The café had been crowded and expensive—every sofa seat occupied, every polished table filled with half-finished drinks and pristine plates. Voices overlapped in a low, constant hum, punctuated by the soft clinking of cutlery and porcelain cups. The air smelled of roasted coffee beans, sugar, and faint perfume. It was the kind of place where wealth disguised itself as comfort, and where strangers blended in so seamlessly that no one looked twice at unfamiliar faces.
At the farthest corner of the café, a woman sat alone.
She had chosen the seat carefully. From where she sat, she could see nearly the entire room through reflections in the glass walls and polished metal fixtures. A dark hoodie concealed her hair, its shadow falling low over her face. In her hands, a glossy magazine was raised just high enough to hide her features—except for her eyes. Those eyes were sharp and alert, moving constantly, never resting for more than a second. They watched reflections instead of people, scanning patterns rather than faces.
She looked relaxed, but nothing about her presence was casual.
Someone sat down opposite her.
He had not been there a second earlier.
The chair made no sound as it moved, and no one nearby seemed to notice the intrusion.
The man wore a black suit tailored to perfection, paired with matching dark glasses that concealed his eyes completely. His spiked hair made him stand out just enough to seem intentional, as if he wanted to be remembered—but only vaguely. A suitcase rested firmly in his grip, placed upright between his legs, his knuckles pale from the pressure of holding it too tightly.
The woman raised an eyebrow slightly, never lowering the magazine.
"He couldn't come," the man said quietly, his voice low enough to be swallowed by the café's noise. "After the Freedom Tower incident, the CIA had been watching every government agent. So he sent me instead."
The woman exhaled through her nose, the faintest hint of amusement crossing her eyes. She leaned back into the sofa, crossing one leg over the other, her gaze flicking briefly toward the suitcase before returning to the magazine.
"They don't even trust their own people anymore," she said, dry amusement lacing her voice.
"How unfortunate."
Her tone suggested the opposite.
She paused, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make the man uncomfortable.
"You brought it?" she asked.
Without another word, the man slid the suitcase toward her chair. The movement was careful, deliberate, as though the contents were fragile—or dangerous.
"Yes," he said. "Presidential security routes, internal schedules, evacuation plans, speech locations. Everything."
For the first time, the woman lowered the magazine slightly. A faint, satisfied smile curved her lips, subtle enough to go unnoticed by anyone else in the café. She reached down and pulled the suitcase closer to her feet.
"Good," she said. "You can go now."
The man stood immediately, adjusting his jacket as he rose.
"I was honored to act on his behalf," he said, tilting his head slightly.
"Rabbit Superior."
—————
Multiple military camps stretched across a range of rocky mountains, their vast sprawl swallowing the landscape until the mainland disappeared from view. The sun beat down mercilessly, turning the air thick and scorching. Heat shimmered above the ground, distorting the view and making distant figures blur into mirages.
At the center of the camps, a crowd of armed men gathered. They wore mismatched shirts and jeans, some faded, some torn, rifles hanging loosely from their shoulders. Sweat darkened their clothing, and dust clung to their boots and skin. They stood uneasily,
murmuring among themselves.
Standing before them was the Superior Saint.
He was draped in a deep red cloak that fluttered faintly in the dry wind. His mask—a permanent, unsettling smile—reflected the sunlight, giving the illusion that he was pleased no matter the circumstance. Several masked figures stood silently behind him, unmoving.
"As you all knew," the Superior Saint said, his voice rising effortlessly above the murmurs, "I now controlled the bases across Algeria. If anyone had questions, now was the time to speak."
The men exchanged uncertain glances. They had been informed of the change in leadership, but information alone did not bring trust. Rumors had traveled faster than orders, and fear filled the gaps left by uncertainty.
At last, one man raised his hand.
He wore a black shirt with faded blue stripes and brown shorts, his clothing practical rather than uniform. An AK-47 rested in his other hand, its strap looped casually over his shoulder.
"So," the Superior Saint said calmly, turning his masked face toward him, "what did you wish to ask?"
The man hesitated. His raised hand lowered slightly before he forced the words out.
"Are we still part of al-Qaeda," he asked, "or did Saif sell us to you because of the U.S. invasion?"
Fear crept into his voice despite his effort to sound firm.
The Superior Saint stared at him in silence.
The pause stretched long enough to make several men shift uneasily. Then, slowly, he cleared his throat.
"You were still part of al-Qaeda," he said evenly.
"Due to certain… difficulties, Saif transferred control to my organization."
The man nodded, clearly unconvinced, but said nothing more.
Some time later, the crowd thinned. Most of the men returned to training drills, quiet conversations, or rest beneath makeshift shelters. The camp resumed its routine, though the tension lingered in the air.
Only two men remained.
The Superior Saint turned toward a masked figure who carried two heavy bags, their weight evident in the way his arms tensed.
"I heard you both had a good relationship with the nearby village," the Superior Saint said.
The masked figure stepped forward.
"These bags contain drugs," the Superior Saint continued calmly. "Cocaine. Heroin. Methamphetamine. And more."
"I wanted you to sell them."
The two men exchanged glances.
"And what did we get in return?" one asked cautiously.
The Superior Saint lowered his voice.
"A special position. Freedom. You dealt drugs—you didn't fight. If the base fell, you escaped. Or you received the lightest punishment."
The men whispered briefly to one another, then nodded.
"Deal," one said.
The Superior Saint turned toward his tent, then paused.
"Do not use the product," he warned coldly. "If I found out—before any foreign power did—I would punish you myself."
Both men swallowed hard.
Inside the tent, the Superior Saint sat on a wooden chair, a walkie-talkie resting in his hand.
A smooth voice crackled through the speaker.
"How was the drug operation progressing?"
"Just beginning," he replied. "And you, Lioness Superior?"
"Same here," she said after a short huff. "Different products, though."
He chuckled softly.
"And Mengu Superior?"
"His business has started as well."
"Good," the Superior Saint said. "We will speak again."
—————
Vyuk stared at his desk, exhaustion hollowing his eyes. Dark circles framed his lifeless gaze, and his once-handsome face had dulled under the weight of grief. He did not move—not even an inch.
His office was simple: a desk, two armchairs, and a high-backed chair where he sat slumped. Papers lay scattered beside a pen holder.
One object stood out.
A photograph.
It showed Vyuk standing beside a woman and a child. The woman, brown-skinned like him, wore a saree, her long hair gleaming as she smiled warmly. The child's grin was wider than anyone's. Vyuk himself looked genuinely happy.
A faint smile touched his lips.
A knock shattered the silence.
"Come in," he said weakly.
A police officer entered and saluted.
"Sir, someone is here to see you. Shall I let him in?"
Vyuk rubbed his face.
"Let him."
The officer left. A man entered, his face hidden beneath a black hoodie, his jeans worn and stained. He did not sit. Instead, he placed something on the desk.
"You wanted to know about Noah," the man said.
A creepy smile slowly spread across his face.