Hannah Adler, April 14th, 2025

  Monday morning showed no mercy—rows of cars stretched out like rivers of steel and smoke. Hannah sat behind the wheel, her right hand resting on the gear shift, her gaze sliding sideways toward the empty seat beside her. That place, usually occupied by Leonid’s careless, ever-present self, now radiated silence. A paper cup waited in the cupholder, and she lifted it mechanically without taking her eyes off the red glow of the traffic light.

  The first sip made her choke. The taste was drowned in layers of sugar and cream—far too sweet.

  She pulled the cup away from her lips and stared at it, as if the cardboard rim itself might offer an explanation. Then she bit the inside of her cheek as realization hit her: she had ordered his coffee instead of her own.

  She set the cup back down, exhaled sharply through her nose, and returned her focus to the road. The line of cars inched forward; the morning procession crawled in its familiar, irritated rhythm. Hannah tightened her grip on the wheel a little more than necessary and continued toward the Directorate, the taste of sweet coffee lingering on her tongue like an unwanted memory.

  The Amber Directorate’s headquarters breathed its usual morning chaos—phones ringing, voices weaving through the corridors, papers rustling, heels and polished shoes tapping against tiles in the rhythm of bureaucratic frenzy. Somehow, within all that noise, Hannah found a moment of quiet. Step by step, she entered the office of the First Unit.

  Unlike the hallways, inside was silence. The room looked too spacious, as if missing a piece of itself. Hannah sat down, pressed the power button on her computer, and watched the screen light up, her thoughts as blank and monotone as the cold blue glow of the monitor.

  Soon after, Anton walked in—backpack slung over one shoulder, face only half awake.

  “Good morning,” he said quietly, taking his seat.

  Hannah gave him a nod, and they both slipped into the small tasks of their morning routine. Yet their gazes kept drifting toward the third desk. The black leather chair was pulled out awkwardly, like someone had left in a hurry. Empty paper cups cluttered the surface, crumpled sheets lay tossed aside, and the keyboard was skewed to the right, as if someone had leaned on it with one hand. A tiny, harmless chaos… but one that screamed the absence of its owner.

  After a few minutes, Hannah stood up. She inhaled slowly, gathered the cups and papers, and began tossing them into the trash. The motion was simple, yet it carried something heavier—an attempt at reclaiming order, as if clearing the desk might somehow help her clear her head. Anton watched her quietly from the corner of his eye.

  Her hands stopped when the door creaked. The sound broke the silence of the office, and the flash of blue eyes at the doorway brought no surprise, only recognition. Vivian, in a bright orange shirt and matching trousers—colors that defied the Directorate’s grey monotony—said the line they had heard so many times before:

  “We have a mission.”

  Anton’s head snapped up, as if the word were an invitation written just for him. He nodded with a kind of stubborn resolve—this time he had to do more. He’d been given the weekend off after the blood-soaked disaster at Hotel Cube. A chance to rest, drown his mind in games, try to forget. But guilt clung to him—guilt for being just a spectator while Hannah and Leonid carried the weight of the fight. He had returned with the same weight… and the need to finally prove himself.

  Hannah didn’t hesitate. She lifted her gaze and met his eyes. With a single, silent nod—a command woven into the smallest gesture—she signaled him to follow.

  Together, they rose and walked after Vivian. Their steps blended into the noisy orchestra of the Directorate. The hallways were always full of people, papers, phone calls, and murmurs, but when Vivian led the way, the space seemed to part for them. Ahead waited the briefing room—and a new mission. Another chance to redeem themselves, to prove themselves… or to lose another piece of who they were.

  “Your next mission takes place on a yacht.”

  Vivian’s voice filled the room as the projector hummed to life, washing the dark table in pale light. Images appeared on the wall: a massive white yacht under the moonlight, cross-sections of its decks, marble-and-glass cabins, restaurants sparkling under crystal chandeliers, casino halls where spotlights glimmered across roulette tables, even boutique shops displaying suits and jewelry. Luxury in its purest form—a floating palace.

  “The yacht Pearl, owned by the Adler family,” Vivian continued. “It will host an exclusive one-week April cruise for selected high-profile political figures.”

  At the mention of the Adler family, Anton’s eyes widened. He felt his chest tighten slightly, as though the floor had shifted beneath him. His gaze shifted instinctively toward Hannah. He had never connected the dots before—not until now. Hannah sat still, eyes fixed on the documents before her, but for the first time, the truth struck him clearly, coldly: daughter of Tyrion Adler.

  A name whispered in the Directorate’s hallways.

  A man whose investments kept Amber running.

  A man even politicians greeted with a slight bow.

  The public face of power.

  Anton swallowed hard, a mix of shock and uneasy admiration swirling inside him. Hannah didn’t look at him, didn’t offer confirmation or denial. Her dark eyes remained on the table, but her shoulders tensed ever so slightly, as if she felt his stare.

  Vivian pressed on, leaving no space for hesitation.

  “Your task is simple,” she said—though her words carried the weight of a ship’s anchor. “You will act as shadow bodyguards. Guards who don’t exist. Everything must run smoothly. Important political figures will all be in one place… and in such a place, there is no room for mistakes.”

  As the slides shifted—presidents, ministers, diplomats, faces seen only on front pages and televised summits—the room grew heavier. Even Anton, who only weeks ago had been an ordinary young man with too much inexperience and too much enthusiasm, now felt the gravity. His heartbeat quickened.

  Hannah remained a cold fa?ade.

  But deep inside, Anton could swear he saw her pupils tremble—just barely—when the words appeared on the screen:

  The Adler Family — Hosts

  Vivian switched off the projector. The room returned to flat white light, stripping away the shadows of yachts and political titans. She looked at them sharply, as if carving her final words into their minds.

  “Since Leonid is recovering,” she said evenly, “and John has just returned from his assignment—he will be your third member on this operation.”

  At that name, Hannah’s eyes flickered. She didn’t flinch, but Anton saw it—the brief shadow crossing her gaze before she buried it.

  John? echoed through Anton’s mind.

  He didn’t know the man. Hadn’t even heard of him. But already he felt John would matter. And if Hannah reacted that way… whoever he was, he wasn’t insignificant.

  Vivian walked out, leaving only the fading echo of her steps behind.

  Hannah and Anton stayed in the silence—each holding their own storm of thoughts.

  The new mission.

  Leonid’s absence.

  And the return of John—a man Anton had yet to meet, and Hannah seemed to know far too well.

  The highway stretched out before them, asphalt glowing under the yellowish sheen of the morning sun. Hannah held the wheel with one hand, and in the other she balanced an open can of cold vending-machine coffee. A soft old jazz tune played on the radio, barely noticeable under the hum of the engine. Anton sat beside her, his gaze drifting from the speedometer, to Hannah, then back out the window. He couldn’t take the silence anymore.

  “Who is this John?”

  The question burst out abruptly, one that had been forming in his mind for hours and finally spilled into the open.

  Hannah didn’t answer right away. Her lips curved in a faint, barely-there smile.

  “John is…” she began, but her words faded, swallowed by the rumble of the engine.

  For a moment she stared straight ahead, eyes fixed on the road, letting a long pause settle before she finished the thought.

  “You’ll see for yourself.”

  Silence descended again. The answer didn’t ease Anton’s curiosity—if anything, it cracked open even more questions than before. He glanced at her—her face was calm, composed, but in her eye hid a shadow he didn’t know how to read.

  Eventually, he decided not to press. He sank back into his seat, inhaled deeply, and let the monotony of the drive lull his thoughts. Hannah kept driving, her grip on the wheel firm, as if she were trying to hold on not only to the road, but to whatever waited beyond the next turn.

  The place they arrived at looked more like a training ground than an airfield—a sprawling concrete landing zone marked with faded white circles, surrounded by a few lonely floodlights. The wind carried the first signs of arrival—the strengthening roar of rotor blades tearing through the air overhead. The helicopter descended slowly.

  Wind whipped their faces, sending hair flying and tugging at the edges of Hannah’s coat and Anton’s shirt. Anton instinctively shielded his eyes, but managed to catch a glimpse of the figure standing in the open doorway of the aircraft.

  A man stood on the edge, gripping the upper frame with one hand. His feet were planted on the very lip of the metal platform, as if only a second separated him from the drop. His skin was almost translucent, eyebrows and lashes pale as snow, and his eyes—unusual, violet, with tremoring pupils that looked as though they never truly rested.

  He flashed a wide grin, even though he looked like the wind might sweep him away at any moment.

  “Hannah!”

  His voice was barely a whisper, yet it somehow cut through the roar of the engine, slicing cleanly through the noise as if it carried its own gravity.

  When the helicopter touched down and the blades slowed, the man jumped out. A worn canvas backpack hung from his shoulder, and around his neck—completely out of place in this cold climate—was a flower lei. He wore a simple T-shirt and bermuda shorts, dressed like someone who had just stepped off a tropical island, despite the sharp bite of the air.

  Without hesitation, he walked up and wrapped his arms around Hannah. He hugged her like an old friend, almost like a brother. Hannah returned the smile and hugged him back. Then he turned to Anton, reached out a hand, and introduced himself with the same bright grin:

  “John Everest. Pleasure to meet you.”

  Anton felt the handshake—firm, yet strangely weightless, as if the man standing before him didn’t entirely belong to this world.

  John paced around them as if the entire landing strip had turned into a stage set just for him. While Hannah’s steps were straight, grounded, and deliberate, his went in every possible direction: waving his hands, turning on his heel, walking backward only to pivot forward again.

  As he spoke about his travels, every detail sounded like magic—Anton felt as though John’s missions had stretched beyond the borders of reality itself, adventures too vivid even for film scripts. Hannah’s face remained mostly composed, but once or twice she lifted a hand to her mouth, hiding a smile she couldn’t quite suppress.

  At the car, John casually slung an arm around Hannah’s shoulders and asked:

  “Hey, where’s Frost?”

  With a click of the key fob, Hannah unlocked the doors. As she slid into her seat, she answered shortly:

  “Sick leave.”

  John’s grin flickered, turning into a straight line for a moment before returning just as quickly. He rounded the car, opened the door for Anton, patted him on the shoulder, then placed a gentle hand on the back of his head so he wouldn’t hit the roof while getting in.

  “Go on, kiddo. Hop in.”

  Anton laughed awkwardly and climbed inside. Once John shut the door and settled in the back seat, the car came to life. The engine drowned out the wind on the landing strip, and the three of them headed toward their next assignment.

