The rain had stopped, but the city still smelled like smoke.
Damien moved through the underground tunnels beneath Marseille like a shadow among ghosts. These tunnels were old — older than the buildings above them, older than the maps. Resistance fighters used them during the Second World War. Now, they were his veins beneath the skin of a rotting empire.
As he walked, memories gnawed at him, sharp like broken glass under bare feet.
You're making this personal, Asher had said the night before.
He was right.
It was personal.
Thirteen years ago, Zurich.
The charity was called The Lucent Foundation. Smiling people. Cameras flashing. They'd promised his family asylum, protection from the war.
They promised his sister school.
They delivered her to a shipping crate bound for Libya.
By the time Damien found her, it wasn't his sister anymore. Just a hollow-eyed corpse wearing the wrong clothes.
And the people responsible?
Men like Victor Strand.
That was when Damien Voss died.
The man walking through Marseille now was something else entirely.
Above ground, Mara moved like someone drowning in decisions.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. Catch the terrorist, save the world — simple. But after watching those leaks, after seeing faces she recognized — Interpol sponsors, judges, even one of her mentors…
It was like watching reality dissolve.
Her phone buzzed. Private channel. Unknown number.
Against every instinct she had, she answered.
"You don't have time to be careful anymore."
The voice was calm. Familiar.
"Damien?"
Silence.
Then: "I need you to listen very carefully. Black Sun is coming for both of us. You're already compromised. Don't go back to Lyon. Don't trust your director. And if you want the next name on the Thirteen, meet me at the Hôtel des Catalans. 2 a.m."
"You expect me to help you?"
"Not me." His voice was sharp now. Cutting. "Help the people who trusted you to protect them."
Click.
Dead line.
Across Europe, security services scrambled like ants in a flooded nest. No one could stop the flood of information spreading across the networks.
Governments were issuing quiet martial law orders.
Markets were crumbling.
No one could say it out loud yet, but the truth was clear:
Civilization was starting to break.
And the one man who could have stopped it was the same one tearing it apart.
In the tunnels, Damien paused.
A cracked, dusty mirror leaned against the brick wall.
He stared at his own reflection for a long time. The mask in one hand. His face in the other.
Which one was real?
He didn't know anymore.
Above him, across rooftops, silent shadows were converging. Black Sun. Silencers attached. No uniforms. No mercy.
At 2 a.m., the hotel lobby would become a crucible.
And somewhere in the dark, one of the Thirteen was already preparing to betray the others.
Because Damien wasn't the only one ready to burn this world to the ground.