Lara sat on the floor, clutching The Chronicle of Kitezh in frustration.
The book was one of the many rare volumes collected by her father, Sir Richard Croft.
During his lifelong pursuit of the world's hidden secrets, he had been intrigued by the legend of Great Kitezh—the so-called Atlantis of Russia.
And yet, Lara knew she could not tell Jonah the truth.
Not after swearing an oath to Solomon.
Had she been able to speak freely, she would have shown Jonah the small gift Solomon had given her—a clear demonstration of magic's existence.
The estate was eerily silent.
Lara hadn't turned on the lights.
She wasn't sure exactly what she was feeling—
But she knew she wasn't wrong.
Nor had her father been.
If she could find the Divine Source, she was certain she could convince Solomon to let her reveal its existence to the world.
"Jonah?"
A metallic glint flickered across the floor as a fallen brass object caught the faintest light.
The aged wooden boards groaned under pressure.
Lara called out hesitantly—
But no answer came.
Adrenaline surged through her veins.
Her heartbeat spiked.
A shudder ran through her body.
Lara Croft—the Survivor of the Dragon's Triangle, the Demolisher of the Prophet's Tomb—was no longer the naive archaeology student she had once been.
She was a legend now.
The thick oak door creaked open, its unlubricated hinges screeching like tortured metal.
A cold draft slithered into the room, carrying with it the sharp scent of freshly cut hedges.
That meant someone had been outside.
Not long ago, the old groundskeeper had trimmed the bushes—he often said gardening was its own reward, requiring no extra pay.
Even as a fellow Brit, Lara had never understood the man's obsession with horticulture and afternoon tea.
Her heartbeat was racing so fast that time itself seemed to slow.
She sensed something wrong.
Lara's hand darted out—gripping the emerald-shaded desk lamp beside her.
It was pure instinct.
The same instinct that had kept her alive in the Dragon's Triangle.
She didn't care about the rarity of the original Emeralite Desk Lamp.
She turned, swinging the heavy glass straight into the face of the intruder sneaking into Croft Manor.
The assassin staggered back—
And in the same motion, Lara smashed the thick, brass-cornered Chronicle of Kitezh against his gun, sending it clattering across the floor.
The most immediate threat—neutralized.
But before she could recover, the assassin's hands closed around her throat.
Air vanished from her lungs.
Darkness crept at the edges of her vision.
Her chest heaved, desperate to expand, but no breath came.
Lara reacted on instinct, muscle memory kicking in from years of combat training—
She slammed her palm into the assassin's temple, twisting her arm to trap his neck.
With a sharp pivot, she drove his skull into the windowsill—buying herself a precious gasp of air.
Outside, a hidden operative monitoring Croft Manor heard the gunshot.
Immediately, he relayed the intelligence up the chain.
The encrypted transmission leapt from a covert spy satellite, bouncing across Earth's orbit like a silent distress call.
A lone satellite above Rome intercepted the signal—
And forwarded it to an old wartime relay station.
From there, the heavily encrypted message was sent to an aircraft carrier patrolling near the Faroe Islands.
Victoria Hand—Director of Intelligence for the Eternal City—received the report.
One of Solomon's marked persons of interest had been attacked.
She wasted no time.
"Status update, C-A1."
A disguised agent on the ground—codename C-A1—answered immediately.
"The assassin has fled Croft Manor. It's too dark to confirm injuries."
The agent, once part of S.H.I.E.L.D., was a consummate professional.
"I made contact with Lara Croft. She believes I was just a lost caller. She bought the act."
"Is she injured?"
"No, no medical assistance needed."
C-A1 had already ditched his car and was now pursuing the assassin on foot, weaving through the dense English woodlands of Surrey.
His nose was filled with the crisp, damp air of a summer night.
The moisture of the soil clung to his boots.
And the mosquitoes—
Damn the mosquitoes.
He fought the urge to slap himself.
Globalization had somehow brought mosquitoes to the UK.
Unbelievable.
British mosquitoes didn't bite.
They were more like clumsy bombers than actual bloodsuckers.
But these—
These were foreign mosquitoes.
It was only May, after all.
No native mosquito would be feeding this time of year.
"Heading south toward Woking, past Abingdon. Likely has vehicle support. Possible reinforcements."
"Do you require local authorities?"
"No need," Hand replied coldly.
Instantly, a new app appeared on C-A1's phone.
A simple red-light-green-light interface.
Spy satellites had already pinpointed his position, feeding him real-time tracking data on his target.
Interesting.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. never had tech like this," C-A1 muttered.
A detailed dossier of the assassin popped up on his screen.
He even knew what the man had eaten that morning.
Full English breakfast.
Maybe I should try one. We've got plenty of funding to burn…
"Report back in fifteen minutes. A Quinjet is en route."
Victoria Hand issued the order.
A sleek black aircraft roared to life on the aircraft carrier's deck.
In three minutes, it would be airborne.
Its destination: Surrey.
"Also—fix your accent."
"I am fixing it."
"I don't understand London English."
C-A1 rolled his shoulders, his exosuit whirring faintly beneath his clothes.
He released the safety on his pistol.
Beneath his jacket, the power-assist servos of his exoskeleton hummed to life.
This technology had been acquired from Cybertek executives—right before Eternal City eliminated the last remnants of the "Deathlok" program.
C-A1 had been part of that operation.
He knew where "Deathlok" and "Centipede Soldiers" came from.
But he had no idea what had become of Agent Coulson.
What he did know was that Victoria Hand had severed ties with Coulson.
Now, she was working alongside General Talbot to hunt down Coulson's team.
C-A1 had been personally recruited by Hand.
His name had once been on a congressional blacklist.
But she had erased it.
Gave him a new identity.
Same tricks she had used in S.H.I.E.L.D.
Except now, she had more resources.
He might need to make a few calls.
Back at Croft Manor, Lara was unfazed.
She knew exactly who had sent the assassin.
She knew exactly what Trinity wanted.
But how had they known The Chronicle of Kitezh was here?
She had no time to dwell on it.
She had to move—now.
She had to find the Divine Source before Trinity did.
Jonah—
Even Jonah finally agreed.
It didn't matter if the Divine Source was real.
It didn't matter if it was in Kitezh.
What mattered—
Was that Trinity never got their hands on it.
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