, but John was already moving ahead, turning back and waving them forward.

  Leonid sighed, lit another cigarette, and glanced at Hannah.

  “I don’t know what’s worse — relics, the killer, or this tourist division of the Directorate.”

  Hannah shrugged, but her gaze followed John and Anton as they were already buying something else. For the first time that morning, her smile didn’t try to hide.

  The city was fully alive now. Coffee and pastry scents floated through the air, and the canal water sparkled under sunlight finally free of the mist.

  John had officially become their guide.

  “You have to try this!” he insisted, dragging Anton toward a pastry display.

  “John, you’ve said that ten times,” Anton muttered, but he didn’t resist.

  Moments later he was chewing a slice of chocolate cake while John passionately explained the difference between “real Italian” and “fake Italian” cream.

  They hadn’t taken ten steps before John was pulling him toward a pizza stand, then toward a cart roasting almonds in caramel.

  “Just this one more thing! You have to!”

  Anton shook his head, stomach already protesting, but John did not recognize the concept of “enough.”

  Across the street, Theona leaned against a wall, waving her cigarette at them.

  “Kid!” she called to Anton. “Let me show you something more interesting than cake!”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Before he could ask what, she was already tugging at his sleeve, dragging him toward neon signs of bars and strip clubs.

  Anton flushed red, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

  “No, no, I really don’t have to—”

  Theona burst into loud laughter, drawing glances from passersby.

  “Oh, you do! If not now, when?!” she said, smacking his shoulder hard enough to nearly knock him off balance.

  John captured it all on camera.

  “Perfect shot,” he declared, pulling Anton into the center of the frame while he and Theona grinned behind him like two kids on a field trip.

  Anton sighed — but he couldn’t help smiling.

  A few steps behind them, Hannah and Leonid walked at a different rhythm.

  Their footsteps were quiet, synchronized.

  Leonid’s hands were in his pockets, cigarette between his lips, eyes scanning the narrow streets. Hannah walked with her arms folded, gaze fixed somewhere distant.

  “You worry too much, boss,” Leonid said softly but firmly.

  She lifted her chin, looked at him, exhaled slowly. A faint, almost invisible smile played at the corner of her mouth.

  “Yes. I probably do,” she replied — though neither of them believed that would ever truly change.

  They stopped in front of a luxury jewelry shop.

  Diamonds and gold glittered under artificial light, reflecting in the glass like frozen sparks. Hannah studied the display.

  Leonid stopped beside her, his gaze following hers.

  “Nice collection,” he remarked casually.

  “Watch them…” she said quietly, looking him straight in the eyes.

  Leonid frowned slightly, then slowly turned, following her glance across the street.

  On the other side, Theona, John, and Anton were laughing. A street musician played the violin. Ice cream melted down their fingers.

  “And you?” Leonid asked.

  Hannah gave a faint smile and lowered her gaze back to the display.

  “I have something to take care of.”

  Leonid took a drag, and as he turned away, he said under his breath with a half-smile,

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  The bell above the door chimed with a sharp, glassy sound as Hannah stepped into the store. Inside, it smelled of expensive perfume and wax, of chrome and polished display cases gleaming beneath white light. The walls were paneled in mahogany, and soft music without a melody played in the background — the kind you hear but never remember.

  The salesman, an older man with glasses sliding down his nose, looked up as the door closed.

  “Good afternoon,” he said politely — but his gaze lingered a second too long. Women like her did not walk in alone. Not this quietly.

  Hannah didn’t respond. She moved slowly between the display cases, her footsteps soundless on the thick carpet. For a brief moment, her fingers brushed the medallion beneath her shirt — the relic pulsing faintly but steadily, as if measuring time instead of a heartbeat.

  The salesman stepped closer.

  “May I assist you, miss?”

  Hannah studied the rows of rings and necklaces shimmering like frozen light.

  “Do you have something…” she paused, then lifted her dark eyes to his, “…more luxurious?”

  The man hesitated. He glanced around and gestured uncertainly toward the cases.

  “Miss, everything you see here is luxurious and unique—”

  Hannah opened her purse and withdrew a black card. She placed it on the glass counter. The sound echoed like crystal striking stone.

  “I said I need something more luxurious.”

  The salesman held his breath for a moment, then nodded and disappeared through a door behind the counter.

  She was alone in the silence that smelled faintly of gold. Under her fingers, the medallion pulsed stronger now — each beat like the distant mockery of Kai somewhere deep within.

  After several minutes, the salesman returned carrying a box. He placed it carefully on the counter and opened it. Inside lay a ring — delicate, yet unnaturally radiant. The gold refracted into hues that didn’t belong to nature, and the diamonds shone as if each held a captive drop of sunlight.

  “There are only three pieces,” he said proudly. “Unfortunately, all are already reserved.”

  Hannah examined the ring and nodded.

  “I’ll pay ten times the price.”

  The salesman forced a polite smile.

  “Miss, we have other equally exquisite pieces—”

  She interrupted him by removing her ID from her purse and placing it beside the card. The plastic touched glass. The name silenced him.

  His eyes widened as he read it.

  “Miss… Adler?”

  Hannah said nothing. She simply withdrew her hand.

  Everything changed in a second.

  “Of course,” he said immediately, his tone turning obedient. “How would you like it packaged?”

  “Discreetly.”

  He nodded and wrapped the box carefully in silk.

  Hannah placed it in her purse and turned toward the door without another word.

  As she stepped outside, wind from the canal breathed cold into the shop. Beneath her shirt, the medallion made the faintest sound — soft, clear. Satisfied.

  The hotel corridors echoed with muted footsteps. The lights glowed amber, and everything smelled of polished wood and expensive perfume. Their voices, which minutes earlier had been full of laughter and commentary about food, were fading now — worn down by the day.

  Theona claimed the last word. She stopped in front of Leonid, smiling, cigarette between her fingers. A spiral of smoke rose between them, the golden holder glinting beneath the hallway lights. She leaned close enough for him to feel the warmth of her perfume and smoke.

  “Leonid, sugar,” she said with a grin, her voice both challenge and joke, “if you can’t sleep tonight — you know where to find me.”

  Leonid stiffened. His shoulders tightened, and his gaze shifted away immediately.

  “I don’t know if I’ll lose sleep from insomnia or that image,” he muttered.

  Theona laughed deeply, genuinely, the scar on her cheek catching the light.

  “See you, pretty boy,” she said, brushing his chin lightly with her fingers.

  She turned and marched down the hallway, heels clicking sharply, waving behind her without looking back.

  Leonid stood frozen for a second longer — then, without thinking much about it, stepped behind Hannah and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, almost comically oversized compared to her smaller frame.