  Hannah’s car stopped at the marina, where the crowd was already thinning. While others arrived in limousines and stepped onto the red carpet with trumpets and photographers, the three of them slipped in unnoticed.

  Hannah stepped out first, wearing a simple dark-blue dress falling to her ankles, adorned with no jewelry except for the thin gold chain of her medallion hidden beneath the fabric. Her movements were calm, controlled, almost military. Only her gaze—which lingered on the yacht for a moment too long—betrayed that this was her domain.

  Anton climbed out behind her, clutching a backpack that looked comically awkward against his formal suit. He tried to walk with confidence, but his eyes kept darting toward the deck, the luxury, the lights, and the uniformed sailors lined up. In his unease, he seemed one step away from revealing he didn’t belong in such a place.

  John, however, didn’t care in the slightest. He leapt out of the car like a child, swung his backpack over his shoulder, and kept the flower lei on as if it were part of a uniform. His stride was quick, hands in constant motion, as if he were strolling through a marketplace rather than boarding an elite yacht. He walked straight toward the ramp and waved at one of the sailors like an old acquaintance.

  “How are you, sir? Lovely day for sailing, isn’t it?”

  The sailor stared at him, puzzled, before offering a nod and motioning for them to board.

  Their footsteps up the ramp were quiet, free of spectacle or attention. Hannah maintained a slight lead, but John quickly caught up, slinging an arm over her shoulders and leaning in to whisper something—whatever it was, it earned the smallest, quickly-hidden smile from her.

  Anton followed behind, drinking in every detail of the yacht: the scent of salt mingling with expensive perfume, the metallic shimmer of the deck, the clinking of champagne glasses in the hands of guests. In that moment, he felt himself stepping into a world he wasn’t ready for—but one he would have to belong to for the next seven days.

  Isaac Phoenix, April 14th, 2025

  Isaac’s belongings were already neatly arranged, packed, and ready. The job waiting for him was aboard the yacht Pearl. The very thought of spending seven days trapped on the water, far from the shoreline, filled him with unease—not for a vacation, but for an assignment involving a relic that would soon be among the passengers.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on his phone screen. In his contacts, one name stood out, pulling his gaze like a magnet: Hannah Adler.

  He knew he would see her on the yacht—after all, it was her family’s ship.

  His thoughts were cut by a short message. The screen lit up: Ivy.

  We’re outside.

  He drew in a deep breath, as if filling his lungs with indoor air for the last time. He grabbed his duffel bag from the floor, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the door.

  The wind from the river carried the smell of moisture and fuel, lashing at his face as he descended the stairs. On the sidewalk waited a Ford F-150, parked right up against the curb. Ivy leaned against the hood, arms crossed over her chest, following him with sharp, perceptive eyes that always saw too much.

  The car door swung open, and Agron stepped out. A massive frame, shoulders like concrete blocks, and a leather vest that seemed comically undersized for his chest. When he grinned, metal teeth flashed, catching the sunlight and scattering it in a menacing glint. His glass eye didn’t move, but the other tracked Isaac with a predator’s calm.

  “Phoenix!” he boomed, his voice deep enough to echo off the buildings. “Little vacation, a cruise, the sea, cocktails. Fun, huh?”

  A hand the size of a shovel slapped Isaac on the shoulder as he walked past. Isaac didn’t bother hiding the irony in his voice.

  “Yeah. A week of sea and work… delightful.”

  He climbed into the car. Agron barked a laugh and followed, and Ivy, still watching Isaac, slid elegantly behind the wheel. The engine growled to life—low, muted, like even the car knew where it was headed.

  One hand on the wheel, the other rummaging through her purse, Ivy tossed a small box into Isaac’s lap.

  “I brought you Dramamine, so you don’t whine the whole time.”

  Isaac looked down at the box, flipped it once in his hand, then turned to glare at her over his shoulder.

  “I’m not taking that. You know it knocks me out.”

  Still, after a beat, he shoved the pills into his jacket pocket. In the next second, Agron’s enormous hands reached over the seat and shook him like a rag doll.

  “Almost forgot… little birdie doesn’t like water!”

  His laugh was a deep, scraping growl, metal teeth clacking. He shook Isaac hard enough to make the seatbelt groan.

  “Careful, you’ll drop that glass eye,” Isaac muttered dryly, pushing the hands away. Agron only laughed louder, the metallic rattle echoing through the cab.

  The car rolled to a stop at the edge of the marina. Before them rose Pearl—brilliant and immense, like a floating city. The yacht’s white hull glimmered under the sun, and every chrome edge shone like polished steel. Luxury cars and limousines lined the pier as wealthy guests in silk suits and evening gowns made their way up the red carpet stretching to the ramp.

  Ivy killed the engine and stepped out first, adjusting her jacket over her shoulders. Her gaze slid down the yacht to the flag fluttering in the wind.

  “The Adlers know how to put on a show,” she murmured.

  Agron slammed the door with enough force to make it sound like cardboard. He pulled on a pair of black sunglasses that did nothing to hide his glass eye and tugged the leather vest tight across his massive torso.

  “Casino, red carpet, cocktails, the sea… right up my alley,” he said, laughing loud enough for his metal teeth to sparkle in the sunlight.

  Isaac stepped out last, shoulders slightly hunched, cigarette already between his fingers. His gaze swept over the yacht, then over the excited crowd of wealthy passengers, before finally landing on the waves crashing against the hull. The sight alone made his stomach twist.

  “Seven days on the water…” he muttered, lighting the cigarette.

  Ivy shot him a look—half mocking, half concerned.

  “Just don’t puke in front of the VIPs.”

  Isaac exhaled smoke and shook his head, and together they headed up the ramp, blending into the glamorous crowd. The yacht swallowed its new passengers, and the sea stretched out before them—vast and relentless.

  Pearl, April 14th, 2025

  The sound of the siren cut through the air—deep and resonant—as the ropes along the shore were released one by one. Steel cables shuddered and slid down the metal cleats, and the water churned beneath the massive hull. Pearl drifted away from the port slowly, almost gliding. On the deck spread the scent of expensive perfumes mixed with notes of fine wine and a faint trail of cigar smoke some guests were already lighting as they toasted to the beginning of the journey.

  The grand chandeliers above the main salon reflected the sunset light and fractured it into thousands of golden shards, while a string quartet played a soft melody in the background—a tune that blended with the sound of waves and the deep pulse of the ship’s engines. In the same space, dozens of languages intertwined. Politicians, ambassadors, wealthy industrialists, and their families—all dressed head to toe in tailored suits, silk, and diamonds. Gold watches, pearls, platinum cufflinks—everything gleamed in the last rays of April’s sunlight.

  As the ship slowly left the shore behind, the city’s quiet faded away, and the open sea stretched before them.

  Inside the main salon, Hannah was already in her element. While the musicians played and crystal glasses chimed in the hands of the wealthy, her gaze swept across faces, movements, and gestures. She noted every lean toward a conversation partner, every nervous tap of fingers on a table, every smile that didn’t reach the eyes. Vivian’s folder had provided names, positions, habits—but only in moments like this did Hannah truly assemble the pieces of the puzzle.

  John materialized beside her as if from thin air. In his hand was a tiny plate overflowing with bite-sized appetizers, and one of them was already half-bitten between his teeth.

  “Hannah, you have to try this one with the salmon!” he mumbled through a grin. “The taste took me back to that mission in—”

  His lively voice stopped the moment she shot him a glance—quick, but sharp as a blade. Hannah lowered her eyes to his plate, full to the brim, then returned to her analytical tone.

  “Open your ears, John.”

  She said it like a command, not a request. John paused for half a second, swallowed, then shrugged. His violet pupils quivered constantly, as if they could never truly settle, yet his smile stayed bright and weightless, as though his shaky vision didn’t trouble him in the slightest.

  “Don’t worry, Hannah,” he answered in a softer voice that, for a brief moment, sounded genuinely serious. “Some things never change.”

  White eyelashes lowered briefly over those restless eyes, but John remained still, wearing a smile untouched by concern.

  Anton raced through the ship’s corridor, relying on the map he’d already memorized in detail. He knew he was heading in the right direction toward the main salon, but the endless hallways, identical doors, and wooden-paneled walls made the place feel like a maze. As he turned a corner, he collided with someone so hard it knocked him back a step.

  “Sorry—sorry…” he began to apologize, eyes lowered.

  When he finally looked up, a chill ran through him.

  The man before him was built like a mountain—massive, broad-shouldered, the skin tight beneath a leather vest. His face was covered by a short, unkempt beard, but what froze Anton’s blood was the smile: metal teeth flashing beneath dark sunglasses, a grotesque imitation of warmth.

  “No worries, kid,” the man rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly.

  Anton forced a weak smile and slipped past him, feeling cold sweat run down his spine. Only when the shimmering doors of the main salon appeared ahead did he manage to take a full breath.

  In the crowd of faces, he immediately spotted Hannah’s silhouette. Her long black hair fell over her shoulders, and the dark runes on her skin set her apart from every other guest. She stood still, her penetrating gaze tracking every movement in the room.

  Anton rushed toward her, still catching his breath. John greeted him with the same plate in hand, shoving a bite under his nose. Anton forced a small laugh, took one piece, and nibbled at it, still trying to shake off the image of that metal grin.

  “So just patrol?” he asked, recalling the mission briefing. Hannah lifted her fingers to her chin, her eyes still sweeping the room.

  “Essentially, yes. You’ve got your earpieces—each of you covers one deck. If anything happens, you report immediately.”

  Isaac lit another cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face before the half-shadow of the salon swallowed it again. He leaned his elbows on the table and took a long drag, pressing his forehead into his palm as if trying to detach from the noise around him. The luxurious salon buzzed with suits and gowns, the clink of crystal glasses, and low but tense political conversations. Ivy stood across from him, hands clasped, her eyes constantly scanning the crowd. Her gaze lingered on specific faces now and then, but none of the ones she sought appeared.

  “I don’t see anyone from Amber…” she murmured softly, then paused and lowered her eyes toward Isaac. Her voice sharpened into a thin, teasing edge. “…yet.”

  Isaac didn’t react. He simply exhaled a cloud of smoke that drifted between them.

  “Maybe it’d be easier if you just called Hannah and asked her to help us steal this thing.”

