The air in the dingy Southend motel room was electric. For the first time in weeks, the oppressive weight of fear had been replaced by the sharp, metallic taste of hope. Harris was buzzing, pacing the small room with a frenetic energy, explaining the technical details of the trace to a grimly satisfied Miles Corbin. They had a physical address. A house in Colchester. They were no longer fighting ghosts.
"It's a masterstroke, Harris. Truly," Dr. Evelyn Reed said, a rare, genuine smile gracing her features. She looked at the address scrawled on a notepad on the table. "You've grounded the phantom. But now the real work begins. We have the where, but we still don't fully understand the why or the how of their final act."
Her eyes took on a distant, academic gleam. "There was a book in my archive. A ridiculously obscure 17th-century text on Gnostic rituals. It detailed the construction of an 'Archon'—a being of pure concept. I dismissed it as historical fantasy years ago, but now… I need that book. It might tell us what their final ceremony entails."
Corbin felt a cold spike of apprehension. "Evelyn, no. That's too much of a risk. Your office, your home… they have to be considered compromised."
"Nonsense, Inspector," she countered, waving a dismissive hand. "The Echo is their digital weapon. He is focused on you and your network. The Architect and The Pathfinder are brutes, attack dogs. They wouldn't be sent to my archive. And The Puppeteer…" she almost chuckled. "He's the grandmaster. He plays the big game. He would consider a trip to Cambridge beneath him. The real danger is digital, and we are analogue. I'll be perfectly safe."
Her confidence was absolute, her academic curiosity overriding her caution. Reluctantly, knowing the knowledge could be crucial, Corbin agreed. He would drive her there and back himself. Harris would remain at the motel, trying to find architectural plans for The Echo's house.
The drive to Cambridge was quiet, the mood in the car tense with unspoken fears. As they arrived at the university, the historic, hallowed grounds were deserted in the dead of night, the ancient colleges like sleeping giants. The archive building was a modern annex, a block of concrete and glass, but the air of silence was just as profound.
"I'll be ten minutes," Evelyn said, giving Corbin a reassuring pat on the arm before disappearing inside with her keycard.
Corbin waited in the car, the engine off, scanning the empty square. An unease settled over him. Dr. Reed's logic had been sound, but something felt wrong. His phone, a cheap burner he'd bought that afternoon, buzzed in his pocket. He frowned, pulling it out. An unknown number.
It was a text message. His blood ran cold as he read the single, chilling line.
A good critic should always stay for the second act. I saved you a seat.
He burst out of the car, sprinting towards the archive building, his injured arm screaming in protest. He fumbled with his own emergency keycard—a perk of his rank he was no longer entitled to use—and slammed through the doors.
He ran down the hallway to her office. The door was slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he froze.
Dr. Evelyn Reed was not dead. Not yet. She was standing by her desk, face-to-face with a man. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, and had a smile that was both charming and utterly devoid of warmth. In his hands, held loosely, was a thin, glistening strand of piano wire. The Puppeteer.
He wasn't attacking her. He was talking to her, his voice a low, conversational murmur.
"Dr. Reed," the Puppeteer said, his eyes flicking to Corbin for a fraction of a second before returning to her. "An absolute honour. I've followed your work for years. Your monograph on ritualistic sacrifice was… foundational. You're the only one who ever truly came close to understanding the art form."
Evelyn's face held no fear, only a defiant, intellectual curiosity. "My theory was that the artist ultimately seeks validation," she said, her voice steady. "That they secretly crave an audience capable of appreciating their genius."
The Puppeteer's smile widened. "Precisely," he said. "You."
Before Corbin could raise his weapon, before he could even shout, The Puppeteer moved. It was a movement of impossible speed and grace. He slipped the wire around her neck and pulled it taut in a single, fluid motion. He didn't look at Corbin. His gaze was locked on Evelyn's, watching with a look of profound, almost reverent respect as the light of the only mind he considered his equal was extinguished forever.
He let her body slump gently to the floor. He turned to Corbin, his expression calm, as if he'd just concluded a pleasant conversation.
"The showcase is for the masses, Inspector," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "But this… this was a private viewing. For the critic."
With a final, courteous nod, he turned and slipped out a back exit of the office, vanishing into the labyrinthine corridors of the university before Corbin could react.
Miles rushed to Evelyn's side, but he knew it was too late. He knelt beside her, his victory from the night before now nothing but bitter ashes in his mouth. On her desk, a thick, leather-bound book lay open. He had lost his guide. He was alone again, and the enemy had just proven they were not just one step ahead—they were playing an entirely different game.