Célia did not retreat. She ignored the smell of lime and the dampness of the construction site, keeping Arthur under the constant beam of her inquisitive gaze. She noticed the bulge in his pocket, the same one Michael had observed moments earlier.
— Arthur, enough with the metaphors — said Célia, her voice hardening like cement. — What are you hiding in that pocket? And don't tell me it's another map.
The watchman trembled so much that the sticker on his coat finally fell into the mud. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a small short-range radio communicator, an old model.
— I was forced... — sobbed Arthur. — I didn't want to call the FBI, but he said that if I didn't, the construction site would be my tomb too.
— He who, Arthur? — asked Célia, leaning in.
— Jorge. Jorge Wintler — whispered the man. — But he didn't do this to those three men. He just told me to call. He said the "gift" was already ready and that the police needed to see the "geometry of failure."
Michell, who was listening a few meters away, intervened with a sharp gesture. He looked at the radio and then at the watchman. The mention of the surname Wintler — the case he had tried to close — was the missing trigger.
— You can release Arthur — Michell ordered the support officers. — He's just a disposable pawn. Célia, Bruno, Foxy... go to Jorge Wintler's house now. If he reappeared to orchestrate this call, he left a trail.
The team took off at once. However, when they broke down the door of the corrupt Jorge Wintler's residence, they found only a void. The house was immaculate, no dust, no documents, no soul. Jorge had disappeared again, leaving only the echo of his influence.
Meanwhile, Michael drove toward his refuge. He needed something he kept in his secret compartment: an analog frequency decoder that he trusted to no one.
Upon entering his loft, silence greeted him, but the environment felt different. On the oak table, where before there had been only emptiness, there was a new origami. A black paper spider, perfectly folded, whose legs seemed ready to move.
Before Michael could reach out his hand, his personal phone — an encrypted device that rarely rang — vibrated. The display read: INSTITUTE - EMERGENCY.
Michael answered. His vital signs remained stable, but his mind instantly traveled to the polished concrete walls where Shido had shaped him.
— Michael... — the voice on the other end was weak, cut by a pulmonary wheeze. It was one of the veteran monitors from the Institute. — The Institute... doesn't exist anymore. Someone... someone set fire to everything.
Michael heard the sound of flames in the background of the call.
— The children, the teenagers... the instructors... all burned — the man continued, coughing blood. — Only five remained. Five of you. The older models, 19 to 24 years old. They managed to get out, but Michael... they're unstable. They think you betrayed them. They think you caused the fire to erase your past. They're coming after you.
Michael kept his voice icy:
— Who did this? Shido wouldn't allow a security breach of that level.
— It wasn't a breach... it was an execution — the monitor moaned, the sound of something heavy hitting the floor echoed. — In the middle of the testing room... where you used to sit... he left an origami. A man in a mask... he became Shido's administrator. He took control from within... he is...
The voice failed. One last wet breath came through the line before absolute silence. The monitor was dead.
Michael hung up. He looked at the paper spider on the table. The "Architect" was not just an external rival; he was someone who had devoured the place that created the perfect human.
He unfolded the origami with the precision of a surgeon. There were no coordinates this time, only an elegant handwriting that Michael would recognize anywhere in the world.
"Your past has been destroyed, Michael. Consider it a necessary cleansing. It was incredible to have the experience of being trained in there with you, watching how Shido tried to turn us into soulless gods. But the era of students is over. Now, it's just us and the board.
I'm sorry for the others, but fire purifies the lineage. See you in the next move.
A gift from a friend."
Michael crumpled the paper, but not with anger. He felt the weight of the new variable. The past was dead, the survivors of the Institute were now hunters, and the man who burned his world was closer than ever.
For the first time, the Void felt that the darkness around him was not just a shield, but an invitation to the abyss. And the next victim, he knew, would be whoever couldn't keep up with the pace of that fire.