  “Protect me, boss,” he murmured, resting his forehead against the top of her head — half joke, half plea.

  Hannah exhaled softly, fighting a smile.

  “Since when do you turn down a woman’s invitation to bed?” she asked, her voice gentle but laced with familiar teasing.

  Leonid pulled her slightly closer, just enough to whisper by her ear.

  “Theona’s more like a brother than a woman.”

  Hannah laughed quietly without turning. She pressed her hands over his where they rested on her shoulders.

  “Good night,” she said softly, and gently slipped out of his hold.

  Leonid lingered a second longer, exhaled deeply, then headed toward his room.

  Anton had already disappeared inside his, overfed and exhausted, the window half open and crumpled city maps still scattered on the nightstand.

  John, on the other hand, was still wandering the hallway, whistling a melody that didn’t exist, carrying a slice of cake in his hand.

  The door closed behind Hannah softly — almost respectfully. The room was lit only by the pale glow from the street. Light fractured through the blinds in thin stripes, glimmering across the walls and the mirror above the bed.

  She stood in the middle of the room and simply breathed for a few seconds. The fatigue of the day. The weight of conversations. The shadows of the past. All of it hung in the air.

  She took the box from her bag and placed it carefully on the bed. Then she raised her hand and pressed the medallion resting against her chest.

  “Come, Kai,” she said gently.

  Golden light split the room. The walls seemed to bend. Shadows trembled as if afraid. From the radiance, a shape unfurled slowly — as though the air itself were becoming flesh. First a shadow. Then an outline. Then a man — or something meant to resemble one.

  Kai was already lying on her bed, as if he had been waiting. Propped on one arm, one leg lazily crossed over the other, his body shimmered with jewelry that chimed softly with every movement. Golden chains draped across his chest, thick bracelets coiled around his wrists and biceps, and his long hair — light itself — spilled over the pillow.

  Amusement flickered in his eyes.

  “Isn’t today the day?” he asked, his voice both echo and melody — a blend of whisper and thunder.

  Hannah nodded. The movement carried no emotion. She picked up the box.

  “Your monthly payment in expensive jewels,” she said simply, handing him the gift.

  Kai sat cross-legged like a spoiled child to whom every offering belonged. He opened the box, and light flooded the room again.

  The ring shone as if it held a captive star.

  “Beautiful!” he exclaimed, boyishly delighted.

  He tossed the box aside as though it were worthless and slid the ring onto his finger with theatrical care. The gold on his hands flared into a radiant symphony. Every stone shimmered with a different hue; every chain flowed like molten light.

  Kai rose and approached her, still smiling. His movements were light — almost dance-like.

  He wrapped an arm around her waist, brought his face close to hers, and pressed his nose lightly against hers, as if sharing breath.

  “Ah, you Adlers,” he whispered, his voice sliding over her like a silk serpent, “you truly have a taste for jewelry.”

  Light began to consume him from within. Golden, warm, pulsing, like the heart of the sun. His form dissolved; his lines blurred. The jewelry held its shine the longest before sinking back into the relic.

  Hannah remained alone in the room, still bathed for a moment in fading light. She sat on the edge of the bed and buried her face in her hands.

  “Another month,” she whispered, her voice unsure whether it was praying, remembering, or simply counting the days.

  Across the Border, 26. April 2025

  The sun was just breaking through the hotel windows, spilling in streaks across marble floors and glass surfaces. The scent of roasted coffee and butter drifted through the space, mixing with the discreet perfumes of passersby in suits.

  The restaurant was half empty, but those early minutes carried a rhythm of their own — subdued murmur, the rustle of newspapers, the occasional clink of plates.

  At their corner table by the window overlooking the canal and bridges, Theona arrived first.

  Beneath the coat hanging off one shoulder she wore a dress the color of aged wine, fabric pulled tight across her curves. In her hand burned a cigarette forbidden by every sign in the room. Smoke spiraled upward from the golden holder as she exhaled with the air of a woman who had never been told what to do. She sat like the room belonged to her.

  Leonid arrived minutes later. Sleepless nights marked his face, but never his movements. Holding a cup of coffee, he sat across from Theona and silently pushed aside the plate of croissants the waiter placed before him.

  Hannah appeared precisely at seven.

  Her figure — pressed, symmetrical — in a light blouse and dark trousers brought order even to the tables around her.

  When she sat down, the room seemed to quiet on its own.

  “Good morning,” she said flatly — less greeting, more signal that the day could begin.

  John and Anton arrived last — a pair of opposites.

  John with a half-smile and a tray overflowing with food. Anton with messy hair and a map stuffed with loose papers.

  “Look at this ensemble cast,” John said, setting down the tray. “Five elite agents who look like they spent the night somewhere between a casino and confession.”

  Theona laughed loudly, releasing smoke.

  “Speak for yourself, darling. I always look perfect.”

  Hannah opened a folder and let the papers spread across the table.

  “Eat. We have a schedule.”

  They fell silent immediately — an old reflex at her tone.

  “Theona,” she began without looking up, “you’re going to central police headquarters. You speak their language best. We need access to the reports.”

  “Of course, mother,” Theona replied, extinguishing her cigarette in the saucer with the tip of her nail.

  “John, you and Anton are going to the harbor. Check the cameras. Talk to security. Anyone who was there.”

  John bowed theatrically.

  “Understood. My apprentice and I will dismantle the criminal underworld.”

  Anton smiled nervously, hand still on his juice glass.

  “Of course. We’ll dismantle it.”

  Leonid glanced at him from beneath his brows.

  “Just don’t blow anything up.”

  Then he turned to Hannah.

  “And us?”

  “You and I are going to see the ambassador. He hosted the event. If anyone knows more than they’re allowed to say — it’s him.”

  Leonid smiled slowly — that half-smile that never quite revealed whether it was exhaustion or irony.

  “Diplomatic conversations with people who lie for a salary. My favorite kind of morning.”

  Hannah looked at each of them in turn.

  “Be careful,” she said quietly — but in a tone that lingered.

  Theona stood first, draped her coat over her shoulders, the golden cigarette holder flashing like a weapon.

  “Oh, this will be interesting,” she said, walking toward the exit in steps that smelled of scandal.

  John grabbed a pastry. Anton gathered his papers. Leonid finished his coffee in one last swallow.

  Hannah glanced at her watch.

  And as they rose one by one, the morning light in the restaurant grew brighter — relentless, as if announcing a day that would forgive no one.

  The harbor breathed in its own rhythm. Heavy metallic clangs of shifting containers echoed through the air, while somewhere in the distance steam hissed and waves slapped against concrete.

