The fog hadn't lifted. It never really did.
From the shadows across the street, I watched the Ministry of National Resilience loom like some cruel parody of a sanctuary. A haven for secrets. Five stories of reinforced silence, each level breathing with authority, surveillance, and something deeper.
I could walk in, play the obedient dog Director Connor hoped I'd become. They would let me through the front doors, maybe even offer coffee. All I had to do was name 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 me.
I slipped inside and landed in a room full of forgotten file boxes and dust. The scent of time unkind. I crouched low, shutting the window behind me with the gentlest nudge.
Then I heard footsteps.
I dove into a supply closet, my breath halting as the door clicked shut behind me. 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 emerged, 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 placements, 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 frame of the door. Peered in.
He stood at a central table, a single lamp illuminating his hunched frame. His fingers ran through a stack of documents, 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 me. His eyes caught the low light—but something was wrong.
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 me."
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 moment you stepped off the train."
"Looking for someone," I said. "Evelyn. She was moved here."
His eyes sharpened. "She's alive?"
I nodded, but his question made me uneasy as to what might of happened to her.
"And you think she's here?"
"I think she's somewhere *they* don't want me to find. But more importantly... I heard you went rogue. That you vanished. Connor tasked me with finding you."
Mark tensed. A beat passed.
"Are you here to bring me in?"
"No. I'm here to offer a better deal."
"Help me hunt down Director Connor."
I let it hang in the air. My Startegist skill calculated it down to the breath.
Mark stared at me. Slowly, very slowly, a grin broke across his face. And then...
His eyes shimmered. A tear rolled down his cheek. But it wasn't clear.
Not from pain. But something deeper. Relief? Fury? Joy?
"You always knew how to speak my language," he said, voice thick. "You're not just giving me purpose. You're giving me him."
I stepped closer. "We'll hit his operations from the inside. One at a time. We'll make him bleed."
Mark closed the Cain Protocol file, tucked it into his coat. "Then let's not waste time. 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 someone was late to their rotation cycle.
I drew a breath, Mark handed me a knife and I calmed myself.
"Looks like we have our first one together."