  Her tone was ironic, but her eyes watched him closely, waiting for the slightest flicker. He finally lifted his gaze through the fingers covering part of his face. His eyes were dark, the shadows beneath them deeper than they should be. He dragged a hand down his cheek as if trying to wipe away her words, but still said nothing.

  The silence broke with a heavy step and the creak of a chair being pushed. Agron appeared, seeming to fill the entire space, shoulders broader than average doorframes, his leather vest groaning with each movement. He cast a glance at them and grinned with metal teeth while his glass eye remained perfectly still.

  “Found him,” he said in his deep voice, dropping into the seat beside them. “Fat politician—third-deck cabin. He’s got the relic. But relax… no point making a move before the last day. Until then—we enjoy.”

  Ivy smirked, half amused, half resigned.

  “For you, every mission is a vacation, as long as there’s food and drinks.”

  Agron roared with laughter, slapping the table so hard he nearly spilled Isaac’s glass.

  “True! Little birdie, listen to the lady. Look at this ship—paradise on water!”

  Isaac only frowned and took another drag, while Ivy hid her laugh behind her hand, watching his nerves twitch.

  John walked leisurely through the yacht’s restaurant, bathed in warm lights and colorful reflections from crystal glasses. He stopped at each table, exchanging a joke or two with the guests, stealing a bite here and there. His laughter echoed brightly, but as soon as he moved far enough for no one to hear, his expression grew serious. He pressed a finger to his earpiece.

  “Restaurant clear. No suspicious traces.”

  On the upper deck, Anton walked along the edge of the pool. Night had settled in, the moonlight shimmering across the surface while the faint smell of chlorine mixed with sea air. The deck was nearly empty, just a few late stragglers. Anton paused for a moment, glanced up at the moon, then reported:

  “Pool deck is quiet. No one here.”

  Meanwhile, Hannah moved through the side corridors and smaller lounges. Some guests stopped her, wanting a word, nodding politely and greeting her with a formal, “Miss Adler.” She returned their smiles—polite, but brief—and continued without pause. Her fingers brushed against her earpiece as she spoke softly.

  “Nothing unusual here either. All clear.”

  A short silence filled the comm line. John’s voice came again, accompanied by the faint clatter of a plate.

  “This tuna tartare is insane.”

  Anton frowned as he walked past the pool.

  “Are you always eating?”

  John laughed through a mouthful.

  “Better that than standing around empty-handed.”

  Hannah chimed in briefly, without the slightest trace of surprise.

  “Leave him be, Anton.”

  John’s tone dropped for a moment—quiet, almost unreadable.

  “Some things just don’t change…”

  Anton paused, confused, but didn’t push for more.

  Night slowly settled over the yacht Pearl, while the last guests drifted out of the salon, carrying with them the scents of wine, perfume, and expensive cigars. The lights were dimmed, and on the deck only the faint whisper of the sea and the soft thud of waves against the hull could be heard. Hannah closed the door of her cabin first. She switched off the lamp, leaving only the muted glow from the hallway, slipped off her shoes, and sat at the edge of the bed, granting herself a brief moment of silence. Her thoughts traveled through every corner of the ship, as if mapping it in her mind for what was yet to come.

  A few doors down, Anton lay in his bed with wide-open eyes. He could hear the gentle hum of the engines and the occasional echo of sailors’ footsteps. In his hand he held the earpiece he had removed, squeezing it as if it were his last connection to Hannah and John.

  John, unlike the two of them, had fallen asleep the moment he tossed his backpack into the corner of the cabin. He’d left a half-finished late-night dinner on the table, as if sleep had struck him mid-bite. His serenity was annoyingly effortless—but typical for him.

  In another wing of the ship, Ivy was shutting her cabin door. She kicked off her shoes, pulled on a thin shirt, and sat by the window, staring out at the black expanse of open sea.

  Isaac was already lying on his bed, but not sleeping; a cigarette burned low in the ashtray, and his gaze was fixed on the ceiling.

  Deep in the ship somewhere, Agron snored like artillery—carefree and satisfied that the cradle of the sea had put him to sleep faster than any glass of whiskey ever could.

  Thus the first night aboard Pearl ended in an illusion of peace. The ship glided through the darkness, while somewhere below the surface, the shadows of the future were already gathering.

  Pearl, April 15th, 2025

  The sun pushed its way through a thin haze over the sea, and the waves lapped gently against the yacht’s sides, creating a rhythm that blended with the quiet music of a string quartet. A massive buffet table had already been set on deck, draped in white linens, silver platters gleaming beneath the morning light. On one end—seafood arranged like artwork: pink lobster tails, shells sprinkled with droplets of seawater, oysters resting on ice. The other end was a riot of fruit—juicy slices of mango, golden pineapple, strawberries set in glass bowls, and cascading grapes spilling over the edges of the dishes. At the center, in tall crystal flutes, champagne and brightly colored cocktails awaited the guests, while the scent of fresh lemon and mint mingled with the salty air.

  Guests moved in slow, almost lazy steps, dressed in spring suits and light dresses, conversing in a mixture of languages. Waiters glided between them with trays, while some guests lounged by the pool already, holding chilled champagne and gazing at the sea as if it were their private stage.

  John stood in front of the loaded table like a child in front of a pastry shop window. He circled it, popping one bite after another into his mouth without the slightest hesitation. Oysters, salmon, fruit—everything vanished quicker than a waiter could bring out a fresh platter. Sunglasses rested on his nose, not quite hiding his instinctive habit of shielding his eyes from the harsh morning light.

  Hannah found him mid-ritual. She approached and leaned one hand on the edge of the table. In the other she held a cup of coffee, its aroma mixing with the salty breeze and the expensive perfumes of the guests by the pool. Her black trousers and white shirt fit the luxurious setting, but the runic tattoos peeking from beneath her sleeves told a different story.

  “Casino night is waiting for us,” she said calmly, taking a sip, her gaze tracking a group of diplomats toasting by the pool.

  John didn’t respond immediately. He chewed slowly, savoring the moment, and only after swallowing and wiping his mouth with a napkin did he smile with that light, carefree tone.

  “You gotta give your old man credit for the food. He always finds the best chefs.”

  Hannah looked at him from under her lashes—no smile. She set her cup on the table, crossed her arms, and continued to observe the people around them. A completely different spirit from John’s, yet entirely accustomed to his jokes as if they were part of her daily routine.

  Anton walked along the deck, still half-asleep, rubbing one eye with his fist while the other blinked at the endless blue stretching into the horizon. The air smelled of salt and fuel, and the wind kept tossing his blond curls. As he wandered in thought, his gaze caught on a man barely holding himself up against the ship’s railing. He was hunched over, fingers clenched around the metal as if he might topple over at any second. Anton instinctively hurried toward him.

  “Hey… are you alright?” he asked, reaching out a hand to steady him.

  The man lifted his head. Black hair fell into his eyes, and his dark pupils were glazed over. He looked like he was fighting to keep his breakfast where it belonged. But what Anton noticed immediately was the ring—gold, carved with runes—on his index finger.

  A relic.

  His heart skipped once.

  Who is this guy? The guests here aren’t ordinary… but this…

  Anton opened his mouth to ask something more, but a soft yet firm voice behind him cut through his thoughts.

  “I’ll take it from here.”

  He turned to find a petite girl with a sharp bob haircut, her eyes glinting under the sun as if lit from within. She stepped beside the man and placed a hand on his shoulder, her look making it very clear Anton should move aside.

  “It’s fine,” she said shortly.

  Anton lingered for a second—taking in the pale, seasick man and the girl whose stance was far too steady to be a simple companion. He wondered who they were, but chose not to push. He only nodded and continued across the deck. Even as he walked away, his mind stayed on that ring—on the relic. He had no answers yet. But soon he spotted Hannah’s silhouette by the buffet table and John happily devouring his third plate of oysters.

  He hurried toward them.

  “Um, Hannah… is it normal for politicians to just walk around with relics on their hands?”

  His voice was low, but clear enough to slice into her focus. Hannah’s gaze sharpened immediately. Even John stopped chewing—which was an event worth documenting.

  “What did you see?” Hannah asked instantly, not wasting a second.

  Anton faltered, his hands making an uncertain gesture as he searched for words.

  “Well… this morning, when I got up, I was walking the deck and…”

  John wiped his mouth with a napkin, his smile momentarily fading.

  “What kind of relic, kid? That’s the part we need.”

  His tone was soft, but lined with seriousness that left no room for rambling. Anton’s eyes flicked from him back to Hannah.

  “Some man wasn’t feeling well, so I went to help him. But he had a ring…”

  He trailed off. Hannah gave a small nod—go on.

  “…The ring was covered in runes. On his index finger. I’m sure—it was a relic.”

  Hannah’s jaw tensed almost imperceptibly. She set her hand on his shoulder—a brief press, half comfort, half command.

  “Stay with John.”

  She moved to walk past him, and after a few steps she turned her head slightly over her shoulder, her voice dry but not without care.

  “And don’t forget to eat breakfast.”

  John laughed at Anton’s baffled expression, shoved a full plate of crab and sandwiches into his hands, while Hannah’s silhouette disappeared into the crowd.

  Ivy watched the blue-eyed boy walk away, his hair glowing in the morning sun. She shook her head lightly, then turned back to Isaac.

  He was gripping the railing with one hand, the other pressed over his stomach, as if trying to stop the rising tide of nausea from climbing any higher. The scent of salt and fuel drifted on the wind, and the gentle roll of the ship was enough to drain every drop of color from his face.

  “Isaac…” Ivy lowered her voice, stepped closer, and wrapped an arm around his waist—as if she alone could keep him upright.

  “Come on. Inside. You look like you’re about to fall overboard.”

  He muttered something unintelligible, the cigarette still smoldering between his fingers until the wind snuffed it out. Ivy plucked the stub from his hand and flicked it off the deck.

  “That’s enough poison for one morning.”

  Isaac coughed and mumbled,

  “Don’t talk crap, Ivy…”

  but didn’t resist her pulling him along.

  His steps were heavy as she steered him toward the interior.

  Inside the atmosphere shifted. In contrast to the swaying sea outside, everything was calm and luxurious—so pristine it was hard to believe seasickness even existed. Ivy guided him to an empty table in the corner, pushing a chair forward like she ruled this little world.

  “Sit. Before you collapse.”

  Isaac sank into the seat, his head dropping into his hands, breath slowing as he fought to regain balance. Ivy took the seat across from him, arms crossed, leaning back as she eyed him over.

  “You’re on a yacht worth hundreds of millions, and you look like a rookie sailor on his first river patrol.”

