Paris was tightening under its own weight.
At SS headquarters, Obergruppenführer Imel stood at the tall window of his office, hands clasped behind his back, watching columns of SS trucks move through the rain-slick streets below. Martial law had given the city a different sound—engines idling too long, boots echoing too sharply, radios crackling without pause. Control, yes—but brittle control.
Behind him, the door opened.
Lucy stepped in.
She had been cleaned up, re-dressed, and re-contained by the system that had nearly discarded her. Her hair was pinned back properly now, uniform pressed, rank tabs aligned. The dark circles under her eyes were still there, though—no amount of discipline could erase exhaustion that deep.
Imel did not turn at first.
"You were brought back because you are still useful," he said calmly. "Not because you are forgiven."
Lucy swallowed and nodded. "I understand, Obergruppenführer."
He turned then, studying her the way one studies a tool—checking for cracks, weaknesses, hidden value. "You will accompany me as an observer. You will listen. You will remember. You will speak only when spoken to. If you fail again, there will be no second retrieval."
"Yes, Obergruppenführer."
Imel gestured to the chair near the wall. "Sit. Learn."
A radio officer entered moments later and snapped to attention.
"Report."
"The Wehrmacht inspectors from Berlin have landed at Le Bourget Airfield, sir. They are en route under escort."
Imel's expression did not change. "Names. Ranks."
The officer consulted his folder.
Generalmajor Friedrich Adler — senior inspector, Operations Directorate, Wehrmacht High Command
Oberst Heinrich Volkmann — intelligence liaison, known for anti-SS sentiment
Oberstleutnant Klaus Ritter — logistics and forensic review
Major Otto Weiss — communications and records auditing
Imel nodded slowly. "A balanced team. Not subtle."
Lucy listened carefully, committing each name to memory.
"Intercept them," Imel continued. "Politely. Professionally. They will speak to Reichenau and Brenner—but only in rooms where SS ears exist."
The officer saluted and left.
Lucy hesitated, then spoke carefully. "Sir… do you believe they already suspect the SS?"
Imel smiled faintly. "They don't suspect. They hope."
Across the city, Generaloberst Wilhelm Reichenau sat rigidly at a long table, papers stacked neatly in front of him. Oberst Karl Brenner stood near the window, watching SS patrols replace Wehrmacht sentries one checkpoint at a time.
"They're here because Berlin smelled blood," Brenner said quietly.
Reichenau nodded. "And because the SS moved too fast."
He tapped the table. "Generalmajor Adler will ask for timelines. Volkmann will push the sabotage narrative. Ritter will comb logistics. Weiss will chase radio ghosts."
Brenner exhaled. "And the SS?"
"They will sit across from us," Reichenau said, "and smile."
Back in San Francisco, the city buzzed under Imperial presence.
Jack remained in his third-floor room, watching the embassy plaza through binoculars. He noted the arrival of additional Japanese security units, the reshuffling of patrol zones. He did not know their ranks—but he knew patterns, and patterns were enough.
Eight floors above him, SS-Hauptsturmführer Matteo Kräusel and SS-Scharführerin Anneliese Vogt worked without speaking, assembling contingency plans, rehearsing silent signals, reviewing camera feeds.
Three predators. One target.
Neither aware.
Paris moved like a city holding its breath.
At 84 Avenue Foch, the SS headquarters pulsed with controlled urgency—typewriters rattling, boots striking marble, radios murmuring in clipped tones. In the intelligence wing, SS-Gruppenführer Heinrich Müller stood over a long table littered with reports, photographs, and railway manifests. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, his movements precise to the point of irritation.
An SD officer entered and snapped to attention.
"Report."
Müller did not look up. "Speak."
"Étienne Moreau has boarded a Breitspurbahn bound for Britain. Departure confirmed three hours ago. Security logs show no anomalies after clearance. Train crossed the Channel corridor without incident."
That got Müller's attention.
He straightened slowly. "So he's gone."
"Yes, Gruppenführer. Most likely already in Britain by now."