  Anton shivered unconsciously as they passed the first row of warehouses. The sun was shining, but here the light barely filtered between towers of iron and steel.

  John walked a step ahead of him, unhurried. His shirt was open at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his stride the confident gait of a man who knows people are watching — and that, sooner or later, they will tell him everything whether they want to or not.

  Anton tried to keep up, clutching a folder and map, careful not to step into a puddle of black water collected beneath a crane.

  “This is where he was last seen walking with his bodyguards,” John said, pointing toward the dock. His voice was calm, but sharp — like someone rearranging puzzle pieces.

  At the edge of the pier stood a worker in a dirty vest, cigarette hanging from his lips, his gaze sliding over them with a mixture of boredom and distrust.

  “Amber Directorate,” John said, flashing his badge.

  The man shrugged and crushed the cigarette against his own boot.

  “Don’t know anything,” he muttered.

  John stepped closer, wearing a soft smile that looked sincere — and yet made people sweat.

  “Everyone says that. Then they remember. Funny thing about memory, you know? It usually wakes up when it sees the right picture.”

  He pulled a photograph from the folder — the politician at a conference, smiling, alive, public.

  The worker’s gaze flickered for a second. He said nothing.

  Anton watched from the side, trying to decide whether that flicker was fear or discomfort.

  “Maybe someone else saw him,” Anton offered. “A guard, someone from the warehouse—”

  John shot him a sideways look and smiled faintly.

  “Easy, kid. Don’t jump ahead. If you ask too fast, you just hand people the words they should avoid.”

  Anton stepped back slightly, tightening his grip on the folder.

  John turned his attention back to the worker.

  “You said you don’t know anything. But I’m sure you know what fear looks like, right?”

  The man looked at him. Silent.

  John continued in a low voice, almost as if telling a story rather than conducting an interrogation.

  “Because someone here was afraid. I can see it in the marks. See this stain?” He pointed to a dark streak across the concrete. “That’s not motor oil. That’s from shoes that were running — not from workers who stand around. You know the difference, don’t you?”

  The man exhaled slowly, eyes dropping.

  “I saw… someone. Late at night. Black clothes. Hood. Just a silhouette. Not a worker. Moved fast… then disappeared behind the warehouse.”

  John nodded.

  “Good. That helps.”

  “Not much,” Anton muttered while jotting something down. “Black clothes, hood… that could be anyone.”

  “Exactly,” John replied. “But now we know it wasn’t random. Someone was following him.”

  They continued moving through the harbor, tracing steps, checking cameras, noting blind spots where wires had been cut.

  John paused at every trace, even when each one led to nothing.

  At one point Anton said,

  “So… nothing concrete.”

  “Concrete is a luxury,” John answered. “We work with shadows. They’re the cheapest thing around — and the most persistent.”

  They passed rows of containers, metal groaning in the wind.

  Anton paused for a moment and looked out at the sea. The surface was calm, but gray — and sometimes it almost seemed as if something beneath it was pulsing, breathing.

  John stepped beside him and, without looking at him, said:

  “You know, kid… when you’re in the right place at the wrong time — that’s the beginning of every investigation.”

  Anton turned toward him, wanting to ask what he meant, but John was already moving ahead, hands in his pockets. On the horizon, cranes rose like stripped skeletons, and seagulls circled above them, screaming.

  The embassy smelled of wax, wine, and lies. Heavy silk curtains hung over the windows, suffocating the daylight and turning the room into a stage of golden shadows. Morning sun filtered through glass bottles on the shelf, refracting into red reflections across the parquet floor and thin wine-colored streaks along the wall. A cigar burned on the mahogany desk — long extinguished, yet its smoke still lingered in the air.

  The ambassador stood by the window, leaning against the back of a chair, wearing the kind of smile reserved for men accustomed to owning everything. Rings glittered on his fingers.

  When Hannah and Leonid entered, his smile widened, his voice smooth with years of diplomacy.

  “Amber Directorate,” he said. “An honor, of course. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

  Hannah entered first, her steps soundless. Leonid settled beside her, leaning back with a half-smile that was both shield and weapon.

  The ambassador lowered himself into his armchair. His hand touched the wineglass, though he didn’t drink. He merely held it, as if it steadied him.

  “I am deeply sorry for the unfortunate event,” he began lightly. “Mr. Riley was a frequent guest in our country. A true friend.”

  Hannah studied him for several seconds, turning silence into interrogation.

  “We know you hosted the reception the evening before his death.”

  “Of course. Diplomacy requires social engagement.”

  “And that Mr. Riley left your residence alone, shortly after midnight.”

  “Yes. He said he was going to rest.”

  Leonid smiled faintly, glancing toward the window.

  “Sometimes a man doesn’t leave to rest. Sometimes he leaves to secure something.”

  The ambassador flinched — barely noticeable, but enough for the gold chain around his wrist to shift.

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “You understand perfectly,” Leonid replied calmly. “He was carrying a relic. More expensive than your annual budget. Then he’s dead.”

  Silence fell thick enough to cut.

  For a moment, the ambassador closed his eyes as if the light hurt. His ringed hand lowered to the desk, fingers trembling almost imperceptibly.

  “The Directorate enjoys sensationalism,” he said at last. “Relics, conspiracies, murders. It all sounds… theatrical, doesn’t it?”

  Hannah placed the folder on the desk and opened it. The room seemed to stiffen.

  Inside were photographs — Riley at the conference, wearing a gold chain.

  “It would be theatrical to claim you didn’t know what he was wearing,” she said coldly.

  The ambassador tried to maintain his smile, but his voice faltered.

  “That… is not my concern. I did not know—”

  “The law prohibits civilians from possessing relics,” she cut in. “And for you, as a state official, even knowledge of relic movement is forbidden. Unless you intended to… purchase it?”

  The words hung in the air.

  Leonid nodded slowly, as though confirming something already certain.

  “You didn’t plan to kill him,” he said. “You only wanted the relic transferred into ‘safer’ hands. To retain it under the guise of protection. And then your hired man exceeded his instructions.”

  The ambassador did not respond. He set down his wineglass too carefully. His breathing shortened, as if the room had shrunk.

  “Listen,” he said, losing diplomatic polish. “I know nothing about any hired man. If one exists, I did not—”

  “You didn’t pay him, of course,” Leonid interrupted. “The state did. With your authorization. You merely filed a request for ‘private assistance’ in documents no one reads.”

  Hannah did not move. She simply watched him — no threat in her gaze, only absolute certainty.

  “The law is clear,” she said quietly. “Illegal possession of a relic, in your case, is treated as treason.”

  The ambassador laughed — but it wasn’t laughter. It was a thin echo of panic.

  “You… you cannot prove that!”

