The sirens shattered the silence like cries of agony.
Red, blue, white. Flashes in the night.
Blood had flowed, bullets had whistled, children's screams had fallen silent. Now, it was only the howls of adults. Parents, panicked, running toward car wrecks or perimeter barriers. Mothers screaming names. Fathers searching for faces.
I stood in the middle of this tide of noise and tears. Intact.
My coat covered in dust and powder residue. Face closed off. Muscles still ready to tense. Instinct alert, even though the battle was over.
Around me, the children reappeared, one by one, brought back by rescuers or by my still-standing colleagues. Crying. Nervous laughter. Wild embraces.
I remained frozen. Like a blade planted in the ground.
A guard approached, staggering.
His arm in a sling, his side bleeding through a makeshift bandage. He held a phone. Handed it to me without a word.
— "It's Claremont. He wants to talk to you."
I took the device.
His voice pierced the silence:
— "When this interrogation ends, meet me at Marlha Central Hospital."
Then nothing.
Hung up.
Not even a goodbye.
---
The hospital lobby smelled of disinfectant and anxiety.
Nurses hurried by. Unknown faces looked at me like a ghost. A man pointed me to the room. No formalities.
I walked without speaking. My steps made no sound.
I finally stood before the door. My hand touched the handle. A sigh escaped me, despite myself. No mental preparation. Just… I entered.
And there, I saw him.
Claremont. The giant. The monster with silver fingers and a voice that silences a room.
Seated. Twisted on a chair, head resting on the hospital bed. And on that bed… his daughter.
Elvia.
Bandages covered part of her face. Another compressed her chest. Her breathing was slow, regular. Mechanical. She was alive. But no longer responsive. Coma. Suspended between the world of the living and the one you brush when you close your eyes too long.
I said nothing at first. I watched.
He didn't even raise his head.
But I knew he had heard me.
Since I started working with you, you've seen things…
But when you're a mafioso… your family becomes a weak link. A bait. A flaw. Children… are daggers in your heart.
He whispered.
— "What did I do wrong, Natsa?"
I didn't answer.
I stared at this broken figure before me.
I was the devil. He was a man. A father. And for the first time, he hid nothing. No façade. No feigned strength. Just sorrow.
— "They have eyes everywhere…," he said in a breath. "But thanks to you… they're alive… All of them…"
He raised his eyes to me.
Tears slid down his cheeks like old forgotten rivers.
— I never thought I'd see you cry, Claremont.
— "I'm human… after all."
He clenched his fists. The sound of cracking joints.
I looked him straight in the eyes.
— You're angry, aren't you?
He almost growled.
— You have no idea…
---
I could have used my powers… I could have wiped them all out… in a single strike. But I can't. I have to pretend. Play the role. Be human. In every way.
And above all… I'm drained. Since the entity. I've borrowed too much. My body… is heavy. Spiritually, I'm empty.
I stared at him.
For a moment, I saw in him what war creates: survivors too tired to celebrate their victory.
— Claremont.
He lifted his head.
— "What do I have to do?" he said.
This time, he really looked at me. Not like a friend.
Like one looks at an oracle. A weapon. A monster.
I smiled, without warmth.
Logical. Humans seek answers from those they think superior. It's instinctive. A primal need.
And before you… you don't just have a guard. You have the devil.
I stepped forward.
— What you have to do? It's simple. Find the mole.
He froze.
— The… mole?
— You said it yourself. No one knew about the birthday. No one. Except your men. Someone sold the place. The time. And your daughter.
The silence lasted a second. Maybe two.
Then his eyes widened.
I saw shock. Then denial. Then acceptance.
And finally… rage.
He clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms.
His shoulders trembled. His breathing became a choppy animal breath.
— A mole… A bastard hiding in my ranks…
His gaze hardened.
He was no longer just a wounded father. He became Claremont again. The godfather. The strategist.
And in his eyes, I saw something else born.
War.
---
Claremont's lounge is a showcase of luxury and power. Black marble, red leather armchairs, Greco-Roman statues, crystal chandeliers. But tonight, it reeks of anxiety.