  Isaac lifted his head just enough to glare from beneath dark brows, muttering:

  “Your sense of comfort never disappoints.”

  Ivy let out a quiet laugh—so faint it felt like it was meant only for him, though she’d sooner die than admit it. After a few seconds of watching him slumped over the table, shoulders sagging with exhaustion, she stood and touched his shoulder lightly to keep him upright.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  He mumbled something vague but didn’t stop her.

  She disappeared into the crowd and soon returned, carrying a glass of water in one hand and a small box in the other. She dropped the box in front of his elbow and placed the glass beside him.

  “Dramamine. Take one, and stop pretending you’re tougher than the sea.”

  He looked up—his gaze flickering at the blend of command and concern on her face. With a sigh, he opened the box, popped a tablet into his mouth, washed it down, and leaned into his hands again.

  “Don’t worry, Ivy. If the sea decides to kill me, I’ll drag you down with me.”

  Ivy rolled her eyes, but a smile ghosted over her lips.

  “That’s why I know how to swim, Isaac.”

  She allowed him to rest while she herself sat more loosely, studying the crowd passing by. For a moment, they looked like two travelers on vacation—not mafiosi on a mission.

  Hannah walked the deck, retracing Anton’s steps, his words still echoing in her mind.

  It can’t be… if they’re here… if he is here…

  The metal doors of the salon creaked under her hand. She stepped inside, her gaze sweeping over faces and glitter—everything glinting: expensive watches, diamonds, polished smiles that hid far too much politics.

  She didn’t stop.

  She moved quietly, until she saw him.

  At a table in the corner—hunched over, hand on a glass, but a silhouette she would recognize even in darkness.

  Isaac Phoenix.

  And across from him, like a shadow resurrected from past nights—Ivy Everglow.

  Hannah’s hand flew instinctively to her chest, gripping the medal beneath her shirt, drawing strength from its cold surface.

  The mafia… here.

  Ivy lifted her gaze. Her golden eyes sliced across the room and locked with Hannah’s dark ones. In that instant, there were no sounds in the salon—no rustle of silk, no clinking glasses. Only two looks, both knowing:

  Amber and the Mafia now shared the same ship.

  Isaac noticed the shift in Ivy’s expression, the slight tremor in eyes that had been indifferent seconds before.

  “What are you—?”

  He turned—and saw Hannah.

  It lasted only a moment. A brief clash of gazes, but enough to knock a heartbeat out of rhythm.

  She slipped away almost immediately, swallowed by the crowd, by the glittering swirl of silk and jewels.

  “Well, now we’re on her radar,” Ivy muttered, sinking lower into her chair, her gaze fixed on where Hannah had disappeared.

  Isaac exhaled—caught between relief and dread. He grabbed the water glass, drained it, and nodded, as if confirming what they already knew.

  Hannah cut through the crowd like a shadow. Smiles and handshakes reached toward her, but she brushed past them with polite nods. Her eyes didn’t linger on a single face—her goal was the only focus.

  She raised a hand and pressed her earpiece.

  “The Mafia is on board,” she said evenly, her voice calm and cold, even though her insides felt like drums pounding.

  “Find out how many, where their cabins are, and why they’re here.”

  Her tone left no room for debate.

  On the other end of the line—on a completely different part of the ship—John and Anton exchanged a quick look. Anton’s eyes wide; John’s ever-present smile now short, serious.

  Night had settled over the sea, and the yacht Pearl glowed like a floating city. Floodlights from the deck reflected off the waves while the interior transformed into a world of luxury and music.

  The casino hall was on the mid-deck—an expansive room in gold and burgundy tones, with massive crystal chandeliers scattering light into hundreds of shards. The air carried the scent of expensive tobacco, perfumes from world capitals, and the faint bitterness of alcohol. Roulette and poker tables were lined with green velvet, stacked with chips in jewel-colored hues. Croupiers in white gloves spun wheels and dealt cards with movements so fluid they looked choreographed.

  The sound of the roulette ball rattling mixed with the cheers of winners, the silence of losers, and a constant murmuring of foreign tongues. Women in evening gowns that rustled like silk, men in tailored suits—everyone played as if this were just another form of entertainment, not a place where fates intertwined. A jazz band performed on a small stage in the corner—double bass and saxophone conjuring old movies, while the pianist occasionally sent smiles to the audience. Waiters drifted between tables offering flutes of champagne and crystal pitchers of cocktails, and the lights were dimmed just enough to drape everything in a seductive, almost unreal glow.

  Hannah stood in the center of this sea of opulence, but she didn’t look like someone swallowed by it—she looked like someone in control of it. Her red blouse, neatly tucked into a black ankle-length skirt, gave her a strict yet elegant appearance. Black leather gloves covered her fingers, and the fabric hid the medal she always carried. Her black heels, red soles gleaming as they clicked across the floor—not loudly, but with just enough emphasis to punctuate the confidence of each step. Nothing on her sparkled, but every seam betrayed masterful craftsmanship, and the way she carried the clothes turned tailoring into art. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun, while her eyes stayed sharp and alert—she wasn’t a guest; she was a guard in the shadows.

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  John approached her from the side. His dark-blue shirt and cream pants made him the simplest-dressed man in the room, but his snow-white skin and lashes, contrasted with those restless violet eyes, outshone the most expensive suits. He didn’t need to blend in—people noticed him whether they wanted to or not.

  Walking with them was Anton. His stride, still a bit stiff and uncertain, made it clear he didn’t belong in a place like this. But the outfit Hannah had chosen for him said otherwise: a plain white shirt and gray trousers—subtle, but made of fabric he’d never worn in his life. Though he felt restrained and awkward, in his blue eyes flickered fear, excitement, and a growing determination not to remain just a shadow on this mission.

  At that moment, standing together, they could have passed as a family out to enjoy an evening of luxury. In reality, they were Amber Directorate’s eyes and ears.

  John extended his phone toward Hannah, the screen glowing pale blue while the casino lights washed over them. A file of names and cabin numbers was open.

  “Here’s the cabin layout. The Mafia sent only three,” he said, balancing a plate of canapés in his other hand.

  Hannah’s eyes skimmed the list—cold, focused—as the glow of the screen flickered in her gaze.

  “Ivy Everglow… Agron Wolfgang…” John paused, scanning the room as though expecting to spot them among the laughing, gambling, champagne-drinking crowd.

  “…and Isaac Phoenix.”

  Hannah’s finger stopped on the picture and info under Isaac’s name. One brief glance was enough—she locked the screen and handed the phone back, severing a thread of thought she didn’t want to follow.

  Anton watched it all in disbelief. His heart beat harder as he realized: the people he’d already encountered—the metal-grinned Agron, Isaac with that rune-carved ring—weren’t just guests, but Mafia.

  It felt as if the floor beneath him suddenly became unsteady.

  “The only thing we don’t know yet is why they’re here,” John continued calmly, then reached out to stop a passing waiter. He grabbed a few snacks from the tray and started eating, as though he were sharing casual trivia.

  Hannah looked at the two of them. She leaned in, just enough that they barely heard her whisper over the music and the murmur around the roulette table:

  “Let’s go ask them.”

  Agron was already glued to the roulette table. His glass eye remained motionless, cold, while the other followed the ball spinning along the rim of the wheel. The expensive suit fit tight across his massive shoulders, the shirt buttons looking one breath away from bursting with every twitch of his muscles. When the ball finally landed on his number, his smile flashed—metal glinting beneath the chandelier light—as he swept the chips toward himself with broad palms.

  Ivy stood right beside him, slightly distant, in a simple loose dress that only a thin belt managed to shape into something resembling elegance. Light from above broke across her skin, but she wasn’t watching the wheel or the chips. She lifted her gaze to Agron, her eyes sharp in the half-shadow.

  “So we’re just waiting… while the predators circle around us?” Her voice was quiet, but steeped in tension.

  Agron didn’t turn. His fingers sifted through the pile of chips.

  “Don’t worry, Everglow,” he rumbled. “We’ve got our little bird with us.”

  She tore her gaze away, looking past the smoke and glamour. At another table, surrounded by politicians’ laughter and clinking glasses, stood Isaac. In his loose black shirt and matching pants, he somehow managed to look both careless and dangerous. A cigarette smoldered in his mouth, and when he gestured with his hand, ash threatened to scatter across the carpet—not that he seemed to care. He smiled easily, slipping through conversations as if he owned them.

  Ivy watched the ball spin again while Agron, sunk deep into his seat and intoxicated by the game, shoved new chips onto the table. His hands were like hammers on the green velvet, and the combination of his glass eye and metal grin made him look even more terrifying in this atmosphere of greed and play.

  “You know, you could lift your head for one second and check who’s around us,” she said coldly, withdrawing her hand from the table edge.

  “That’s what the bird is for,” he muttered without looking up. “And you, Everglow, just breathe. This ship is a closed box. Sooner or later, everyone will drift into our reach.”

  His metal grin flashed again when the ball stopped, and Agron dragged another heap of chips toward himself. Ivy only shook her head, eyes full of disdain.

  “Play your little games, Agron. I don’t have the patience to watch you waste time.”

  She turned from the table, her dress whispering quietly as she slipped into the crowd.

  She stopped by the drinks table, fingertips brushing the thin stem of a glass while she chose her champagne. Just as she lifted it to her lips, she felt a cold breath brush her cheek. Her body tensed instinctively, but her posture stayed calm and unshaken.

  “Miss Everglow, far from your workshop…”

  The whisper spread along the curve of her ear—soft, but icy.

  Slowly, she turned her head and met the violet eyes of John Everest. His smile was wide—far too friendly for words that sharp. One of his hands was already reaching for a small plate on the table, like a casual guest whose only concern was food.

  “Salmon parfait,” he murmured, taking a bite and nodding thoughtfully. “Places like this always add something subtle, you know—to remind you how small the world is. Just like you’re a reminder tonight.”

  Ivy didn’t look away.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  John’s smile widened even further, the pale veins at his temples pulsing as he spoke with that charming, unyielding tone.

  “Then I’ll ask directly. What’s the Mafia doing on this ship? You don’t look like someone who came to play roulette.”

  Ivy took a small sip of champagne, her gaze flashing gold under the casino lights.

  “And you don’t look like someone who came just to eat.

  Yet here we both are, aren’t we?”

  For a moment, their gazes collided—his playful and disturbingly persistent, hers cold and guarded. Then Ivy set her glass down, crossed her arms, and gave him a small nod.

