Lagos – The Spark in the Streets
Daniel Okafor's empire bled oil. On the streets of Lagos, tires burned black smoke into the sky. Crowds surged with banners painted crudely: "FREE THE SUN. FREE ENERGY."
A young man shouted through a loudspeaker:
> "Why must we pay for fire when the sun is free? Why must we starve while men in London drink whiskey?"
The crowd roared. Police shields rose. Stones cracked against helmets. Somewhere in the chaos, a voice whispered, almost reverent:
> "The Coil is moving. That is why they fear."
---
Paris – The Wine of Enemies
In a dim café near Montmartre, three of Lucien DelaCroix's old rivals clinked glasses. Once he had mocked them in public, laughed at their failures. Now, they laughed at his exile.
"The Whispering Fang has chosen him," one said, lips stained with wine. "Lucien will choke on his own smoke."
Another leaned closer, voice hushed. "You think it myth? The Fang? Then why do men with power cross oceans to sit in London's rain?"
They drank, and for a moment even their laughter trembled.
---
Warsaw – Vodka and Shadows
A bar thick with cigarette haze. Ex-military, mercenaries, and men with no country nursed vodka in silence.
A scarred veteran whispered to his table:
> "The Viper's contract has been spoken."
Every man stilled. Glasses froze midair. The Viper's name was not casual. It was curse and prophecy both.
Another muttered: "Not for a state. For a man."
The room sank into silence. They all knew what that meant: Michael Rivers was marked.
---
Langley – The File Closed
In a sterile office in Virginia, a young CIA analyst pushed a thick file across the desk. Redacted lines covered almost every page.
"Codename: The Adder," she said, voice tight.
Her superior skimmed it, face pale. Finally, he signed, then slid it into a burn bin.
"We don't hunt adders," he said. "Not this one. Close the file."
The paper hissed as it curled to ash.
---
Back to London – The Philosophy of Fear
Meanwhile, in London, the board's arguments spilled past reason into philosophy.
Whitcombe's voice was ice:
> "Time is the only currency left. Rivers spends it as though he has more than all of us combined."
Maggie Rowe cut in, sharp as glass:
> "People will forgive a death. They won't forgive poverty. He threatens wealth, not lives. And that makes him worse."
Klein smirked, ever the spymaster:
> "I've written epitaphs for men greater than him. He'll be forgotten."
Daniel slammed his fist.
> "I've seen nations fall because one man refused to be forgotten."
Lucien blew smoke, his grin venomous.
> "History isn't truth. It's performance. If Rivers dies tonight, he's a footnote. If he lives, he's the author."
Their words clashed, a storm within a storm, but every syllable bent toward one absence: the Serpent.
---
Catherine Haldane
At the edge of the room, Catherine Haldane stood motionless. She didn't write. She didn't speak. Yet when her eyes flicked to Jonas Merrow, he froze. He felt certain she knew every secret he had ever thought.
The Serpent's envoy did not need to command. Her silence was a leash.
---
The Coil Tightens
When the meeting finally bled into whispers and exits, Maggie noticed the envelope left behind. A second serpent seal.
Inside, one line, in elegant hand:
"A king falls when a pawn forgets he is one."
Jonas read it once and nearly collapsed. He knew. Jason Rivers. The pawn had been chosen.
Whitcombe lingered by the rain-streaked glass, watching London's reflection distort his own. His lips barely moved as he whispered:
> "The Serpent doesn't need to strike. We've already wrapped ourselves in his coils."