  Leonid stood, lifted the wineglass, and watched light fracture through it.

  “We don’t have to. It’s enough that you’re no longer smiling.”

  Hannah closed the folder carefully, like concluding a lecture.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” she said, rising.

  Leonid followed. Their footsteps echoed through the room like measured beats.

  Once in the hallway, Leonid exhaled deeply.

  “He told us everything. He just didn’t realize he did.”

  “I know,” Hannah replied. “Now we know who he hired.”

  Outside, sunlight greeted them. The scent of wax and wine was replaced by the sharp freshness of morning and damp air from the canal.

  The police station smelled of moisture, cheap coffee, and impatience. Fluorescent lights flickered in a rhythm that could drive a saint mad. The walls were covered in yellowing safety posters, missing persons notices, and no-smoking signs nobody obeyed. A fan oscillated lazily on a desk as if disapproving of everything it saw.

  Theona entered without knocking. The door slammed against the wall. Her cigarette smoked from its gold holder, her coat hung from one shoulder like a cape. Her dress was too tight for the space she occupied — but she wore it like armor.

  She stopped in the middle of the hallway, scanned the room, and raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh, lovely. A paradise for ambitious alcoholics.”

  Three officers looked at her simultaneously. The oldest — greasy mustache, shirt stretched over his stomach — shrugged.

  “Reception office is to the left. Amber Directorate, right? We were informed you’d be coming.”

  “And how did you survive the excitement?” she shot back, stepping closer. “I hope you didn’t drink all the coffee before hiding the evidence.”

  He smirked, more out of habit than humor.

  “There’s no evidence, miss—”

  “Grey,” she cut in. “And you are?”

  “Lieutenant Mare?. In charge of the case.”

  “Ah, wonderful,” she said, planting a hand on her hip. “So you’re the one who did nothing.”

  A younger officer stifled a laugh, but Mare? silenced him with a glance.

  Theona leaned over the desk, a lock of hair falling across her face. She grabbed a cigarette from the ashtray and crushed it halfway just to clear space.

  “First question: did you examine the crime scene?”

  “Of course. But the Directorate took over, so we—”

  “You did nothing,” she interrupted, her voice lowering. “You didn’t check cameras, didn’t log traces, didn’t collect samples. You just said, ‘Amber will handle it.’”

  “With respect,” the younger officer said, “we’re local police. We don’t deal with… those things.”

  “Those things?”

  “Well… relics.”

  Theona laughed — deep, loud, almost feral.

  “Ah, those things. Yes, the things that explode, kill, erase memories, and occasionally open hell in the middle of a city. Understandable. Too much work for you.”

  She exhaled smoke above Mare?’s head.

  “Relax, Lieutenant. The Directorate doesn’t eat policemen. It just occasionally uses them as appetizers.”

  He swallowed.

  “We sent everything we had. Reports, photos, witness statements—”

  “Witnesses?” she interrupted, snatching the folder and flipping through it with one hand while smoking with the other.

  “Four reports. Three identical. The fourth copied. All signed in the same handwriting. Who do you think you’re fooling?”

  She stopped and looked him directly in the eyes.

  “I don’t care how much you’re paid to stay silent, Mare?. I only care how long you think you can keep doing it before someone buries you for the same reason.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “You understand me perfectly,” she said, tossing the folder back onto the desk. “Next time you hide information from the Directorate, remember — we have people who read minds.”

  She turned on her heel. Her dress flashed along her legs as she walked toward the exit.

  “And if you suddenly remember something,” she added without looking back, “don’t. I wouldn’t believe you anyway.”

  The restaurant was thick with the scent of olive oil, wine, and roasted meat.

  The lights were dim, the round tables placed too close together, so the clinking of glasses and soft laughter created an illusion of warmth — one that did not belong to people who wore the Directorate’s badges.

  Anton and John sat at a table by the window, facing the water.

  Two glasses of wine stood between them, dinner long gone cold, and a plate of olives John had arranged into perfectly straight lines along the rim.

  “I told you,” John muttered, “the best places for information in any city are the harbor, the hotel, and the restaurant. If you don’t learn anything there, then there’s nothing to learn.”

  Anton nodded, though his attention drifted to a waiter passing with a tray full of glasses.

  At that moment, the familiar static crackled in his earpiece. Then Hannah’s voice:

  “We have confirmation,” she said. “The ambassador hired a mercenary. The objective was to retrieve the relic — not to kill its owner.”

  Anton looked at John, but John only nodded, unsurprised.

  “Of course he did,” John said quietly, careful not to be overheard. “Politicians and relics — always bad wine in an expensive bottle.”

  Theona’s voice came through next, sharp with cynicism, likely still smoking.

  “The police have known for days. They wrote ‘unknown perpetrator,’ closed the file, and waited for Amber to take over. Smells like clean corruption.”

  “So everyone’s playing their own game,” John added, swirling his wine. “But if the ambassador ordered it and the state stays silent… then this isn’t murder anymore. It’s a diplomatic burial.”

  Leonid’s voice followed — deep, calm, as if he were speaking while staring out a window.

  “We’re not here to start a war between states. Our task is to find who killed Mr. Riley. And do it fast.”

  John exhaled through his nose, half-smiling.

  “Fast, he says. As if relic-wielding killers walk around wearing name tags.”

  “John,” Hannah cut in, her voice colder than usual. “You know the procedure. No improvisation.”

  “Improvisation is what keeps me alive, Hannah.”

  Anton tried not to miss a word.

  “So… the mercenary takes the relic, kills the politician, and the state pretends to be blind?”

  “Exactly,” Theona said. “And we have to pretend to be deaf and mute until we solve it.”

  John leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stared through the window. Reflected light from the water cast violet shadows across his eyes.

  “Beautiful country,” he said quietly. “Just reeks of secrets.”

  “Remember that smell, Everest,” Leonid added. “We’ll follow it until we find who’s carrying it.”

  Anton looked at John. “What now?”

  “Now…” John said, popping the last olive into his mouth, “…we eat, we pay — and we pretend we’re tourists. Tomorrow morning, the hunt begins.”

  Another faint crackle came through the line. Then Hannah’s voice again — final, soft, decisive:

  “Be ready.”

  John set down his glass and raised an eyebrow at Anton.

  “You see, kid?” he said. “She always says that with such charm.”

  Across the Border, 27. April 2025

  That morning the city spilled into shades of fog and metal. The canals smelled of dampness and rust. The sun struggled through a gray veil of clouds. Along the quay, vendors were opening their stalls; fish scraped against ice, and seagulls screamed over the water like heralds of a coming storm.