  “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Everest.”

  She turned and vanished into the crowd, leaving him with his plate and a half-smile—as if her silence amused him more than any answer could.

  Anton sat at another roulette table where the ball spun in its endless circle, the chandelier lights glinting off polished chips. His palms were a little damp, but he gathered his courage and placed his chips on red—exactly as Hannah instructed. His heart jumped with every bounce of the ball until it finally landed where it needed to.

  “Looks like luck’s on your side, kid.”

  The voice was deep, gravelly, and Anton recognized it before he even lifted his head. Agron. His glass eye gleamed dead and unmoving, while the other—full of life and suspicion—stared straight at him. Anton attempted a smile, awkward, and shrugged.

  “I guess I got lucky.”

  Agron’s metal grin flashed in the half-light.

  “Luck’s a tricky thing. Sometimes it comes, sometimes it disappears.

  Same as people.”

  Anton caught the implication—the weight behind the words. He wasn’t sure whether to step away or keep playing, but his fingers were already dropping new chips on the table. Again, the ball landed in his favor.

  “Kid’s got a hand, looks like.”

  Agron leaned closer, while the other players cheered and groaned around them. His next words were a whisper, but sharp enough to send a chill straight down Anton’s spine.

  “You’re not here to gamble, are you?”

  Anton swallowed, but kept his voice steady.

  “Everyone’s here to try their luck.”

  Agron’s laugh sounded more like metal clinking than amusement.

  “Maybe so. Just make sure you don’t run out of luck.”

  He pulled back his chips, leaned back in his chair, and studied Anton as if he were seeing straight through him. Anton didn’t get a chance to reply—the ball was already spinning for the next round, and the crowd around the table was hungry for the outcome.

  Hannah waited for the exact moment when the ring of politicians drifted away from Isaac. He stood alone, pouring himself whiskey, shoulders relaxed as if carrying the weight of the world—and yet there was something icy hidden in that ease. She stepped closer and stopped right beside the table, leaning her hip against the edge, arms crossed over her chest.

  “Hey.”

  She said it quietly, but with enough weight for her voice to cut through the noise of the casino.

  Isaac didn’t look up. He filled the glass to the brim, set the bottle down, and as the crystal clinked, one corner of his mouth tugged into a half-smile.

  “What do you want, Hannah?”

  Her gaze slid across the row of bottles, even though she had no intention of drinking. She inhaled, lowered her voice, trying to find even a sliver of common ground.

  “Can we separate personal from business for a moment?”

  Isaac lifted the glass and drained the whiskey in one go. He didn’t even flinch—just poured himself another.

  “On the business side, you’re not getting the answer you want.”

  He paused, then finally turned his head, his eyes cutting across her profile.

  “And on the personal side, my advice is: stop sticking your nose in it.”

  Once again, he emptied the glass as if rinsing the taste of his words from his tongue. When he moved to walk past her, Hannah stepped in front of him, lifting her chin, and their eyes collided—two dark depths, different, but equally stubborn.

  “Isaac… I need to know what you’re doing here. There are important political figures on board, and—”

  He cut her off by simply stepping forward, piercing straight through her resistance as if it were smoke.

  “I’m sorry, Hannah. Save your questions for someone else.”

  The next moment, he was already among a group of foreign diplomats, a cigarette on his lips and a smile that looked like a mask. Hannah remained leaning on the table, staring up at the crystal chandelier above, exhaling through her nose before closing her eyes. Her hand moved to her chest, gripping the medal she kept beneath her shirt—as if drawing strength from the cold slab of gold.

  Her grip loosened when she felt a hand settle on her shoulder. Hannah opened her eyes and met Anton’s and John’s faces.

  “I won ten rounds in a row… and then I stopped playing,” Anton said, though he didn’t sound proud. His voice was low, the memory of Agron’s metal smile still freezing along his veins.

  “I didn’t learn anything.”

  He reached out to hand her all the chips he’d won, but Hannah waved her fingers.

  “Keep them,” she said simply.

  John stepped between them, placing a hand on Anton’s shoulder.

  “Everglow was tough,” he murmured with a faint smile. “Didn’t get anything out of her.” Then he looked at Hannah. “You?”

  She shook her head. Not another word.

  Anton’s face fell, but John patted his shoulder and smiled as if everything were going exactly according to plan.

  “One thing we can be sure of,” he said. “If the Mafia hasn’t acted yet, they’ll wait for the last day—when the ship is close to port.”

  Hannah brought her fingers to her chin and nodded thoughtfully.

  “They must be here for theft. Even they aren’t reckless enough to start killing politicians… but politicians have money. And where there’s money, there are relics. Someone definitely brought something valuable aboard.”

  Her words left a silence between them—the kind of silence where all three knew exactly how fast their time was running out.

  Isaac was leaning against a high table, another glass of whiskey in hand. He had barely touched the rim of the glass to his lips when he felt someone beside him. Ivy stepped up, halting just close enough, glancing at him from beneath her lashes.

  “You didn’t tell her anything, I hope.”

  Isaac placed his palm on the top of her head and patted it, as if calming a child. Ivy rolled her eyes and shifted half a step away, though her smile revealed the weight lifted from her shoulders.

  At that moment, Agron appeared—his massive silhouette now looking somewhat deflated.

  Isaac looked him over and raised a brow.

  “What’s wrong, lose all your chips?”

  Agron growled under his breath, but there was no real bite left in him. Ivy let out a short laugh and smacked his upper arm.

  “Stick to cards next time. Clearly roulette isn’t your thing.”

  Isaac lifted his glass and drained it completely. He set it down on the table and rubbed his eyes, which flickered for a moment under the sharp light.

  “Feeling a little sick,” he muttered, lowering his voice. “I think I’ll lie down.”

  “Go rest, Phoenix,” Agron said through a grin—though worry slipped between his teeth.

  Ivy gave a faint smile, but her eyes stayed fixed on Isaac.

  He returned a half-smile, waved at them from a distance, and slowly withdrew from the crowd, leaving the casino noise behind him.

  Pearl, April 16th, 2025

  A new morning dawned on the Pearl with the same rhythm as the previous one, yet the ship breathed with a renewed energy. The sun spilled across the deck, leaving thin golden streaks on the glass railings and the surface of the pool. The scent of salt and expensive perfume mixed with the smell of coffee and freshly baked croissants drifting from the buffet tables. Politicians and high-profile guests followed their usual habits: some occupied loungers beneath umbrellas, eyes closed, books in their laps that never progressed past the first page; others debated heatedly in the jacuzzis; a few older diplomats had already escaped into the sauna, fleeing the crowd.

  Hannah began her morning in the fitness center, far from the luxury of the salons and pools. Her hair, pulled up in a high ponytail, was already damp with sweat. Her body—finally freed from stiff uniforms—was dressed in a simple velvet tracksuit and a zip-up top. Boxing gloves wrapped her hands as she struck the heavy bag. Her movements were sharp and precise, every hit practiced, as if each punch carried its own untold story. Her fists fired off restlessness and unspoken thoughts, turning her training into a release of everything that had been pressing inside her.

  Her punches echoed through the empty room until a silhouette appeared at the wide doorway—Isaac.

  He lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, boxing gear dangling from his other hand. Their gazes met, and for a moment he froze. It seemed he might turn and leave, but her voice stopped him.

  “Up for sparring?” she asked with a smile that was both a challenge and an invitation.

  He chuckled under his breath and stepped toward her.

  “Don’t cry after.”

  Hannah was already climbing into the ring, her black ponytail swaying behind her. He slipped on the gloves and ducked under the ropes. They both took their stance—light on their feet, fists raised. The punches flowed. They pulled back at the last second, dodging, blocking, dancing across the ring in a half-fight, half-conversation. One of Isaac’s swings passed just beside her cheek—intentionally redirected—and when she lunged in return, he dropped low, hooked her leg, and took her down.

  Hannah hit the mat with a thud, but immediately pushed up on her elbows, breath quick, pupils wide. He was already pulling off his gloves before he leaned down and offered his hand.

  “You’ve gotten rusty,” he teased, a grin breaking through his breathlessness.

  She took his hand and stood. She had no retort ready—just a half-smile lingering on her lips while their eyes held longer than they should have. Droplets of sweat on her face and the tense lines of his shoulders felt like an unfinished sentence between them. He was the one to break the moment, stepping back.

  “I should shower.”

  Hannah nodded, grabbed a bottle of water, and walked off in the opposite direction.

  Far from the fitness center, on the deck near the pool—nestled between luxury and chatter—Anton and John lounged on their sunbeds.

  John lay deep in the shade, carefully shielded from every ray of sunlight, plucking grapes from a bowl and eating them as if he were the only person alive with time to spare. Anton sat beside him, watching, until the silence finally grew unbearable.

  “Aren’t we supposed to… you know… keep watch? Hannah said so,” he muttered, shy rather than confrontational.

  John lowered his sunglasses just enough for Anton to meet his eyes beneath the lenses.

  “Anton, where are we right now?”

  “On a yacht,” Anton replied quickly, like a student giving the correct answer.

  John laughed, tossed a grape into the air, and caught it cleanly in his mouth. The chilled fruit cracked between his teeth.

  “Exactly. And not just any yacht—the Adler family yacht.”

  He pulled a small pouch from beside him and took out a pair of earbuds.

  “Trust me, this place is better protected than a central bank.”

  Anton nodded slowly, trying to accept that logic, while John stretched out comfortably and began scrolling through songs on his phone.

  “Go on, play a game. Enjoy yourself.”

  Anton shrugged, took out his phone, and launched one. Soon he was completely absorbed, while the sea whispered around them and the luxurious ship glided through the day, pulling them further from all they were supposed to keep track of.

  In one of the side lounges, away from the bustle of the pool and main decks, Ivy and Agron sat at a massive wooden table. A deck of cards was scattered across it, along with a couple of empty glasses from the previous night. Agron’s enormous hands shuffled the cards with surprising ease, as if they were weightless cutouts in his grip. His glass eye glinted in the dim light, while his other—blue and restless—followed every shift in Ivy’s expression.

  “Two thousand says you’re bluffing,” Agron said, pushing a stack of chips into the center, his grin flashing with metallic shine.

  Ivy lifted an eyebrow calmly, glanced at her cards, then at him—as if reading his mind.

  “You know… bluffing isn’t that hard with you. All your tells peek through that metal smile.”

