The moment the medical team loaded Anya onto the stretcher, Julian's raw grief turned into cold, operational steel. He knew tears were a liability; only actions mattered now. He addressed Vance one final time, confirming the official delegation.
"Superintendent, you will manage the on-ground investigation, the media, and the political fallout of your failure. Do not breach the official narrative. Do not contact me unless you have the principal contractor's name."
This was his forced arrangement: Vance would handle the humiliating clean-up, and Julian regained his freedom of movement.
En-route to the high-security military hospital, he executed a series of quick, coded calls to his political contacts. His objective was surgical: Establish the narrative of a foreign-backed attempt on the CEO of ZFAL to justify the lockdown, while burying any mention of Anya Petrova's injury. His most valuable asset would not be used as leverage in the press.
Julian walked into the sterile, quiet waiting area of the hospital's executive wing. He was still in his bespoke suit, now stiff with Anya's dried blood. The room was his new, agonizing cage. He sat on the immaculate leather sofa, folding his hands precisely, forcing himself to wait while his strategist fought for her life in surgery.
He locked his gaze on the unmoving clock. His thumb twitched once—the last leftover tremor of fear he refused to acknowledge. The cold rage was now merely the silent engine of his vengeance.
Superintendent Vance was buried under the logistical nightmare Julian had inflicted upon him. The police headquarters' war room was choked with frantic officers. Vance stood over a topographical map, the phone pressed to his ear, arguing logistics with the Ministry of Transport.
Officer Kael approached, looking less like a lieutenant and more like a runner about to collapse. "Sir, report from Delta Sector. Industrial alley—near the water tower. Patrol found a significant blood pool and residue."
Vance finally ended the call, his face a mask of exhaustion and fury. "What does 'residue' mean, Kael? Don't tell me there's another case in our hands now"
Kael shook her head in denial, running a hand through her short hair. "Forensics is on site, but their initial findings are… extreme. The volume of blood is consistent with two adult bodies. But there are no bodies. Only organic matter scattered. But we were able to obtain a heavy sniper rifle."
Vance stared at the map, visualizing the scene. The sniper was confirmed dead—a tactical suicide to protect the network. "They wiped themselves. Committed to the contract. Give me the official conclusion, Kael."
"Forensic estimation is that two individuals detonated a small, contained charge on themselves after the shot. Complete tactical wipe," she repeated.
Vance slowly sank into his chair. "Write it up as 'Self-Neutralized Foreign Agents.' Issue the press statement, also I need details on the weapons they used." he commanded. The public had a narrative, but the true culprit remained free. Julian wins the public narrative. We lose the truth.
Just as the paperwork was being processed, a frantic report came from the cyber analysis team across the room.
"Superintendent! We intercepted this," the tech shouted, pushing a screen forward. "A single, highly compressed burst of data. Origin is external to the capital. Time-stamped exactly when the assassins' remains hit the pavement."
Vance grabbed the screen. The signal was the controller confirming the mission executed, ignorant that the target was still alive. He slammed the screen down. "Task every available asset to trace the origin of that signal. That signal is the only thread we have left to the architect."
While the sun dived into the ocean, giving way for the moon to illuminate the skies, Julian was waiting outside the OT. The cold, dense air was leaking out through the thick doors from bottom—slowly, crawling up his legs from the floor. He tried to compose himself, trying to focus on the situation before him.
"First the cipher leakage and now… an assassination attempt?" Julian's frown deepened in thought. "I never considered that they'd be capable of taking such a risky step—they're really showing their guts now. Their presence and influence had never been so strong—The Cartel's growing; faster than ever" he thought, " They are many steps ahead of me. I need to close the gap as soon as possible. I can't let the Cartel penetrate my systems anymore." Julian tries to connect the dots, remembering every incident that has happened until now. "The Cipher was leaked by Evelyn Thorne and sold to a merchant from whom I recovered it; then that woman who knew about my identity, and now snipers." Julian was stressed by the situation, for a moment it felt like there was nothing in his hands that he could control. He was highly dependent on Anya for information during the PSD. "This can't be it, I know there are more dots to connect. I have deployed him for now but I need to increase my pace before something else happens too." Julian stood tall in a rush, he remembered about an absolute source of information that would definitely help him. He rushed to the super deluxe assigned for Anya Petrova.
The Valemont estate, usually an impenetrable fortress, felt oddly deserted. Vance's PSD presence, stretched thin across the city by the massive curfew, had left gaps.
A man with a composed, measured stride approached the estate's main gate. He had functional brown hair and brown eyes that seemed to absorb every detail without reflection. He wore a long, functional coat despite the evening warmth.
The remaining, exhausted security guard hesitated, then waved him through after a quick, coded exchange.
As the man walked toward the manor, he pulled a cigar from his coat pocket. Julian's strict, digitized world prohibited smoking anywhere near the main data center, but this man clearly operated on his own code.
He lit the cigar with a simple brass lighter. The scent of high-quality tobacco cut sharply through the sterile night air. He paused just outside the library—the scene of the shooting—his eyes scanning the police tape still crisscrossing the shattered window.
He took a slow, deliberate drag of the cigar and exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes glinting in the dark. The man visualized the library's opulent glow cast against the dark garden wall. He mentally overlaid the arc of the bullet, tracing the trajectory from the distant water tower, past the security perimeter, and through the glass.
He processed the blind spots in Vance's security camera sweep and where the nearest patrol must have been moments before the shot was fired. His reconstruction showed him not where the bullet landed, but why the assassin chose that exact moment to fire.
He let out a slow, intentional plume of cigar smoke, settling the simulation back into the dark reality. "What a mess, Julian," he thought. "You pay me to fix your screw-ups."