The damp asphalt reflected the sparse lights of the industrial zone while Michael drove his gray sedan. He did not use GPS; the route was mapped in his mind in an absolute way. As he approached Starling Street, he turned off the headlights, letting inertia carry him to an observation position in the shadows. Address nº 44 was a cavernous structure, where the smell of rust and stagnant chemicals weighed in the air.
The Convergence:
At HQ, Michell was isolated in an empty interrogation room, staring at the photos from the construction site. He was not looking at the bodies, but at the space between them. His hands drew patterns in the air, connecting Arthur's inconsistencies with the geometry of the terrain.
– "Where do you hide when you do not know who you are?" – Michell murmured to himself.
He pulled Arthur's movement records from the last few months. There was a signal void in a deactivated waste treatment zone. The connection was immediate. If Arthur's second personality needed a "nest" to process the orders it received, it would be there. Without warning Célia or the rest of the team – fearing that FBI bureaucracy would alert the "Gravedigger" – Michell grabbed his vehicle keys and sped out.
The Silence in the Basement:
Michael was the first to enter. He moved without noise, a silhouette fused to the concrete. The environment was a labyrinth of dry settling tanks and exposed pipes. In the center of the main pavilion, under a single flickering sodium lamp, he saw the figure.
Arthur was lying face down.
Michael approached, his fingers seeking the carotid pulse by pure protocol. Nothing. The skin was cold, and the absence of chest movement confirmed death. The watchman showed no immediate signs of external violence, but around his neck, the same technical and precise handwriting as the previous victims was marked on the skin with a superficial incision, forming a barcode pattern.
On the floor, written with the same lime from Anacostia, a short and brutal message:
"YOU WERE WRONG."
Michael heard the sound of metal against metal. Someone had just entered through the south door. He did not try to flee; instead, he adjusted his posture to look like a crime scene technician who had just arrived.
The Meeting of Shadows:
Michell appeared in the light, with his gun drawn, which he soon lowered upon recognizing the FBI archivist. He looked at Arthur's body and then at Michael, his eyes narrowing in a deep analysis.
– Michael? – Michell's voice echoed off the concrete walls. – What are you doing here? This location has not even been processed by the intelligence system yet.
Michael kept his expression neutral, his voice coming out without hesitation:
– I was cross-referencing the radio frequency data that the watchman mentioned in the field. I noticed interference coming from this geographic coordinate in the city's communications satellite logs. I thought I would find the transmission equipment. I arrived less than sixty seconds ago.
It was a plausible technical explanation, built to satisfy the curiosity of a federal agent. Michael pointed to the message on the floor, shifting the focus from his presence to the crime scene.
Michell walked to the body, observing the lime and the handwriting. He heard Michael's explanation and, for a moment, seemed to accept it. However, Michell noticed a detail: Michael did not have radio-frequency equipment with him, and the car engine outside was not ticking like an engine that had just been turned off – the metal was cold. Michael had been there longer than he said.
Michell perceived the lie. He felt the discrepancy in time and narrative, but, instead of confronting the archivist, he merely stored the information. There was something in Michael that now aligned with the coldness of that message on the floor.
– You were wrong... – Michell read aloud, looking at Arthur's corpse. – He is not talking to me, Michael. He is talking to whoever thought they could control the game.
Michell looked directly at Michael, a silent look of recognition that both inhabited a territory that Célia's team would never understand.
– Let's call forensics – said Michell, without taking his eyes off the archivist. – And, this time, Michael... try not to arrive before the police. It gets hard to explain the coincidence.
Michael only nodded, keeping the secret of the origami guarded under layers of indifference, while the message on the floor seemed to glow under the faint light, sealing the fate of the pawn that Arthur once was.