  Agron burst into laughter, leaning back so hard the chair creaked under his weight.

  “And you think you’re an ice queen? Your eyes roll every time you pull a bad hand.”

  Ivy slid more chips forward, her fingertips gliding over them.

  “We’ll see who’s rolling their eyes when the next card flips.”

  For a moment, they stared each other down—the challenge thick in the air. Agron’s smile remained smug, while Ivy stayed cool, as if the entire match were the most trivial thing in the world. It was just cards and a few chips, but they both knew—between them, every game measured nerve and strength.

  Anton and John froze almost in sync when a shadow fell over their chairs. Hannah’s voice—calm but carrying authority and a thin blade of irritation—cut through the morning air.

  “Do I need to remind you that we’re security on this yacht? You’re not paid to sunbathe. Come on, we have work to do.”

  Anton immediately set his phone down, completely forgetting the game was still running. John, however, removed one earbud, reclining as if none of this concerned him. He lifted his head toward her with his usual easy smile.

  “How was training, Hannah?”

  She shook her head as she walked between their loungers, stopping in front of them. Her eyes gleamed in the morning sun as she spoke.

  “Tonight’s the party. Fireworks, music, crowds everywhere. I want both of you sharp. It’ll be chaos, and anything can slip past us.”

  Her tone allowed no argument. Anton stood quickly, eager to prove himself, but Hannah placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him still.

  “You didn’t forget the sunscreen I gave you, did you?”

  Anton fell silent, gaze dropping. Then he shook his head—he had completely forgotten. John chuckled softly and popped another grape into his mouth, watching the scene like a teacher scolding a student.

  Still damp from the shower, Isaac walked down the ship’s corridors, water dripping down his loosely buttoned black shirt. The sound of waves against the hull mixed with the soft shuffle of cards in Ivy’s and Agron’s hands.

  Agron spotted him first and thundered with laughter, slapping the seat beside them.

  “Come on, birdie, let me take a few chips off you too!”

  His laughter rumbled like metal gears turning in his chest.

  Isaac dropped onto the chair next to them, relaxed—as if he belonged nowhere else. He slid a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with a flick, and inhaled. Ivy looked at him from under her brow, tone hovering between teasing and curious.

  “What’s that smile for, Isaac?”

  He exhaled slowly, extended a hand across the table, ashes falling lightly onto the floor.

  “Deal me in.”

  The spotlight beams and fireworks shimmered across the waves, while live music thundered from the massive speakers set up on deck. Saxes, violins, and drums danced together in a lavish melody that perfectly matched the madness of a billionaire’s night.

  Long tables overflowed with food—seafood still on ice, lobsters and oysters served on silver platters, exotic fruit arranged like sculptures. In one corner, performers swallowed and breathed fire, their bodies lit in orange reflections. In another, nude women painted in gold lay stretched over tables with canapés and pastries arranged across their skin. Politicians lounged in leather armchairs, cigarettes and expensive cigars smoking into the air, while hostesses sat among them, laughing at their dull jokes. On the dance floor, dancers in sheer costumes were already spinning, while waiters darted through the crowd like magicians, serving drinks faster than glasses could be emptied.

  It all looked like one enormous carnival of power and decadence—a place made to convince everyone that money and time had no limits.

  On Hannah’s face it was clear she was here only for the job. She wasn’t interested in the fireworks burning across the sky above the yacht, nor the dancers glowing under the spotlights, nor the music roaring from the stage—her expression remained still, professional. Her clothes were simple, brutally practical compared to the excess around her: dark pants, a shirt buttoned up to her neck, long sleeves hiding the runes on her skin, and black gloves covering her fingers, as if refusing any direct contact with this world of twisted luxury.

  Beside her, John looked like a ghost with his white brows and lashes. Blinding lights and sudden bursts of sound were torture to him—every sense he had screamed at him to flee. Yet, as always, he wore a smile. In a light cotton shirt and thin jacket, he looked more like a traveler who’d wandered here by accident than someone belonging to a mission.

  Anton devoured everything around him with his eyes. He had never seen anything like this: the rich bathing in decadence, hostesses serving food off their own bodies, performers spewing fire into the sky. He was at once fascinated and disgusted—drawn in by colors, smells, and spectacle, yet painfully aware how far this was from anything he’d ever known.

  Hannah stopped between the two of them. Her voice cut through the sea of music and laughter—barely audible, but impossible to ignore.

  “Let’s split up. Watch everything.”

  Anton and John nodded. Without another word, the trio melted into the crowd—each of them becoming a shadow among the fireworks, smoke, and laughter.

  Agron fit this extravagant chaos perfectly. He was already at a table where chips and cards spun, his hands full of food and drink, laughing loudly as if he owned the night. His massive frame and metallic teeth forced people around him to choose—either admire him or fear him. And he enjoyed both.

  Ivy was the exact opposite. While everyone else delighted in wealth and spectacle, she felt like she was wearing someone else’s skin. Every part of her longed to return to her workshop—to stain her hands with oil, to feel the weight of metal, the familiar scent of gasoline. But she didn’t complain. She remained composed, leaning on the ship’s railing, watching the fireworks tear open the night sky. The colors flickered in her eyes and, for a moment, in that simple dress, she looked more like a woman who had wandered here by accident than a member of the mafia.

  Isaac approached. His steps were unsteady at first, but then he stopped beside her at the very edge of the deck. He followed her gaze skyward, smiling for a moment—until the expression on his face shifted sharply when he looked down at the dark sea below. His hand flew to his temple, and he stepped back, fighting another wave of nausea. Ivy glanced at him and let out a quiet laugh.

  “You took the pill, I hope?”

  He nodded—uncertainly—but managed to stand beside her again. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, seeking balance in her presence.

  “I think I’m going to lie down.”

  “Already? The night just started,” she said, raising a brow, looking him over as if daring him.

  Isaac shook his head and glanced behind him once more at the swarm of elites, the flashing lights, the noise.

  “This isn’t my scene.”

  There was no point arguing. She simply shrugged, and he was already moving away through the crowd. Before disappearing, he cast her a look over his shoulder.

  “Watch Agron… for me, okay?”

  He didn’t wait for her answer. He vanished among the guests, leaving Ivy alone at the rail, fireworks in her eyes and the sea beneath her feet.

  While separating two drunk tycoons stumbling over each other in an attempt to “show off” to the crowd, Hannah’s stare was sharp and unforgiving. One look from her and they quieted instantly, muttering as they drifted apart. She turned, moving through the crowd, and then spotted Isaac.

  He was walking with purpose, a cigarette between his lips, his hand reaching for the heavy doors leading inside the yacht. She rushed forward; the music and fireworks swallowed the sound of her steps, but as his fingers brushed the handle, he noticed her silhouette out of the corner of his eye and stopped.

  “Where are you going, Isaac?” Her voice was sharp, authoritative—the voice of Amber, not the woman he knew.

  He slowly lowered his hand from the door and lifted both of them theatrically, as if surrendering. Cynicism glittered in his half-smile.

  “Oh no! You caught me… I was just about to stage a little massacre.”

  Hannah inhaled deeply and lowered her tone, sounding like she was both warning and pleading.

  “Seriously, Isaac. What are you all planning?”

  He shrugged, his face half-lit by the bursts of light from the fireworks.

  “I don’t know about them. I’m going to bed.”

  Before she could reply, he pushed the door with his shoulder and disappeared into the ship’s interior, leaving her amid the lights and noise of the night.

  Until late into the night, Hannah, John, and Anton dealt with only small fires among the wealthy—drunken slips into the pool, petty disputes at the poker tables, clumsy attempts at flirting with hostesses. All of it was routine, resolved without tension and without a single real incident.

  For all its excess and noise, the night passed surprisingly quietly.

  Pearl, April 17–18, 2025

  The next two days passed in their usual rhythm, but not without color or nuance.

  Hannah remained the embodiment of disciplined professionalism — from the fitness center, where she struck the punching bag and cleared her mind, to the late evenings when she sat behind the closed doors of her cabin, writing emails and reports. Anton was her shadow, listening to every word she spoke, absorbing every gesture, and in his rare free moments escaping into mobile games.

  John, the complete opposite, drifted through the days wearing a smile, playing his playlists, and sharing stories from missions that took him across borders. At their shared meals Hannah would, at least briefly, smile at jokes only the two of them understood, while Anton bombarded them with endless questions.

  One evening Amber attended a grand performance in the main hall — acrobats and musicians putting on a spectacle for the wealthy audience. The next night they followed the gem auction, where prices soared far beyond anything a normal person could fathom, while they remained steady in their quiet routine. Hannah made sure Anton was never hungry, that he had enough blankets for colder nights, as if, alongside the mission, she was teaching him how to survive in this world.

  The mafiosi remained equally calm. Agron spent hours in the casino, sometimes with Ivy by his side, while she often stood for hours leaning on the ship’s railing, watching the sea crash against the hull, measuring time with her thoughts and her occasional reminders to Isaac to take his pills.

  Isaac spent his days slowly, most often with a cigarette in hand, and ended his nights early, retreating to his cabin whenever the medication caught up with him.

  The atmosphere seemed peaceful — but the mutual awareness, the shared understanding that nothing ever ends quietly on missions like this, hung over all of them like a silent shadow.

  Pearl, April 19, 2025

  The restaurant buzzed with morning clatter — the sound of cutlery, the scent of coffee, the mix of warm pastries and sea air drifting in through the open windows.

  At their table, the scene was almost comical: in front of John was a tower of empty plates stacked like he’d broken a personal eating record, and before him a fresh plate loaded with bacon, fruit, and pastries. Anton was eating slowly, with intention, weighing every bite in his mind, while Hannah sat with a cup of coffee, ignoring the food entirely as she watched them both.

  She set her cup down, looked at one, then the other, and said quietly but with authority:

  “Tonight is the last night. Tomorrow morning we dock.”

  In that moment, their expressions — however different — all grew serious.

  “There’ll be a private concert. A famous singer. The entire elite will be there. If the mafia is going to make a move, it’ll be then,” she continued, her voice allowing no doubt.

  “Be ready.”

  John lifted his gaze from his plate, chewed slowly, then smiled.

  “As long as they don’t sing too long. You know hunger doesn’t check the time.”

  Anton set down his fork, swallowed his last bite, and straightened instantly, as if stepping into battle mode.

  “They won’t get away with it.”

  Hannah tapped her fingers lightly on the table, weighing them with her gaze. She didn’t need to say more. Their reactions — each in their own style — were enough. Each of them knew: tonight would decide everything.