  The five agents of the Amber Directorate left the hotel, each heading in a different direction. Their earpieces hummed, voices overlapping through the noise of the waking city.

  “Bank archives,” Hannah said. “The ambassador may have transferred funds before the murder.”

  “I’ll go back to the embassy,” Leonid answered. “Papers, signatures, all those fine lies.”

  “I’ll visit the police again,” Theona added. “See how many times they lied yesterday — just for sport.”

  John and Anton moved toward the harbor, between boats and shipyards that breathed in the rhythm of metal striking metal. The air was thick with oil and salt. The streets were narrow, damp, filled with workers who asked no questions.

  “Okay, simple plan,” John said as they walked. “I’ll check shipment logs. You stay here — and if anyone mentions politicians, relics, or that they had an interesting night, you call me.”

  Anton looked up, nervous. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. And don’t touch anything that shines. If it shines, it usually wants to kill you.”

  Anton nodded, trying to look serious — though moments later he realized he was holding the map upside down.

  “Perfect,” John said, already disappearing among workers and containers.

  Anton remained alone on the quay.

  The wind came in short, sharp bursts from open water, pushing his hair back, salt droplets clinging to his lashes. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang from a tower — a long, heavy tone spreading across the canals like an oil slick.

  The harbor breathed metal.

  Roof tiles rattled in the cold, cranes groaned as if moving the city’s bones, and between iron containers the air hung dense with petroleum and rust.

  Anton walked uncertainly, the gait of someone trying to look like he knew where he was going. His gaze kept drifting — to the water, to ropes, to workers’ footprints pressed into soot.

  From his pocket, he pulled out his relic — a small golden bell, smooth as bone, inscribed with runes fine as spider silk.

  He turned it between his fingers: cold metal against skin, dry grains of salt scratching his fingertips, and that faint, almost inaudible chime swallowed by crashing waves.

  Until yesterday, missions had been straightforward.

  Now everything looked like a detour from an X-Files episode: crossing tracks, lies changing outfits but keeping the same outline, doors that opened only to spit you back onto the same street.

  He tossed the bell lightly up and caught it in his palm — a small game against his nerves — when suddenly, between the crates, something flashed. Not sunlight. A light from within, too white to be a reflection: alive, a brief wound in the gray morning.

  He didn’t even manage to fully turn around. Something pierced him in the stomach — not pain, but a clean, precise absence of breath, as if his body had been momentarily unplugged from its own network. Warmth flooded his fingers — blood, thick and heavy, metallic in scent.

  His knees buckled. The horizon tilted. The sound of waves, gulls, a distant bell — everything became muffled and far away, as though he were listening through glass.

  Instinct moved faster than thought.

  He clenched the bell so tightly his knuckles went white and spoke the name that always split his fear open.

  “Flock.”

  The bell rang thinly as it struck the concrete when the relic slipped from his hand. The sound spread outward like concentric ripples across an oil-streaked puddle.

  Perched on an iron crate at the edge of shadow sat Flock. Folded at the knees. Cap tipped to one side, the tiny bell dangling. His grin twisted like a card that never lands straight. His laughter was too loud for the morning — a sharp jingle of bells, a rasping giggle, a brief clutch at his stomach — drowning out the gulls as if embarrassing them.

  “You really do love dying, boy!” he sang, nose twitching in small spasms.

  His sleeve lifted like a curtain, and from within — from darkness behaving like a second pocket of reality — a card flew out.

  Joker.

  With a lazy flick of his wrist, he sent it spinning above Anton’s head. The card burst into light that poured over him like gold from an overturned vessel.

  Anton’s body shuddered. Then, almost silently, it began to close. Warm stitching from the inside. Skin remembering its place. Breath returning through a throat full of ash.

  The bleeding stopped. Only the taste of iron remained. And a faint nausea along the edges of his tongue. Anton stayed on one knee, hand still pressed to his stomach — an imaginary wound his mind refused to release.

  Sound slowly returned. The dull rumble behind the warehouses. A single bird cry. Then movement. A silhouette between containers.

  Black hood. Loose clothing that made no sound. A step that wasn’t escape — but intent.

  In the hand — a flash. The same unnatural, inward-born glow of a relic. Dimmed, but not hidden.

  Anton stood, soles scraping against wet concrete. The world darkened briefly at the edges, narrowing to that single distant point. He pressed his thumb to where it should have hurt — only the ghost of pain remained, a shadow lagging behind the wound.

  He tapped his earpiece. His voice came out like steam at first, then caught onto words.

  “John… the killer’s here.”

  The silhouette did not speed up. As if the only time it acknowledged was already its own. The wind off the canal carried a sharp scent of ozone. Anton felt his heart pounding too high in his chest, just beneath the collarbone.

  He ran. Adrenaline shot through his veins like cold venom, forcing his muscles to move faster than thought could keep up. The air was heavy with salt and smoke, wet and thick, each breath burning his throat. Concrete slick beneath his shoes. Ropes stretched across paths. Shadows broken by harbor floodlights still burning over the empty pier.

  “Kid, don’t move, wait for me!” John’s voice cut through the earpiece — sharp, pulled tight like wire.

  Anton didn’t stop.

  “I see him, John! I’m going after him — sending location!”

  The phone slipped in his sweaty hand as he tried to unlock it mid-run. He slammed his shoulder against metal container walls, heard his own footsteps echo as though someone were chasing him.

  For a moment, he thought he heard other steps ahead. He sent the location to the group. His hand trembled — but the message went through.

  The silhouette moved fast, not in a straight line but zigzagging, slipping from shadow into light, as if even light avoided it. And then — gone.

  Anton stopped abruptly, his breathing ragged, steam rising from his mouth. He spun in place, trying to pick out motion, narrowing his eyes, listening — nothing.

  Just wind wandering through gaps and a chain clattering against a mast.

  Suddenly, a metallic clank to his left, a brief hit, like someone dropping a screwdriver. He whipped around, fists clenched — and in front of him, hanging upside down between two containers from a rope, was Flock. Laughing. He drew stars in the air with his hands, dropping down on them, flipping as if the sky were his stage. The bell on his cap jingled in a rhythm that tangled up with Anton’s breathing.

  “Come on, lad,” he said in a voice that both sang and hissed, “you’re about to lose the trail.”

  Anton flinched, took a step back, but when he saw Flock’s finger lazily pointing to the right — like he knew more than he should — Anton just swallowed air, clenched his fists, and ran. The sound of his footsteps vanished into the wind, and Flock stayed behind, swinging upside down, laughing and whistling a tuneless song.

  John arrived where he had last heard Anton’s voice. The harbor was empty. Shore lights trembled across the water as if they too were uneasy. He crouched. His gaze fell on a dark stain on the concrete. Blood.

