The mountain air at the Northwood Lodge was crisp, clean, and entirely too peaceful for the state of Malcolm Ford's soul. He had returned in the dead of night, moving through the corridors like a vengeful ghost, before barricading himself in his private study.
The moment the sun began to peak over the jagged peaks, he summoned Marcus.
Marcus entered the room, coffee in hand, ready to discuss the day's training schedule. He found Malcolm standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the door, his posture so rigid he looked like he might snap in half. After a tense, agonizingly detailed explanation of the events at the Panarom Hotel—omitting only the most humiliating of the Enigma's "handiwork"—the room fell into a deafening silence.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
Marcus's shoulders began to shake. A small, wheezing sound escaped his lips.
"Are you... are you laughing?" Malcolm's voice was a tectonic plate shifting toward a disaster.