  At another table, the energy was entirely different. Agron was already deep in his food — pieces of bread, greasy sausages, and fried eggs vanished from his plate while his metallic grin flashed in the morning light.

  Across from him, Ivy sat straight-backed, serious, a cup of black coffee in her hands. She paid no attention to Agron’s gluttony; she simply blew on the surface of her drink, her gaze distant.

  Isaac appeared like a shadow, approaching slowly. A cigarette already hung from the corner of his mouth, and as he flicked his lighter and took a drag, the first cloud of smoke drifted above their heads, breaking the morning’s gentle scent of food.

  He sat, rested his elbow on the table, and looked at them both with piercing black eyes.

  “Well… the day has come. You two remember the plan, I hope?”

  Ivy and Agron exchanged a glance, then looked back at him.

  Agron grinned wickedly and slapped Isaac on the shoulder with all his strength.

  “Don’t worry, little bird. Just a bit more and we’ll have our feet back on solid ground — with a job well done.”

  Only then did Ivy take her first real sip of coffee. The movement was calm, but her gaze sharp as a blade.

  She stood, smoothed the fabric of her dress, then leaned toward Isaac — close enough that her whisper brushed only his ear.

  “I hope you’re ready.”

  She lifted her head and walked away without another word, leaving behind smoke… and the weight of a question hanging in the air.

  The evening aboard the yacht Pearl breathed a kind of luxury no hotel on land could hope to imitate.

  The grand salon had been transformed into a concert hall — carpets muffled footsteps, while enormous crystal chandeliers poured seas of light that fractured across mirrored walls and gilded frames. On the improvised stage, flooded by beams of shifting spotlights, the musicians stood ready while the audience gathered, claiming seats, rustling their expensive suits and gowns.

  The air was thick with the scent of high-end perfumes, mingled with candle smoke and the aroma of wine poured at every table. Waiters moved discreetly, carrying silver trays laden with champagne and hors d’oeuvres.

  Guests took their seats. Their laughter and early applause echoed through the hall, imbuing it with that atmosphere of rigid luxury — a place where every gesture had its order and every mistake could turn into a scandal.

  When the first lights dimmed and the singer’s voice filled the space, a magical moment unfurled — the entire ship seemed to breathe in the same rhythm as the music.

  The sound was crystal-clear, each note vibrating through the crystal glasses and into the walls. Every eye was fixed forward, yet the shadows in the back rows kept shifting — because to some this was a night of music, and to others it was merely the beginning of the real mission.

  Dressed in black suits and white shirts, with equally dark leather shoes reflecting the concert hall’s lights, the three agents of Directorate Amber stood in the very back, behind the last row of seats. Their presence drew no attention — but their gazes cut through the crowd like blades, tracking every twitch of a shoulder, every careless smile, every impatient yawn or whispered exchange among the wealthy attendees.

  Under her shirt, Hanina’s hidden medallion glimmered faintly through the fabric — enough for her to feel Kai’s restless vibration inside it, impatient with all this waiting.

  Anton’s fingers tightened around the small golden bell in his pocket — the cold weight a reminder of Flock’s presence.

  John, unlike the other two, appeared completely at ease. His eyes sparkled in the shifting lights, and a playful smile tugged at his mouth as he looked toward the stage. Anton glanced at him, confused by how calm he seemed amid all this tension.

  “Um… John, where’s your relic?” he whispered.

  John turned his gaze toward him, then casually hooked a finger to the corner of his lip. A gold tooth, engraved with tiny runes, flashed beneath the chandelier’s glow. When he let his smile fall back into place, he added nonchalantly:

  “Right here. Always with me.”

  Anton stared for a moment, speechless. He had never imagined a relic could take such a form — that it could merge with the body, become part of someone. His thoughts were interrupted by Hannah’s low voice.

  “We need to find the mafia before they manage to do whatever they came to do.”

  Her words sank between them, and the audience’s sudden applause briefly drowned out the tension rising like a tide.

  Ivy and Agron sat among the wealthy in the back rows, unnoticed, as if they were shadows woven into silk and gold. Ivy watched the concert in silence, but her eyes swept the hall endlessly, measuring every movement.

  Agron, leaning back in his seat, looked like just another overfed magnate here to enjoy wine and music — except his metal grin glittered now and then, betraying a simmering impatience beneath the mask.

  Isaac was not in the hall.

  His footsteps, quiet and practiced, carried him along the third deck, where the lanterns swayed softly with the ship’s subtle vibrations. To the sailors passing by, he looked perfectly natural — another guest wandering the corridors.

  But his mission could not have been clearer.

  He stopped before the door he sought. Dropped to one knee.

  From his pocket he drew a tiny piece of metal — an unremarkable tool, perfect in his hand.

  He slid it into the lock and pressed his ear to the cool wood.

  A few subtle twists of his wrist… a faint scrape of metal… and then — click.

  The door yielded as if welcoming him.

  The room greeted him with the scent of fine champagne and old tobacco. Heavy fabrics draped the walls, and expensive furniture was arranged with meticulous taste. But he had no interest in luxury.

  He moved quickly, methodically — rifling through cabinets and drawers, flipping through cases and luggage. His black gloves blended into the shadows as he searched for the object he came for.

  He stopped only when his fingers brushed a small velvet box, no larger than a palm.

  He lifted it, opened the lid.

  Inside lay a golden bullet, carved with thin runes.

  He stared at it for a brief moment, devoid of emotion, then closed the box and slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket.

  Pressing a finger to the earpiece, he spoke quietly, confidently:

  “Relic secured.”

  Down in the hall, Ivy did not move a single muscle — just nodded so subtly it could have been imagined. Agron, with his metallic grin, took a slow drag from his cigarette and nodded as well.

  Hannah moved through the rows, her gloved fingers brushing the backs of chairs as she passed, her eyes noting every silhouette.

  In this sea of gold and silk, a metal grin could never hide — Agron was seated among the wealthy, looking perfectly at home yet too wrong to truly belong.

  Hannah didn’t pause.

  In her ear came Anton’s voice, quiet but sharp:

  “Ivy is in the right wing.”

  She didn’t answer. Her gaze kept sweeping the hall, searching for one particular face.

  Then John’s voice came through, calmer but with a seriousness rarely heard from him:

  “Phoenix is missing.”

  Hannah immediately quickened her pace.

  “Don’t lose sight of the other two,” she ordered, cold and clipped. “I’m going after Isaac.”

  Her words sliced through the music in their earpieces. Anton and John exchanged a tense glance, while Hannah was already moving away. Her black ponytail disappeared into the hallway as she stepped into the hunt for the one man she couldn’t afford to lose track of.

  Isaac walked the corridors with an easy stride, hands tucked in the pockets of his leather jacket.

  The metal box in his inner pocket felt heavy, but he moved as if he carried nothing more than cigarettes.

  The lights above him cast long shadows across the carpet, and each soft thud of his steps blended into the drone of the engines deep below.

  Then Ivy’s voice slipped into his ear:

  “Hannah is out.”

  Isaac smiled under his breath, amused by how quickly the game was becoming a chase.

  “Continue as planned.”

  In the hall, Ivy rose from her seat — graceful, subtle — and began to move among the guests. Her motion looked like she was simply seeking a better view or another drink, but John’s eyes locked onto her immediately.

  He slipped out of the crowd and followed, murmuring into the comm:

  “Ivy’s on the move. I’m on her.”

  Almost at the same time, Agron pushed himself to his feet — a mountain impossible to ignore. Anton’s grip tightened around the bell in his pocket, and he stood as well, letting his steps echo behind Agron through the crowd.

  “I’ve got him.”

  Far away, Hannah was already trailing Isaac down the corridors, keeping her eyes fixed on his silhouette as it vanished behind corners. Whenever she followed, he was a few meters ahead, opening door after door like he was inviting her deeper into a labyrinth.

  Finally, he stepped into the kitchen — a room closed for the night.

  The lights were dim, cold metal surfaces reflecting muted tones.

  Hannah entered from the opposite side, closing the door behind her.

  Isaac saw her, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.

  “Go back to shepherding your drunk rich men, Hannah. This isn’t your mission.”

  He moved around the long metal tables, hands in his pockets, eyes on her.

  She matched his pace, the two circling each other like predators.

  “If the relic is on this ship, Isaac,” she said, “then it is my mission.”

  Hannah moved first — in a flash.

  She drew her pistol and fired.

  A burst of bullets tore through the metal rack above his head, sending rows of pans and pots crashing onto the counter, the noise brutal in the quiet kitchen.

  Isaac flinched, raising his arm instinctively, but Hannah was already sliding across the table toward him, skimming over the cold steel — their faces aligning for a heartbeat.

  He grabbed a kitchen knife behind him and threw it.

  The blade sang through the air and struck the wall beside her cheek. She felt the chill of metal brush her skin — but didn’t blink.

  Isaac was already at the door.

  For a moment he turned back, pulled the velvet box from his pocket, and lifted it for her to see. His eyes glinted through the shifting shadows.

  “Too late.”

  Then he vanished.

  Hannah sprinted after him without hesitation, gun in hand, heart pounding in the rhythm of the hunt.

  “Phoenix has the relic,” Hannah’s voice broke through the comms as her footsteps thundered down the corridor.

  John reacted instantly — though he didn’t speed up. He kept following Ivy, who had stepped out onto the open deck.

  Wind whipped the edges of her dress and tossed her hair into her face. She stopped on one side of the pool; he appeared on the other.

  Their gazes locked across the calm surface of the water, where the ship’s lights fractured in trembling reflections.

  “No food out here, Everest,” she called, her voice flat but strong enough to cut through the roar of the sea and the distant music from inside the yacht. “Get back inside.”

  John raised a brow, defiance curling at the corner of his mouth.

  He began to move slowly along the pool’s edge. She mirrored him on the opposite side.

  “You know there’s nowhere to run, Everglow. This ship is a cage — for both of us.”

  Ivy turned her head toward the horizon.

  Far in the dark, faint outlines of the city appeared — the glittering shore growing closer.

  “Your time is running out,” she said. “We’ll be docking soon.”

  Then she faced him again, her gaze as sharp as steel, her hand still resting casually at her side — yet ready.

  John paused, a playful smile flickering across his features, savoring the tightening loop of the hunt around them.

