Shade returned to the office. He opened the door, entered, and closed it quietly behind him. He didn't turn on any lights. Only the pale city light seeping in from outside illuminated the objects in the room as silhouettes.
He didn't remove his trench coat. He walked straight to his desk and sat in his chair. Piled in front of him were the Karlac file, Dr. Kael's notes, Logan's medical reports, and that damned "Project: Architect" file. He didn't touch any of them. He just looked at them, motionless in the dark.
His mind replayed Dr. Kael's final moments over and over. That hopeful gaze... and the emptiness that followed. You made a choice. Yes, he had. And that choice had shaken him to his core.
He took out his pipe. He felt no urge to fill it, to light it. It was just a cold, dead object in his hand now. He placed it on the desk.
He wasn't aware that it was long past midnight. He wasn't aware of anything, really. Only of the glacial calm growing within him and the dangerous, formless thing simmering in the depths of his mind.
His eyes shifted to the "Architect" file on the desk. Inside was his own youthful photo. That idealistic man who believed everything was black and white... Where had he gone?
He stood up and went to the window. Below, the city was sleeping—or pretending to sleep. He was up here, like a graveyard keeper, standing watch over the ruins of his own morality.
An architect must know how to allocate his resources.
The masked man was right. This was a war. And in war, generals sometimes had to sacrifice their soldiers. Dr. Kael had been a pawn. Logan was a pawn. Perhaps he himself was one too.
This thought fed that dangerous thing inside him a little more. It created a crack in that solid wall.
In the silence of the office, he finally made a decision. He would not speak, he would not consult anyone. He would not wait.
He gathered all the files on the desk. All of them. He stacked them into a neat pile. Then, he placed his own "Active Surveillance" file at the very bottom.
The next day, everything would be different. He was no longer a detective who followed the rules. He would be the one who wrote them. The masked man wanted to teach him architecture. So be it.
But what he would build would not be a labyrinth. It would be a graveyard.
As dawn broke, Shade was still sitting at his desk, looking at the pile of files before him and the first light of the newly born day. His face showed not fatigue, but a dangerous clarity.
---
Shade waited in the office until everyone had left, until past midnight. He hadn't said a word to Sierra, to Harvenn, to anyone. Their intervention, their concern, their morality was no longer a burden on his back.
He carefully photocopied that critical page he had found while examining Miroslav's ledger—the foundational formula of Project Architect and the "Starting Point" coordinates. He found the private fax number of The Sentinel's editor. He used a public fax machine that would leave no trace.
At the bottom of the page, he typed a short, concise note:
"THE MASTERPIECE'S OPEN-AIR EXHIBITION. COME PUT YOUR SIGNATURE ON IT. - SHADOW"
He sent the fax. The sound of the machine echoed in the night office. He did not hesitate. He felt no regret.
---
The next day, he arrived at the office during normal business hours. He saw Sierra approach him frantically.
"Shade! I got a message from The Sentinel. An anonymous fax... It contained formulas I don't understand and..." Sierra's face was in shock. "The coordinates you said were linked to that property. What do we do?"
Shade looked at her calmly as he filled his pipe. "Nothing," he said. "A fake document. Ignore it. How is Logan?"
Sierra didn't believe him, but faced with Shade's closed-off expression, she couldn't press further. "Better," she replied.
---
That evening, without telling anyone, Shade was alone at the desolate property. He hid his car a few hundred meters away from the overturned dumpster, out of sight. He wore a bulletproof vest under his trench coat; the gun at his waist was loaded.
As the sun set, he stood alone in the middle of the property, on the spot where Elena Varga had drawn her last breath. The smoke from his pipe drifted through the twilight like a grey ghost.
He had risked everything. His team, his career, the rules. But most of all, his own morality. To lure the masked man here, he had thought like him, acted like him. This was no longer a police operation. It was an invitation to a deadly dance between two enemies on a desolate field.
Darkness fell completely. The pale light of the moon hit the ground. Shade stood motionless, just listening. The howl of the wind, the call of a distant owl...
And then, from far away, the sound of a car engine. Approaching.
Shade put out his pipe. He moved his hand to the grip of his pistol. His face held neither fear nor anger. Only the absolute, calm focus of a hunter who has finally found his prey.
He was coming. And Shade would face him alone.
---
The car stopped near Shade's vehicle. The door opened, but no one got out. For a while, a dead silence prevailed over the property between the two cars and the two men. Then, the driver's door of the lone car opened.
The tall, masked man stepped out. He wore a simple, dark suit, his mask was on his face, and his hands were empty. He didn't seem to be carrying a weapon. He began walking towards Shade with heavy, calm steps.
Shade slowly moved his hand away from his gun. This wasn't a shootout. At least, not yet.