They are there. All of them. About fifty. Shadow guardians, silent soldiers, men ready to die for the boss… at least in appearance. Some have bandages, broken ribs, scratch or bullet marks on their arms. Others are in perfect condition. Too perfect.
Claremont is already seated, legs crossed on his velvet chair. His gaze could split the floor. And I stand, to his right. Like a blade planted in the room.
He speaks. Coldly.
— "So… Confess. Who is the mole?"
Silence. Then whispers.
— "A mole? Here?" — "It's insane…" — "Who would dare…?"
Then Claremont explodes. His fist slams down on the small carved wooden table. It shatters, reduced to crumbs on the Persian rug.
— "Shut your mouths and confess now!!!"
The silence that follows is almost unreal. I look at him. And despite myself, a smile crosses my lips. So you can be badass too, boss? You really are a leader.
But no one speaks.
I watch them all. The mole doesn't want to betray herself. Of course she hides. But with a mole in the ranks, Claremont is a man slowly dying. She must be unearthed. And fast.
— "You say nothing? You won't confess?" repeats Claremont.
And there, one of the guards — a guy named Trathen, a nervous big guy — raises his hand.
— "I think the mole… is Natsa."
A freezing silence falls over the room. All eyes turn to me.
Me? A mole? No way. Not here.
A woman exclaims, her voice clear despite the tension.
— "Natsa? The mole? He saved almost everyone!"
But Trathen insists:
— "Exactly. He defeated them too easily… As if he had a deal. As if he wanted to play the hero, gain the boss's trust."
Whispers rise. Looks grow heavy. Sighs. Shivers. Veiled accusations.
What weariness.
Claremont stares at me.
— "Natsa…"
His tone is cold, final.
I sigh deeply.
— "If I may… I'm not the mole. I don't know how to prove it, but on the other hand… I'm able to find her, if you allow me."
Trathen growls:
— "Why you? To accuse someone else and clear yourself?"
I turn my head toward him, slowly.
— "Kind of like what you're doing to me?"
He shivers. Falls silent. The silence falls again, sticky, heavy.
Claremont says nothing. But I feel he wants results. Not speeches.
— "How can we be sure you're not the mole, Natsa?"
I smile slowly.
— "The real mole… will tell us herself."
I close my eyes. And listen.
Not to words. Not to sighs. Not to hearts beating too fast. I listen inside. To the energy.
I sense vital flows, waves of stress. In the innocent, fear disturbs the lines, but not their coherence. Their soul trembles, but stays straight.
But in the others…
A heaviness. A burden. A lie.
I count. One, two… six… thirteen. Thirteen troubled energies. Thirteen incarnate lies. And of course, not a scratch on them. Me included.
Dirty irony.
I scrutinize these thirteen. I look for the weak link. The one who can break under the weight of nerves. The one whose breath is shortest. Whose soul is already fleeing before his eyes.
There. Him. The fourth from the left. I feel his guts knot. He won't hold.
I approach slowly.
My shadow swallows him.
— "What is your name?"
— "K-Kraen."
— "Kraen… Where were you at the time of the assault?"
— "With the North unit… I…"
— "Strange. The North unit was annihilated. You have no wounds."
He swallows.
— "I was… behind. Covering."
— "Covering? But you're not in the reports."
— "Maybe a mistake?"
— "You lie."
He steps back one pace. I step forward one pace.
— "Did you know the exact time of the party?"
— "Yes… everyone knew at the same time."
— "False. The time changed twice the night before. And only the squad leaders were informed."
He pales.
Fifth question.
— "You have no injury. You fled?"
— "No! I… I protected myself!"
— "Protect whom?"
Silence.
Sixth.
— "Last question. If you had to choose between your life and Elvia's, Claremont's daughter… what would you choose?"
He explodes.
— "It's me!!! It's me, damn it!!!"
He falls to his knees. Hands on his face. He cries.
— "It's me… they threatened me… they promised me money… I didn't want it to go this far…"
Deathly silence. Fifty pairs of frozen eyes.
I slowly turn toward Claremont, a smirk on my lips.