Müller exhaled through his nose, a quiet, controlled sound of displeasure. "British sovereign territory," he muttered. "No direct jurisdiction. No extradition without… politics."
He closed the folder with deliberate force. "Prepare a full report for Obergruppenführer Imel. Emphasize that the trail ends at the border—for now."
The officer nodded. "Jawohl."
As the man left, Müller allowed himself a brief moment of reflection. Whoever had planned the Paris attack had anticipated this—escape routes, jurisdictional dead zones, political friction. The more Müller pulled, the more the thread resisted.
"They're leading us," he said to the empty room. "And they know it."
Across the Channel, the Breitspurbahn thundered into a London terminal with mechanical finality.
Étienne Moreau sat rigid in his seat as the train slowed, his knuckles white where they gripped the armrest. Only when the hiss of steam and brakes filled the carriage did he finally allow himself to breathe. He had kept his head down the entire journey, surrounded by uniforms, medals, polished boots—men who would have executed him without hesitation if they knew his name.
The doors opened.
British air—cool, damp, unfamiliar—washed over him.
As he stepped onto the platform, a man brushed past him and deliberately dropped a folded newspaper at Étienne's feet. The man never looked back.
Étienne froze for half a second, then bent, picked it up, and continued walking.
Inside the paper, tucked between articles, was a single line written in pencil:
Room 312. King's Cross Hotel. Wait.
Agent C.
Étienne folded the paper neatly and disappeared into the crowd.
On the other side of London, another arrival blended into civilian anonymity.
Emily Evanfields exited the airport with her collar pulled high, hair tucked beneath a plain hat. Her movements were careful, measured—not fearful, but alert. Every reflective surface felt like an eye. Every uniform felt like a question.
She boarded public transport without hesitation, changed lines twice, then again, deliberately muddying her trail. By the time she stepped off near a narrow side street, dusk had settled in.
The pub was exactly as she remembered—dim lights, worn wood, the smell of ale and smoke clinging to the air. A place that pretended to be invisible.
Emily entered, ordered a drink she didn't intend to finish, and took a seat near the back. She scanned the room once.
Then waited.
Back in Paris, the Wehrmacht inspectors' convoy rolled through SS-controlled streets toward headquarters, escorted by black-uniformed guards who made no effort to hide who truly held authority.
But Obergruppenführer Imel did not greet them.
Instead, waiting at the entrance was SS-Brigadeführer Walter Schöngarth.
He stood rigid, gloved hands behind his back, expression unreadable.
The inspectors disembarked:
Generalmajor Friedrich Adler, stern and analytical
Oberst Heinrich Volkmann, eyes sharp with suspicion
Oberstleutnant Klaus Ritter, already noting security layouts
Major Otto Weiss, clutching a leather portfolio
Schöngarth stepped forward.
"Gentlemen," he said coolly. "Welcome. You will be escorted to your meeting room. Your investigation will proceed with full cooperation—within SS operational boundaries."
Volkmann bristled. "We were expecting Obergruppenführer Imel."
Schöngarth's smile was thin. "Obergruppenführer Imel is occupied with matters of… higher sensitivity. I will represent SS authority in his stead."
Adler studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Very well."
As they were led inside, Schöngarth caught the flicker of irritation passing through their ranks. Good. Let them feel it. Let them understand that whatever happened in Paris, the SS had already claimed the aftermath.
Above them, in Imel's office, Lucy stood silently at the edge of the room as Müller entered and handed over the report.
Imel read it once. Then again.
"Britain," Imel said quietly. "Always Britain."
He folded the paper and placed it aside. "We proceed as if Moreau is dead. Publicly. Privately, we assume he is speaking."
Müller nodded. "And the inspectors?"
"They will dig," Imel replied. "They always do. Let them. Schöngarth will give them just enough truth to drown in."
Lucy watched, understanding now how information was shaped—not hidden, but curated.
Imel glanced at her. "This is what power looks like. Remember it."
Outside, Paris remained locked down—streets controlled, stories rewritten, borders closed.
But elsewhere—on platforms, in pubs, in cheap hotels and quiet rooms—the pieces were still moving.
And no one yet could see the full board.