The masked man stopped a few meters in front of Shade. The night wind gently ruffled the legs of his trousers.
"Shadow," said the cold, electronic voice from behind the mask. "A rather theatrical alias. But I suppose it fits the occasion."
Shade didn't move. "I was clear in my invitation. Your work is going public. I asked you to come and sign it."
The masked man tilted his head slightly. "That formula is just a draft. A rough sketch. Not my masterpiece." There was a hint of mockery in his voice. "But the fact that you came here... that's interesting. Offering yourself as bait. Why?"
"To talk," Shade replied. "Not from behind screens and games. Face to face."
"And your team? The other members of the Shadow Bureau? Are you expecting them to be lying in ambush?" The masked man scanned the surroundings with a slight turn of his head.
"No," Shade said, his tone definitive. "I'm alone. Just like you."
This caused a momentary hesitation in the masked man. Silence fell again. The two men stood under the moonlight, looking into each other's eyes—one from behind a mask, the other with complete exposure.
"You killed Dr. Kael," Shade said, his voice unwavering.
"You made a choice," the masked man corrected. "And you saw the consequences. That is what architecture is, Detective. Design and consequence. You chose the design, and I delivered the consequence."
"Logan is still alive."
"For now," the masked man confirmed. His voice held no threat, only a statement of fact. "But with this move of yours... you've changed the level of the game. You've personalized it. That's dangerous."
"You were the one who changed the game," Shade countered. "I'm just... adapting to the new rules."
The masked man looked at Shade for another moment. Then, he slowly turned and started walking back to his car. He stopped after a few steps, but didn't turn around.
"The next move will be yours, Detective. But be careful. Pride is an architect's greatest weakness. And you... are finally learning to be proud."
---
"Stop!" Shade roared, his voice tearing through the night.
The masked man stopped and turned slowly. "No farewell is necessary, Detective."
Shade moved towards him, not driven by anger, but by years of physical training. The first move was a test—a fast, hard jab. The masked man deflected it with his head, his movement fluid and economical.
Shade didn't give up. He swung his foot towards the man's knee, but the masked man simultaneously retreated, minimizing the target area. Shade's balance was disrupted for a moment, and the masked man used that instant to grab Shade by the collar and pull him down using his own momentum.
Shade rolled to break his fall, immediately recovering and getting to his feet. His breath was quickened. The man's strength and speed were greater than he had expected.
This time, the masked man attacked. His fist came with lightning speed. Shade deflected it with his fingertips at the last second, but the force of the punch struck his shoulder, forcing him back a step. Pain shot down his arm.
Shade moved in, trying a three-punch combination to break the man's guard. The first two were blocked, the third struck the edge of the mask, producing a metallic sound. It was his first and only hit.
The masked man seemed angered by this insolence. He caught Shade's next punch and used his other hand to apply pressure to Shade's throat, pushing him back. Shade resisted, hooking his leg behind the man's to try and take him down. They both tumbled into the mud.
The struggle on the ground was short and brutal. The masked man used his weight and technical superiority. He found a momentary opening and gained the top position, but Shade immediately assumed a guard, protecting himself. The masked man's elbow came down hard on Shade's ribs. Shade's breath caught, his guard dropping for a second.
That moment was enough. The masked man rolled Shade onto his back, pinning him with one knee on his chest and the other hand on his throat. Shade struggled, locking his hands around the man's wrists, trying to break free, but the pressure was too strong. His face began to redden from lack of oxygen.
The struggle had lasted maybe forty-five seconds. Shade had shown all his skill, but his opponent had been one step ahead every time.
The masked man leaned over Shade. He looked through the eyeholes of the mask at Shade's face, which had stopped struggling. There was no anger in the electronic voice, only a deep, bone-chilling disappointment.
"Is this all?" he whispered, his voice sharp as a blade. "All those files, those clever deductions... and in the end, is this what it comes to? The detective who held my interest, who was worth my time... is this him?"
Shade responded in a choked voice: "Is this... is this how you win?"
"I am not winning," the masked man corrected, increasing the pressure slightly. "You are losing. You cast aside your intellect, your patience, that sharp mind of yours... all for a common brawl. You are not acting like the detective who intrigued me."
He released the pressure abruptly and stood up. Shade lay on the ground, coughing and gasping for air, staring up at his feet.
"You disappoint me, Shade," the masked man said, without turning back. "I saw something in you. But it seems you are no different from the others after all. You've become a slave to your emotions."
He opened the car door and got in. This time, Shade did not try to stop him. He lay on the ground, covered in mud, sweat, and defeat, listening to the masked man's car drive away. Every breath hurt his ribs, but the masked man's scornful words had cut a much deeper wound than any physical pain.