The slip of paper burned in Lucius's hand.
Tomorrow. Noon. A meeting you cannot refuse.
The handwriting was sharp, deliberate. Someone had reached into the Shield's dormitory wing—a place meant to be untouchable—and left this message at his door. That alone meant power.
Lucius barely slept. His body ached from the fight, his mind replaying the moment the gun barrel had swung toward Marco's chest. The boy had lived, but only because Lucius had moved without hesitation. And now, someone wanted to meet him in secret.
When noon came, he was ready.
A car waited outside headquarters. Sleek, black, unmarked.
The driver did not introduce himself. He only opened the door, eyes hidden behind mirrored shades.
Lucius slid in. The leather smelled of expensive polish. No words were spoken.
The car moved smoothly through the Financial District, past towers of glass and steel. Each block pulled him further from the Shield's fortress, deeper into the city's veins.
Finally, the car stopped in front of a building that didn't belong here.
A library. Old stone, ivy creeping across its walls, windows darkened.
Lucius stepped out. The driver gestured. "Inside. Third floor. Private room."
Then the car pulled away, leaving him alone with the weight of the summons.
The air inside was dust and silence. Wooden shelves rose like pillars of an ancient temple, lined with books that hadn't been touched in decades.
Lucius's footsteps echoed as he climbed the stairs.
On the third floor, a door stood slightly ajar. Candlelight glowed within.
He pushed it open.
The room was small, lined with maps pinned to the walls—cities marked with red circles, notes scrawled in a hand as sharp as the one on the note. A long table dominated the center, set with crystal glasses and a single decanter of amber liquor.
Three men sat waiting.
They were not strangers.
Damien Corso leaned back in his chair, his smile a blade's edge.
To his left sat Calder, posture perfect, his hands folded, expression carved from stone.
And at the head of the table, a man Lucius had not met until now: Silas Kane.
Silas was older, perhaps late forties. His hair was dark, streaked with iron, his suit precise but unadorned. Unlike Damien, he did not smile. Unlike Calder, he did not sit in silence. His eyes, pale and calculating, fixed on Lucius with surgical precision.
"Vale," Silas said. His voice was soft, but it carried. "You came."
Lucius remained standing. "I was told I couldn't refuse."
"Wise." Silas gestured to the empty chair. "Sit."
Lucius did, but he did not relax.
Silas poured a measure of liquor into each glass. None of them drank.
"You've already noticed," Silas said, "that the Shield is not one wall. It is many. And those walls do not always align."
Lucius said nothing. His silence was answer enough.
Damien chuckled. "I told you he wasn't slow."
Silas ignored him. "Commander Rourke built the Shield. His word is law. But even within law, there are interpretations. Ambitions." His pale eyes glinted. "Factions."
Lucius's fingers curled against the table. "And you brought me here because…?"
"Because," Silas said smoothly, "you survived your first contract. And survival is the first currency in our business."
Silas leaned forward, hands steepled. "The Vitale boy. He trusts you already. That makes you valuable."
Lucius's jaw tightened. "I protect him because it's my contract."
"Of course," Silas said. "But contracts are… flexible. They end. Loyalties, however, can last. You could be useful, Vale. Not just as a wall. As a voice. A hand. A blade turned in the right direction."
Damien raised his glass in mock salute. "Translation: join us, rookie. Pick a side before someone picks it for you."
Lucius studied their faces. Calder was silent, but his presence here meant consent. Damien's smirk was familiar, but behind it lay interest. And Silas… Silas was the kind of man who didn't ask without already calculating the outcome.
"You're asking me to betray Rourke," Lucius said.
"No," Silas corrected softly. "We ask you to remember that the Shield is not one man. It is many. And the wise man chooses where to stand before the ground breaks beneath him."
Lucius felt the weight of their stares.
Calder finally spoke, his voice low. "This is not a question of betrayal. It is survival."
Silas slid a folder across the table.
Inside were photographs. Surveillance shots of Marco Vitale—on the street, in the club, leaving school. Each marked with timestamps.
"These were taken before last night," Silas said. "We knew someone was hunting the boy. Yet Rourke sent you alone, unprepared." His gaze sharpened. "Was that negligence? Or intent?"
Lucius's stomach tightened. He had asked the same question himself.
"Think carefully, Vale," Damien murmured. "Do you really believe the Commander didn't know?"
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the tick of a clock somewhere in the shadows.
Lucius closed the folder. "What do you want from me?"
"Watch," Silas said. "Listen. Learn where your Commander's interests lie. And when the time comes, decide if those interests align with survival."
He leaned back. "Do this, and you will not only live—you will rise."
Lucius stood. "I took an oath. To shield, not to scheme."
Silas's smile was thin. "Every oath has shadows, Vale. You'll see them soon enough."
Damien chuckled. "He'll come around. They always do."
Calder's eyes lingered on Lucius, unreadable.
Lucius turned, leaving the folder on the table. His steps echoed as he left the room, the candlelight flickering against maps of cities marked for unseen wars.
Downstairs, the library was silent again, as if no one had ever been there.
Outside, the car waited. The same driver. The same silence.
Lucius sat back as the city blurred past the window. His thoughts were a storm.
The Shield was already fractured. And now, he was inside the fracture.
When he returned to headquarters, the Hall was buzzing.
Whispers followed him. Men glanced his way, eyes sharp, as if they knew something had shifted.
At the bar, Damien raised his glass once more, smiling as if the world was already his.
Lucius ignored him.
Instead, he climbed the stairs to the dormitory wing, the weight of Silas's words pressing like chains.
Not one wall. Many.
And not every enemy outside.
At his door, Lucius paused.
Another slip of paper lay on the floor.
This one bore no handwriting. Only a single mark: the crest of Red Shield, pressed into wax.
He broke the seal.
Inside were five words:
Commander Rourke wants you. Now.
Lucius's pulse quickened.
The Commander never summoned recruits directly.
Whatever came next, it would decide not only his place in the Shield—
But whose game he was already trapped inside.