The image of the murdered councilman lingered on the screen, a bloody public statement from an ancient ghost. Silas was no longer a theoretical threat lurking in the shadows of my past; he was a clear and present danger, playing a lethal game on our home turf.
The war room, which had been a place of quiet, clinical discovery, was instantly transformed into a command centre. Marcus, a conductor of chaos, issued a stream of quiet, precise commands to his unseen global team. Financial markets were subtly manipulated to trace the flow of panic capital and surveillance assets across the city, and political favours were called in from the highest levels of Amaranth's mortal government, all to contain the fallout and control the narrative of Davies' death. This was Marcus in his element, a Master of Information warfare.
He turned to me, his grey eyes hard as flint, the awe from the lab replaced by a cold, strategic fire. "This was a message," he said, his voice flat. "Silas knows we have Ellis's data. He knows we are hunting him. He just demonstrated how easily he can touch the untouchable in this city, right under Vincent's nose, to create maximum chaos between the packs."
His jaw tightened. "The hunt for Dr. Ellis is no longer just about intelligence. It's a race. We need to find him before Silas decides he is a loose end that needs to be permanently silenced."
He gestured to the data streams flowing across the screens, information we had pulled from the clinic, from Monaco, from Ellis's known accounts. "He's a ghost. But even ghosts leave a trace. Find it, Angelique."
It was not a request. It was the first order of our new, twisted partnership. I was no longer his specimen. I was his hunter.