He remains stone-faced. Not a muscle moves. Not even his eyelids.
— "Kraen," he finally says. "Who else?"
Kraen moans. Then spits out names.
One. Two. Three. Up to thirteen.
I look at them all. Frozen. Pale.
And I feel nothing. No pity. No anger. Just… satisfaction.
Claremont still doesn't move. But his eyes shine. With ice. And death.
---
I slowly turn my head toward Trathen. My gaze is calm, piercing, almost mocking. It's the kind of look you give to someone who has made a fool of themselves. A look that says without a word: See? The mole… wasn't me.
Trathen immediately looks away. His face stiffens, his pupils fix on the empty floor. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Maybe even ashamed.
But I understand him. Trathen isn't scum. He was just afraid. He was probably conducting his own investigations in the shadows. He sensed something rotten in our ranks… and I became his number one suspect. Too bright, too fast, too efficient. My meteoric rise blinded him. And now that he sees the truth, he must hate himself a little. Too bad. He had instinct. Not precision, but instinct.
I might not be today's mole yet… I thought, looking at him one last time, but I might be tomorrow's mole, Trathen.
Claremont, still as cold, declares in a clear voice:
— Good. The session is over. You may go home.
Men seize the 13 moles, handcuff them, and isolate them. They have no names anymore, only interrogation numbers.
Claremont fixes them for a moment with a bitter smile:
— As for you… we're going to have a lot of fun this Sunday.
A shiver runs down the traitors' spines. Cold sweats, stopped breaths. Me? I laugh. Softly. Just a little amused breath. The boss never jokes.
We separate. I walk, hands in pockets. I'm in the street, night has fallen, streetlights spread a pale yellow light on the wet asphalt. Tomorrow is Sunday. A day of rest, they say. Except for those called the "Sunday guards," those Claremont reserves for very special days.
I was supposed to be a VIP.
Tch. Whatever. At least it gives me a day to breathe.
I cross an alley, lost in thought. Trathen comes back to mind. That guy… he's not useless. Claremont's guards are worthy of him. They fight for him. They search, they protect. The problem… is me.
My hellish talent suffocates them.
They are like flames under a sky without night. Nonexistent compared to me. All their exploits are devoured by mine. It's unfair.
A smile crosses my face.
What can I say? Life is unfair.
I stop to cross an intersection. A hand gently touches my shoulder.
— Excuse me.
I turn, surprised.
Trathen.
He stands there, drawn, almost embarrassed. Beside him, a girl. I know her: Léya. A southern guard like him. Long blonde hair, clear blue eyes, pale skin. A cold, almost unreal beauty. Even in uniform, she radiates something… dangerously seductive.
Trathen looks at me, then lowers his head a little:
— Earlier… I accused you of something you didn't do. I'm really sorry. It's because I was doing my own research. I was sure there was a mole among us… and given your rise, I thought that…
— Trathen. — I cut him off calmly. — It's okay. I forgive you.
He raises his eyes, stunned.
— What?!
Léya widens her eyes, mouth agape.
I look at them calmly.
Anyway, I had already considered this scenario. Everything except that he would come to apologize. He's a man of peace. He must have thought I'd hate him forever.
— You understood me well.
Trathen, moved:
— Wow… I really thought you'd be mad at me!
What did I tell you?
— Anyway. — I turn around. — I have to go.
But he stops me again:
— Wait! I'd like to invite you for a drink. So we can forget all this. I'm a bit embarrassed, you see…
— I refuse.
He widens his eyes. Turns around suddenly, head down, mumbling in a comically desperate tone:
— You're really mean, Natsaaaaa…
Léya approaches too, arms crossed:
— You know it's rude to refuse such a sincere invitation?
I sigh. That's all I needed… What do I care about politeness? Although…
— Fine… I accept.
Trathen straightens up, invisible tears dried by joy:
— Really?! So cool!!!
I look at the sky hoping it doesn't last too long.
Léya fixes me for a moment, then smiles.
A real smile. Not a trick, not manipulation. Just a smile.
And I don't know why, but it's that smile that puts me most on guard.