  Despite the morning chill, it was still warm. John touched it with his fingers, watched the droplets spread along the padded lines of his skin. The scent of iron and salt hit him sharply — familiar. Too familiar.

  “Damn it…” he muttered.

  He straightened and scanned the area. Every shadowed corner became a possible direction. He tapped his earpiece. His voice was sharp now, stripped of the playful warmth everyone was used to.

  “Hannah, Frost, Theona — to the harbor. Now.”

  Three voices responded almost simultaneously:

  Hannah — short, cold:

  “On my way.”

  Leonid — deep, faint irony unable to hide concern:

  “Knew the kid would pull something.”

  Theona — loud, cigarette between her teeth:

  “The kid’s got a nose for danger.”

  John was already pulling his phone from his pocket.

  The screen lit up. Location received. His eyes followed the blinking red dot. Then he turned, hunched against the wind, and ran. No thinking. Just toward that red point on the screen. Toward the fog swallowing the lights. Toward the echoes of footsteps and the sound of metal breathing.

  Anton ran, his heart beating as if trying to punch through his ribs. The air was thick, hot with moisture, the fog slashing at his face. Floodlights from the shore spilled off metal, broke on the water, and painted shadows between containers.

  The silhouette ahead of him was a moving ink blot — a human shape with nothing human in its stride. It reached a dead end. Massive shipping containers closed off the passage, tall and cold like iron walls. The only way out was through Anton. For a heartbeat, everything went silent. Only water droplets falling from high above and hitting metal created a rhythm.

  Anton stood there, breath short, nothing in his hands but sweat and raw instinct. What now? He hadn’t brought a gun. He wouldn’t even have known what to say if he had. His throat tightened, but the words came out anyway, in a voice trying to sound authoritative and landing squarely in nervous.

  “Amber Directorate! Surrender peacefully! Without… this… resisting!”

  He wanted to swallow every word the moment they left his mouth. His voice sounded thin, unreal between these metal walls. The silhouette didn’t move, but from the darkness beside it stepped another figure.

  A man, if you could call it that, holding a long knife that glimmered in the light like liquid moonlight. His clothes were black, speckled with tiny, shimmering points — as if he’d put the night itself on. And his eyes were just two dark abysses, deep and lifeless. Relic.

  Anton recognized him even though he’d never seen him before — the demon from the killer’s relic. The one who had stabbed the politician. All Anton managed was a single step back before he even understood he was moving.

  The demon was already in front of him. The movement was fast, without jerkiness, precise to perfection. Sharp pain sliced across his stomach. His body convulsed, eyes wide. Blood burst forth, hot and thick, running down his chin. In his throat he felt the taste of metal, and the air was yanked from his lungs as if someone had ripped it out by hand. The demon withdrew with the same calm, perfect gesture he’d used to strike.

  Anton collapsed to his knees, palms grabbing at the cold concrete that blurred under his own spreading blood. The silhouette and its demon were already passing by him, shadows merging with darkness, disappearing behind his back.

  Laughter split the harbor — that same laugh, high and rough, somewhere between circus and nightmare.

  Flock appeared as if the wind had carried him in, from above, from the roof of a container, from a spot where no one ever stands. The bell on his cap jingled out of sync with his laughter.

  “Are you counting how many times you’ve died, boy?” The laugh bent into a rasp, his voice sounding like chalk dragged over a blackboard. “Hilarious, truly!”

  Flock bowed like an actor at the end of a performance and pulled out a card. Joker. He flicked it casually and it exploded into a cloud of light. Anton gasped like a man waking from underwater. Air slammed back into his lungs, the wound vanished, and all that remained of the blade was the cleanly sliced fabric of his shirt. For a moment he tried to gather himself, to stand up, but his knees wouldn’t obey.

  Flock only glanced at him, turned away, and with one last cackle vanished into the air, leaving behind a hint of sulfur and the faint echo of laughter fading into a quiet song. Anton stayed alone, on the edge of consciousness, while somewhere in the distance, through fog and sea noise, he heard footsteps.

  The next thing he felt was a hand on his back. Warm, firm, real. He turned his head slowly, his ears still ringing with his own breathing. In front of him — a familiar face: skin so pale it glowed even under filthy floodlights, violet eyes flickering between worry and control, hair messy but neat in its disobedience.

  “Let me see,” John said quietly, but his tone carried that familiar edge — the voice of a man who knows what he’s doing, even with fear tightening in his chest. “Where are you hurt?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. His hands were already running over Anton’s shoulders, down his arms, across his ribs, searching for that point where he’d find blood or pain. The movements were quick, precise, but there was something soft in them too, something human — like he was checking on a brother, not a colleague.

  Anton shook his head, inhaled, and spoke hoarsely, his voice trembling at the edge of disappointment.

  “I’m not hurt, John… but the killer got away.”

  The disappointment sat in every word.

  John’s eyes dropped to the Thorn part of his shirt. The fabric had been cut in a perfect circle, as if a laser had sliced it. Underneath, skin — untouched. No blood, no wound. Just a mark that shouldn’t exist.

  He didn’t ask anything. For a brief second, he looked at Anton with a gaze that was both a warning and a relief. He took a deep breath, then nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “Then get moving.”

  “What?”

  “Can you run?”

  Anton’s shoulders were already straightening, his fingers clenching and unclenching, blood roaring in his temples. He gave a short nod.

  John turned, a strand of hair falling over his forehead as he peered into the darkness between the containers.

  “Then we go.”

  They didn’t say anything more. They just moved, side by side, their steps merging with the rhythm of the harbor.

  The fog thickened over the docks, swallowing distance. Lights from masts and nearby buildings dissolved into milky halos, turning every outline into a shifting shadow. The concrete beneath their feet was wet, saturated with the smell of oil and rust, and each step echoed like a knock inside a hollow tank.

  John walked ahead of Anton, quiet, almost soundless.

  He moved as if he could see through the air itself, even though his eyes flickered against the harsh glare spilling from the street floodlights. Anton knew John had albinism. For most people, it was a limitation.

  For him — it was a weapon. His pupils widened and narrowed as if they breathed, catching every trace of light, every movement inside the dark. His breathing was even, steady. His head tilted slightly forward, as though listening to something others couldn’t hear.

  He could hear water sliding down a ship’s hull.

  A chain clinking somewhere far off. And — barely audible — something shifting in a rhythm that did not belong to them. The scent of dampness. Of oil. Of adrenaline.

  Someone was close.

  Anton followed a step behind, almost cautiously, watching John’s face change. No more smile. No playfulness. Only the tension of a professional. A cutting gaze. Movements that didn’t ask for confirmation.

