The fog hadn't lifted. It never really did.
From the shadows across the street, I watched the Ministry of National Resilience loom like so cruel parody of a sanctuary. A haven for secrets. Five stories of reinforced silence, each level breathing with authority, surveillance, and sothing deeper.
Sothing rotting.
I had two options.
I could walk in, play the obedient dog Director Connor hoped I'd beco. They would let through the front doors, maybe even offer coffee. All I had to do was na Mark.
But I wasn't about to betray the one man who might still be in my side, not until I at least talked to him.
So I took option two.
Deduction, Instinct and Observation. My holy trinity of slipping through the cracks.
I moved with the wind, watching guard rotations like a stage play. The act repeated every nine minutes. One guard by the main door smoked too often. Another near the eastern entrance had a limp and leaned too much on his left side. The upper balcony guard was a rookie—he checked his comms like a lifeline.
No dogs. No drones. It was either budget cuts or arrogance.
At the seventh minute of the rotation, I crossed the street.
The alley to the back was tight, breathing with mold and broken glass. I scaled a drainage pipe, shoes silent against the steel. A window on the second floor was cracked open just enough to tempt a man like .
I slipped inside and landed in a room full of forgotten file boxes and dust. The scent of ti unkind. I crouched low, shutting the window behind with the gentlest nudge.
Then I heard footsteps.
I dove into a supply closet, my breath halting as the door clicked shut behind . Through the slits, I saw a guard enter, sweeping the room with a flashlight. He lingered. His light brushed the closet.
But then he sighed, turned, and left.
Three breaths later, I erged, every sense on edge.
I moved like I belonged. That was the key to infiltration. Not silence. But speed and conviction.
Floor by floor, hallway by hallway, I ascended. Every corner was a puzzle. Every stairwell a trap. My Observation skill picked up on wire placents, minor smudges on the floor, the heat of recent footsteps. Instinct guided my hands to the cold zones, the safe paths.
When I reached the fourth floor, I knew this was it. The archives.
I moved through room after room, eyes flicking across shelves stacked with history's ugly truths. It reeked of dust and politics.
And then I heard it—the rustle of paper.
I pressed myself against the fra of the door. Peered in.
Mark.
He stood at a central table, a single lamp illuminating his hunched fra. His fingers ran through a stack of docunts, one of which was stamped with the words: Cain Protocol.
"It's been a while," I said.
He didn't flinch. He turned slowly, like he'd been expecting . His eyes caught the low light—but sothing was wrong.
His face.
Scars ran across his cheek and neck, branching like tree roots. Thin, raw lines, still red in places. Evidence of electrocution and burns. His posture was different, a subtle twitch in his left hand.
"You always know how to make an entrance," he said, voice dry but genuine. "That outfit... Mr. Jester, is it? Fits you better than I thought."
"Better than Mr. Angel," I mused, stepping in. "You look like hell."
He smiled. It wasn't fake.
"Hell left a mark, but it didn't keep ."
His fingers tightened around the Cain Protocol file. "I'm glad you're here, Reynard. Truly. I—I should have resisted. I should've stayed silent. You were the last person I wanted to put in danger."
I watched his expression. Read it. My Instinct saw no lies. But the scars did most of the talking.
"They tortured it out of you."
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"What are you doing here, really?" he asked. "You know this country hates the Masked Syndicate. You could have been killed the mont you stepped off the train."
"Looking for soone," I said. "Evelyn. She was moved here."
His eyes sharpened. "She's alive?"
I nodded, but his question made uneasy as to what might of happened to her.
"And you think she's here?"
"I think she's sowhere *they* don't want to find. But more importantly... I heard you went rogue. That you vanished. Connor tasked with finding you."
Mark tensed. A beat passed.
"Are you here to bring in?"
"No. I'm here to offer a better deal."
His brow furrowed.
"Help hunt down Director Connor."
I let it hang in the air. My Startegist skill calculated it down to the breath.
Mark stared at . Slowly, very slowly, a grin broke across his face. And then...
His eyes shimred. A tear rolled down his cheek. But it wasn't clear.
It was red.
Blood.
Not from pain. But sothing deeper. Relief? Fury? Joy?
"You always knew how to speak my language," he said, voice thick. "You're not just giving purpose. You're giving him."
I stepped closer. "We'll hit his operations from the inside. One at a ti. We'll make him bleed."
Mark closed the Cain Protocol file, tucked it into his coat. "Then let's not waste ti. What's our first target?"
But before I could answer...
I heard a bunch of footsteps from outside the room. They were rapid and heavy as if soone was late to their rotation cycle.
I drew a breath, Mark handed a knife and I cald myself.
"Looks like we have our first one together."
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