Beneath the church ruins in old Marseille, behind a wall of rusted lanterns and forgotten bones, Vault 27 was breathing again.
Its locks were mechanical, ancient, forged during the Cold War—but they still hummed to life at the right touch. And tonight, someone had the touch.
Vivienne.
She moved through the underground passage with heels clicking softly against stone, her flashlight beam cutting through centuries of dust. Her red coat flared behind her like blood on snow.
This place wasn't just a vault.
It was a graveyard of truths.
Only a few in the world knew of its existence.
Even fewer knew what was inside.
And Dominic?
He had no idea she still had access.
Vivienne reached the final door. Pressed her palm to the hidden scanner. Whispered the phrase she hadn't spoken in ten years:
"Rex non moritur."
The king does not die.
The door creaked open.
Back in the hills, Amelia was dreaming of glass.
Of a ballroom soaked in gold. Of masks. Of music. Of Dominic in a suit, holding her waist too tightly as shadows circled them.
Then the dream shattered.
She woke up gasping.
Dominic was already awake, crouched by the window, gun in hand.
"What is it?" she asked, still half in the dream.
He looked over his shoulder. "A car. Slowed down. Parked up the hill."
She sat up. "Here?"
"No lights. No plates. Wrong kind of silence."
Amelia's heart pounded. "You think it's Zahir?"
"I think it's worse," he said. "It might be someone trying to be him."
In Vault 27, Vivienne slipped past old safes, her fingers brushing rows of files, sealed tubes, and coded drawers.
She stopped at Drawer IX.
It opened easily.
Inside: a stack of photographs. Yellowed.
Grainy. Men with no eyes. Women with burned-off fingertips. One image made her stop—
Dominic.
Not recent. From six years ago. Standing over a man with a knife in one hand and a bloody microchip in the other.
She traced the image with one long nail.
"I always knew you were hiding more," she murmured.
Beneath it was a folder labeled: Project Manticore.
Vivienne smiled. "Finally."
She slipped it into her coat, turned off her flashlight, and vanished into the dark.
At the safehouse, Dominic had rigged an infrared perimeter using fishing wire and battery-powered sensors.
"Did you learn this in the army?" Amelia asked, watching him move like smoke.
"No," he said. "Learned it from someone worse."
She swallowed. "What do we do if they find us?"
He looked her dead in the eye.
"We fight."
But they never got the chance.
At 4:13 a.m., the explosion ripped through the back entrance of the house. The shockwave sent Amelia sprawling. Glass rained down like silver knives.
Dominic was up instantly, dragging her behind the kitchen island.
Two figures in black burst in through the smoke. Silencers. Goggles.
Dominic fired twice. One dropped.
The other turned toward Amelia.
She froze.
Everything slowed.
The figure raised the gun—
—and then dropped suddenly, blood streaming from his temple. Dominic stood behind him, panting, eyes wild.
"Move!" he barked, yanking her up.
They ran.
Into the trees. Into the fog.
The house behind them burned like a funeral pyre.
Thirty miles away, Zahir watched the flames through satellite feed.
He tilted his head, birdlike.
"Too soon," he whispered. "They're still useful."
Then, to his assistant: "Have the mimic withdraw. Begin phase two."
"Understood."
"And send a message to Moreau."
A pause.
"What should it say?"
Zahir smiled slowly.
"Tell her I remember everything."