  The earpiece hissed. Then Hannah’s calm, measured voice flowed through it.

  “There’s an accident in the city. I’ll need another ten minutes to reach you.”

  Leonid’s voice joined immediately after — rough, mild, sounding like he was smiling even when he shouldn’t.

  “Same here. Any progress in the hunt?”

  John had already turned slightly, his hand subtly signaling Anton to stop. His voice was quiet, but firm.

  “Anton and I are tracking the subject.”

  Wind crackled faintly in the background.

  Then Theona’s voice — deep, edged with mockery and energy.

  “Play nicely until I get there.”

  John gave a brief smile — the kind that lasts no longer than a blink — and lifted his hand.

  “There.”

  When they turned behind the next container, the fog split open before them. Between the shadows — the same silhouette. Black, unmoving.

  John didn’t stop. Didn’t even blink. His lips stretched into a thin, crooked smile — the one he wore only when summoning something ordinary people shouldn’t dare to name. Between his teeth, it was as if light pierced the darkness.

  “Ash, the feast is ready,” he said — not a prayer. A command.

  The air trembled. From that smile, from those words, from the space itself — light erupted. White and sharp. Like a miniature star exploding. And from it — a woman.

  She appeared abruptly, yet as though she had always been there, hidden inside the light. Her skin was milk-white, almost translucent. Black hair fell straight over her shoulders. Her eyes were two deep wells reflecting night. She wore a kimono white as first snow, thin shimmering snowflake symbols traced across it in runes that seemed to frost over the very act of looking. In her hand gleamed a katana — dark, not entirely black, but the color of night refracted through ice. The blade did not merely reflect light. It seemed to drink it.

  Anton barely managed to inhale before Ash moved.

  She moved like a snowstorm — fast, silent, devastating. In a fraction of a second she crossed the distance. The katana swung. The white kimono spilled through the air like a wave. But she was not the only entity there. The other demon had already manifested — from the shadow beside the black silhouette.

  The same one who had pierced Anton twice.

  His blade, long and black, cut through space and caught Ash’s katana mid-strike. The clash sounded like ice cracking. The air shuddered. A shockwave tore through the corridor between containers, scattering droplets of water against the metal walls. Frozen white against spilled black.

  Every movement was faster than sight — jolts, disappearances, renewed strikes. Blades sliced the air. Sparks burst outward, turning into fragments of light before vanishing.

  Anton raised his arm to shield his eyes. His heart pounded, trying to match their rhythm.

  But the fight had no rhythm. It was pure chaos given form.

  John stood unmoving, eyes locked on the clash even as the light cut into his pupils. He didn’t see perfectly. But he felt every shift of energy.

  He knew when Ash lost balance. When the demon struck from the left. When the next blow would land.

  “Move,” he muttered.

  Anton immediately knew what that meant. The black silhouette had already begun to slip away, using the moment. Through the torn fog it moved between iron walls, while sparks still fell like fine golden snow.

  John lunged forward. Anton followed without a word.

  They ran — through water and shadow — while behind them the demons continued their dance. A battle with no end, only the endless repetition of night and light. The clash of blades echoed after them like a distant gong that would not stop shaking the air.

  They burst straight into the city.

  The fog thinned here, but the morning was still gray and fluid, spilled across cobblestones and facades.

  Streetlamps shut off one by one, as if they too refused to witness what was about to happen.

  The silhouette knew the terrain.

  It moved fast, calculated — and every time John thought he had closed the distance, it melted into the crowd.

  The city was filling with life: markets opening, people hauling carts of vegetables, fish grinding against nets, vendors shouting prices into the damp air. Through all of it, that black figure slipped like a shadow between breaths.

  Anton’s lungs were already burning, but he didn’t stop.

  John ahead of him, white hair whipping in the wind, moved with that strange instinct — as if he could see paths others couldn’t. They collided with passersby. Shouts. Curses. Someone spilled buckets of water. Someone yelled in a language Anton didn’t understand.

  The city tangled with their breath — with coughing, with shoes scraping wet stone.

  Then — a gunshot. Short. Clean. Precise.

  The sound cut through everything. The bullet tore through a metal street sign overhead and continued, slicing through the morning air before striking its target in the arm.

  The silhouette staggered. Its arm jerked toward its shoulder. Blood sprayed across a gray facade.

  Anton froze for half a heartbeat.

  John did not.

  “Move!” he shouted — and from the direction the bullet had come, a familiar laugh rang out.

  Theona Grey.

  Across the street, in her elegant coat hanging off one shoulder, cigarette still between her lips, she lifted the gun again. Smoke curled between her fingers like a banner.

  “Told you I’d get here!” she called over the noise.

  Anton saw her shove past pedestrians with her shoulder — tall, powerful, cutting through the other side of the street.

  She joined the chase at a sprint.

  The silhouette forced its way through the crowd — elbows and blood — leaving red smears on startled strangers. People screamed, dragged children aside, ducked their heads.

  John vaulted over a stall of oranges. Anton followed. Fruit scattered across the cobblestones, rolling like glass marbles. The crowd turned to chaos.

  Shouting. Running. Bodies pressing against walls while the three agents sliced through the street — John in front, Anton right behind him, Theona cutting across from the opposite lane.

  Smoke, dust and blood in the air. Drops hit the stone, forming dark circles that vanished beneath pounding footsteps.

  The silhouette stumbled, clutching its right arm to its chest. Blood streamed between its fingers. Still it ran. As if pain itself had lost meaning when something greater drove it forward.

  John followed without hesitation, matching the rhythm of its breath.

  “Left turn!” he barked into the earpiece, leaping over an overturned market table.

  Anton pushed to keep up. His shoulders burned, but he didn’t stop.

  Behind them, Theona’s voice — sharp, breathless.

  “I see him. Cutting him off.”

  The street narrowed. Buildings rose higher. Wind whipped paper and fog into spirals. Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance, blending with the shouts of civilians.

  Anton had the strange sensation that the city itself was bending around them — guiding them exactly where they needed to be.

  The silhouette burst into a square. Straight toward the canal.

  But before it could take the next step, the wind sliced the air — and from that same fog two new footsteps emerged. Cold, measured, military. Hannah Adler and Leonid Frost. T

  hey looked as though they had stepped out of nothing — she in her recognizable coat the color of early autumn, he with a cigarette between his lips, extinguished halfway.

  For a fleeting moment, Anton thought the two of them together looked like the very definition of order and chaos held in balance.

  Hannah raised her badge. Her voice was cold, clear, stripped of excess breath.

  “Amber Directorate! On your knees. Now.”

