The hospital stood silent at midnight, emptied of life except for the cold halls where the dead rested. In the morgue, lit only by a single buzzing lamp, the Master Templar lingered alone.
He stood over Edward's corpse, a white sheet draped neatly across the body. His eyes lingered on the faint outline of the man's face beneath the fabric, his expression unreadable. At length, he exhaled, slow and deliberate.
"You were useless after all, weren't you?" His voice carried no grief, only weary disdain. "Roger left you as his second-in-command—his filler—and this is what you made of it? Nearly let the citizens take over the city." He shook his head. "Prideful fool. If you had just listened, canceled the operation when I told you, you'd still be alive."
He adjusted the sheet slightly, then paused, his gaze narrowing.
"I don't even know who killed you. Your throat was pierced… a knife? A spear? Hard to tell. And the window in your room, shattered. Whoever it was climbed the walls, struck, and left the way they came. But who? A protester? A common citizen?" His jaw tightened. "I don't know yet."
He fell quiet. For a few moments the only sound was the hum of the lamp and the muffled tick of a clock on the wall. Then, almost to himself, he muttered, "These last few days have been… agonizing."
The words spilled out faster, sharper. "The Assassin appeared in the city—first at the ancient temple, where Marcus fell. Then again in the streets, where Mark was slain… leaving only Luke. And then Edward—launching Operation Shakedown without permission. Which gave me protests. Riots. His death."
He closed his eyes and steadied his breath, then spoke with sudden calm. "The city has become a mess. But I have other plans. Tomorrow, the grand meeting begins. And when it does, the course of this city will be turned upside down." His lips curled faintly, though it wasn't quite a smile. "I just need to hold until then. Then I'll flush out the Assassin. Then… perhaps, the artifact."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a phone. One name on the screen. He pressed dial.
After a few rings, a voice answered, breathless, rasping, as though exhausted from strain.
"Good evening, Master!"
"Good evening, Roger." The Master Templar's tone shifted—warmer, even playful, an uncanny contrast in the morgue. "Tell me, what's happening? You were supposed to be back in a day. It's been three."
On the other end, Roger let out a half-laugh between breaths. "Ah, plans changed. Thought I'd be in and out, gather the documents, comb the temple, but… it's bigger than I expected. Much bigger. There's this strange hallway, ends in a dead wall—no, a cave! A damn cave underneath! Found a narrow passage on the left, but you can't squeeze through unless you break it down. So I've been… uh, breaking concrete. Still trying. Place might keep me here for weeks."
"For weeks, hm?" The Master Templar tilted his head, amused. "Then make the result worth your absence."
"I will, Master! I promise. By the way—how's the city? How's life? Is Edward serving you well?"
A pause. The Master's tone dropped like a stone.
"Edward… is dead."
"What?!" Roger's voice cracked with disbelief.
"The Assassin—yes, the same one you saw at the temple—is in the city now. Marcus is gone. Mark is gone. Edward tried to catch him, failed, and in his arrogance launched Operation Shakedown without my consent. That drew protests… and ended in his death."
For a long moment, silence filled the line. Then Roger's voice returned, quieter. "I'm sorry, Master."
"Sorry? For what?"
"For leaving that idiot as my replacement. Someone else should've taken my place. I even tried to shield your identity—told him only to follow a 'nameless man.' I failed you."
"No problem," the Master replied smoothly.
Roger's tone brightened suddenly, childlike again. "Oh! But that document we signed—transferring police rights under you? Genius! Now you control the police even when I'm gone."
"Yes," the Master said. His tone was almost fond. "The document was clever, but to make it work, someone must still be present. I give the order, you pass it along. My will, without me lifting a finger. Tomorrow, I'll expand that control. At the grand meeting—Conrad the chief, Bill the banker, Jack the museum director. You've already signed, of course, so you don't count."
"Wait, that meeting's tomorrow already?"
"Indeed."
On the other end of the call, Roger winced as a loose stone cracked against his skull. Dust rained down over his shoulders while he crouched in the narrow passage he had been clawing open between two buried corridors of the temple. He muttered a sharp curse under his breath, shaking the grit from his hair.
"Ah—damn it! Uh, sorry, Master, but I've got… a thing." His voice was hurried, distracted, like a man caught with his hand in the wall.
There was a pause on the line, and then the Master Templar's voice came, low and untroubled. "Okay. I understand. Take care."
The connection clicked off.
For a long beat, the Master Templar remained perfectly still, the faint hum of the room filling the silence. His expression shifted, the earlier softness drained away, leaving a face carved from stone—severe, unreadable, unsettling in its calm.
"The meeting must proceed exactly as planned," he said at last, each word deliberate, cold. His eyes narrowed, the weight of his resolve heavy in the air. "No one must interfere."