  The words struck the square like a blow. The silhouette flinched, took a step back, tried to turn — but Leonid didn’t wait. He moved from a standstill as if his entire body had been drawn taut into a single point, and in the next moment — just an impact.

  He slammed into him, drove him into the dirt, and as they rolled over the wet cobblestones, Leonid already had his elbow pinning the man to the ground. The movement was precise, brutal, practiced.

  “You heard the boss. She doesn’t like repeating herself,” he muttered, smoke from his cigarette still curling from his nostrils.

  The silhouette twisted, struggling to break free, but Leonid’s hands were as unforgiving as steel. Leonid’s grip was steel.

  John and Anton reached them a second later. Theona came right behind, gun still smoking in her hand.

  “Late to the party, huh?” she tossed out between breaths, letting her cigarette fall to the pavement.

  The fabric scraped, and the fog seemed to recoil — revealing a face. A young, human face.

  Hannah dropped to one knee, looking him straight in the eyes.

  “Name?” she asked, her voice without a trace of emotion.

  The man said nothing.

  Blood ran down his temple. Sweat and salt blended into a muddy streak across his cheek.

  Leonid glanced at Hannah. She gave the smallest nod.

  “Theona. Cuffs.”

  As Theona pulled them free, John straightened and looked back into the fog behind them.

  Through the thinning mist, light flickered once — the two demons withdrew, returning to their relics.

  Sirens tore through the day. Red-and-blue lights fractured against the damp walls of buildings, flickered across the canals, and made the entire square look like a scene from an old black-and-white film that had been oversaturated with color. Police had already marked off the area — tape fluttered in the wind, journalists tried to push closer, and uniformed figures scattered along the perimeter attempted to look as though they had everything under control.

  At the center of it all — the Amber Directorate.

  Hannah, Leonid, John, Theona, and Anton stood surrounded by people who only partially understood what had truly happened.

  The killer sat on his knees, wrists cuffed, head lowered. Blood and dust streaked his face; his eyes did not dare lift toward anyone. Two local officers held him from either side, while a third was already scribbling notes into a small notebook.

  On a nearby table, inside a black velvet box, lay the relic.

  Theona stood beside it, cigarette between her teeth, staring at the object as if she would rather crush it beneath her heel.

  “All this for a piece of shining metal,” she muttered, exhaling smoke.

  “It’s not ordinary metal,” John replied. “It’s a promise of power. And power is usually the most expensive currency.”

  Anton stood next to him, still trying to steady both his breath and the memory of events. His hands trembled from an overflow of adrenaline that had nowhere left to go. He stared at the box as though something sacred — or cursed — rested inside it.

  From the far side of the square, escorted by police security, the ambassador approached.

  His gaze was cold. Brief.

  “Amber Directorate,” he said in a diplomatic tone. “Always impressive.”

  Hannah returned his look with one sharp as a blade.

  “Yes,” she said. “But this time we’re not here to impress.”

  The ambassador smiled only with his lips.

  “In any case. I’m glad the perpetrator has been apprehended.”

  “Of course,” Hannah confirmed — in a tone that believed not a single letter of that sentence.

  Leonid stood beside her, hands in his pockets, cigarette hanging from the edge of his mouth.

  “You know,” he said quietly, just loud enough for Hannah and the ambassador to hear, “it’s always fascinating how justice tends to bend when you’re carrying a diplomatic passport.”

  The ambassador pretended not to hear. He simply turned his attention to the cuffs around the prisoner’s wrists — and then to the relic.

  “You will, of course, be transferring that… item?”

  “Of course,” Hannah replied, dry and professional. “It will be transported to Directorate headquarters. Secure sector.”

  The ambassador gave a faint nod, then turned his back and walked away, flanked by his people, wrapped in diplomacy and the scent of expensive cologne.

  He left behind a silence that hurt more than the gunshot had.

  The airport smelled of kerosene and metal. Wind gusts bent the flags above the hangars, and runway lights flickered through the fog, forming a long chain of glowing points that vanished somewhere in the distance.

  Anton stood by the terminal doors, backpack slung over one shoulder, his gaze drifting across planes preparing for departure.

  In his head, the rhythm of the previous day echoed — footsteps, sirens, gunshots, voices. It all melted now into one endless hum that smelled like both ending and beginning.

  Theona stood beside the car.

  “So, you’re heading home,” she said, smoke sliding between her words. “And we… keep going.”

  “Always forward,” John added, shifting his bag to the other shoulder.

  Under the sun forcing its way through the fog, his hair shone almost silver. He stepped closer to Hannah, placed his palm briefly on her shoulder, and looked into her eyes.

  “It was a pleasure working with you. As always.”

  “Until next time, John,” she replied, warmth flickering in her gaze.

  Leonid leaned against the car nearby, hands in pockets, cigarette between his lips, watching it all with a half-smile.

  “Next time don’t drag the kid into your circus,” he called to John. “We barely manage to reassemble him every time you take him along.”

  “Hey, look at him — he’s still breathing!” John shot back, winking at Anton.

  Theona burst into loud, genuine laughter.

  “And I thought I’d at least get to seduce him before you ruined him, John.”

  Anton flushed red, pulled his hood up, and muttered something unintelligible — which only triggered another wave of her laughter.

  Hannah rolled her eyes, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  “Both of you — be careful,” she said simply. “And don’t cause incidents that end up on front pages.”

  “Relax,” Theona replied, flipping her hair back. “Front pages are overrated. We’re aiming for the ‘missing in action’ section.”

  She stubbed her cigarette out against the asphalt, then stepped closer to Leonid the way a cat approaches prey it knows won’t run.

  “Sweetheart,” she said, her voice a blend of teasing and threat, “if you ever change your mind, you know where I sleep.”

  Leonid shuddered as if a draft had slid down his spine.

  “Thanks, but I sleep… just fine,” he muttered, already seeking Hannah’s shoulder as a shield.

  Theona laughed again, and Hannah shook her head, trying to suppress her smile.

  “Leave him alone, Theona,” she added. “He’s the type who prefers women who stay quiet and nod.”

  The roar of turbines sliced through the air.

  Wind lifted the hem of Hannah’s coat as she turned toward the runway.

  “It’s time,” she said calmly.

  Theona raised her hand in a half-formal salute, while John simply stood beside her, watching the three Amber Directorate agents walk toward the plane.

  Anton glanced back once more.

  Through engine noise and exhaust haze, he saw them — Theona with a cigarette, John with his eternal smile — and thought how, wherever they went, they always left the same trace behind: the scent of smoke, metal, and fate.

  The plane lifted slowly. Below them, the city dissolved — smaller, quieter. And on the shore, the wind still carried the smell of sea salt and gunpowder.