  Anton tailed Agron all the way to the casino hall. The roulette lights, the clatter of chips, and the electronic wails of slot machines wrapped around them in a sheen of artificial glamour. Agron paused at the threshold, then glanced back, flashing Anton that metallic grin.

  “Want to try your luck, kid?” he thundered, a voice that tore through the room—just like the glass eye glittering under neon.

  Anton frowned, but didn’t back down.

  “I already beat you once at games of chance,” he muttered, leaning on a thin layer of stubborn confidence.

  Agron laughed—a short, rough sound like steel being ground.

  “This is my turf.”

  From his pocket he pulled a chip—golden, carved with runes that pulsed with a life of their own.

  “Frida… grant me luck.”

  The chip flared. The glow spilled across the gaming table, gathered, condensed into a silhouette.

  And in an instant, a woman in red stood before Anton’s eyes.

  A tight dress hugged her body, golden hair poured over her shoulders, and lipstick painted her mouth like a slash of blood. Her eyes flashed like two coins. Beside her, a slot machine materialized—tall, loud, garish.

  “Let’s spin the wheel of fortune,” she rasped, a demonic smile stretching her face.

  The lever yanked itself down. The reels began to whirl, their clacking swallowing the rest of the casino’s noise.

  Tick-tock. Tick-tock—

  Until the symbols locked into perfect alignment.

  Three gleaming kitchen knives.

  A flash lit everything around them. When it faded, a knife lay in her hand—its blade so thin and shimmering that cold ran down Anton’s spine.

  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He had never met a relic that manifested objects like this.

  Frida flipped the knife between her fingers like she was amused. Anton understood one thing clearly:

  This wasn’t the moment to retreat.

  He had an ace too.

  He crushed the bell in his pocket and breathed, “Flock.”

  Light split in front of him, and the silhouette of a court jester stepped into being. His creaking, warped grin sounded like a blade scraping glass. The tiny bells on his motley cap jingled with every twitch of limbs bent at inhuman angles.

  “What’s this, kid?” Flock sneered. “Calling me because of a girl with a little knife?”

  His voice dripped with mockery—then he burst into laughter, long and grotesque, the kind that bounced off casino walls and made the air feel wrong.

  That laugh cut through the hiss of steel.

  A knife whistled past him and sliced his cheek. A bead of thick, black liquid slid down his skin. Flock snapped his head around, eyes wide, his long, sharp nose pointing straight at the lady in red.

  “Braaavo, bravo!” he cackled. “Excellent act!”

  He whooped, sprang back, landed on the gaming table. His horrifying laughter stretched ear to ear as he clapped and applauded, loudly enough it felt like the whole ship might tremble under his circus delight.

  Chasing Isaac, Hannah reached the technical belly of the ship. She slid her pistol back into its holster. She couldn’t risk firing among hissing steam pipes, live wiring, and reserve fuel tanks. One spark could turn the entire yacht into a fireball.

  Instead, she drew a slim tactical knife from her sleeve and locked it into her grip.

  Her footsteps were softened by rubber soles on metal flooring, but the roar of valves and pumps made it feel like any sound could be his shadow. Isaac vanished and reappeared behind massive vents; steam rose from grates, and the fog of it hung like curtains.

  “Go back upstairs, Hannah,” his voice echoed through metal—near and far at once. “I’m not your problem tonight. The politicians are.”

  Hannah followed the sound, eyes focused, the blade catching the red reflection of warning lights.

  “Isaac,” she called, hopping over cables, “if I’m not your problem, why are you running?”

  He appeared for a moment on the next level, leaning against a pipe. He laughed—and disappeared around another corner.

  Hannah sprinted.

  When she slipped behind one of the giant filters, she was suddenly behind him.

  A sharp motion—cold steel at his throat.

  He froze, lifted his hands, but the smile didn’t leave his face.

  “Just give me the relic,” she said, voice steady, eyes locked on his.

  “Find it yourself,” he replied softly—almost teasing.

  Keeping the knife firm, she used her free hand to pat down his jacket. She could feel the heat of his body, the fresh cigarette smoke clinging to the fabric. Their eyes didn’t break for a second.

  Then, with a sudden twist of his shoulder, Isaac knocked the knife from her hand.

  Metal clattered and rolled across the floor, ringing through the pipework.

  Hannah clicked her teeth—but it was too late. He pulled back, spun, and vanished through the next door.

  Steam shrieked louder, as if the ship itself were shaking with their game.

  Hannah took a hard breath, glanced at the knife on the ground, and ran after him.

  On the deck above the technical level, where engine noise blended with distant concert music, the night split open with two bursts of light.

  On one side—Ivy’s voice, bright as a blade:

  “Anecdote… give me your hand.”

  On the other—John’s voice, cold, calm, sharp as glass:

  “The feast is ready, Ash.”

  Light exploded, and their relics stepped into the world.

  Anecdote — tall and lean, hair flowing in white waves down to her waist, two dark eyes that swallowed the night. She wore black leather threaded with straps and pouches, scalpels and knives peeking out. Her fingers—thin and deft—were already dancing over them like a musician over strings.

  Opposite her, Ash — pale as a ghost, straight black hair falling over her shoulders, eyes like deep wells of darkness. She wore a kimono white as snow, traced with snowflake symbols like frozen seals. In her hand gleamed a katana—black, perfectly smooth, its edge so sharp it felt like it could split reality itself.

  The space between them detonated into motion.

  Anecdote threw first—steel flashed through the air, but Ash’s katana drew a black arc and cleaved the blade in mid-flight. Both halves dropped soundlessly onto the deck.

  The next second, Anecdote sprayed the air with dozens of scalpels. Her hands moved too fast for human eyes to track.

  Ash remained still. Every time, a flick of her wrist—her katana flared—air itself split, scalpels deflected, some shattered, others slammed into the railing beside them.

  The sound was vicious: knives hissing through air, the katana carving wind, metal shrieking against metal.

  Sea wind curled around them, carrying the scalpels that missed. The two women stared without blinking, eyes locked in a deadly game.

  The casino hall no longer looked like a glamorous playground for the wealthy.

  The slot machine Frida had spun turned into an ominous howl, and the screen froze on three identical symbols:

  A black machine gun.

  “Ooo… look what I got,” Frida whispered.

  The slot machine burst into light, and a heavy, black machine gun emerged from it—right over her shoulder. She grabbed it with both hands like it had always belonged there.

  Anton froze for a single heartbeat—

  Then the shooting began.

  Bursts ripped through the air. The room started to collapse.

  Walls cracked, wood split, chandeliers shattered into a rain of glass. Everything that had been glittering luxury seconds before was now a battlefield.

  Flock, however, danced.

  His body bent in impossible angles, limbs twisted like a marionette without strings. Every burst slid past him as he hopped and laughed. The bell on his cap rang madly in rhythm with the gunfire.

  Anton wasn’t so lucky.

  A burst hit him. His body jerked and he fell back—blood spraying across the ship’s floor. The world dimmed, swallowed him for a beat.

  And then—

  Flock threw a card.

  A Joker.

  The paper ignited in his fingers, then detonated into blinding light. That light wrapped around Anton; his wounds began to vanish, his breath returned, his eyes snapped open again.

  Flock howled with laughter so hard his body shook, clutching his stomach.

  “Fascinating! You’re like a magnet for death, boy!”

  Anton sucked in air, his body still aching even though the holes were gone. Panic flashed in his eyes.

  He sprinted through the ruined corridor—glass and splintered wood crunching under his shoes. He pressed his earpiece as he ran.

  “The mafia is spraying the ship with a machine gun!”

  His voice shook—but it was clear.

  He tore down the hall, still tasting blood in his throat even though Flock had already dragged him back. The door at the end flew off its hinges when Anton slammed it with his shoulder.

  He burst out onto the deck—

  And ran straight into the sounds of battle.

  John and Ivy stood with their relics summoned. Their entities—Anecdote and Ash—collided in showers of sparks: katana against knives, metal against air.

  Anton stopped for half a second, complete shock flooding his face.

  Behind him he heard a familiar laugh—like gears breaking and grinding.

  Agron stormed through the wrecked doorway like a hurricane. His massive frame looked even bigger under the torchlight.

  “Run out of luck, kid?” he roared, lifting his arm.

  Behind him, Frida appeared—her red dress rippling as if wind carried it, the machine gun still warm from firing.

  Anton felt his knees threaten to fold.

  He was being pulled into hell—and it was getting worse by the second.

  John turned over his shoulder, his gaze cutting through the night, and shouted—

  “Anton! To me—now!”

  Footsteps echoed through the narrow stairwell as Hannah and Isaac climbed up from the ship’s technical deck. Metal rang beneath their weight, and the smell of oil and burnt powder still clung to their lungs. Hannah breathed steadily but sharply, like a cat on the trail of prey; Isaac moved faster, trying to lose her in the maze of passages.

  On one landing, in a cramped space where pipes crossed like ribs, Hannah finally caught him—she slammed into him with her shoulder, and both of them hit the metal floor. She drove her knee into his chest, pinning him, but he twisted sharply, rolled, and in the next moment she was the one beneath him. His palm pressed her shoulder to the cold plating, their breaths crashing together in quick, heated bursts.

  “Give me the relic, Isaac,” she hissed through her teeth.

  “All for that Amber medal, huh?” he muttered, voice low, almost threatening—yet something fragile threaded through it.

  For a heartbeat they stayed that way, locked in a tight circle of silence, the only sound the frantic rhythm of their hearts. Then Hannah jerked her hips, freed one arm, and shoved him off. In that brief loop of grappling and release, both of them sprang to their feet again—sweaty, breathless, but neither breaking eye contact.

  Isaac was the first to step toward the door. He pushed it open and slipped out onto the deck—but immediately stopped. The sea met him in its merciless immensity. His stomach lurched, and he grabbed the railing, recoiling as if the water itself had struck him. For a moment, Hannah’s voice softened as she reached a hand toward him, something like concern flickering in her eyes.

  “Isaac…” she began, but he only shook his head, still pale.

  “It’s nothing…” He forced himself forward, wrenching his gaze away from the horizon.

  Hannah followed, and in moments they emerged onto the main deck—where gunfire and the demonic laughter of invoked relics already tore through the night.

  Flock sat perched on the ship’s railing, legs dangling like a child on a swing, his twisted grin gleaming as he cackled. Every so often he would lean back or tilt his head just so, letting a bullet, a knife, or a shard of wood streak past him, as if he were enjoying a performance drawn in blood.

  Opposite him, Ash fought on two fronts at once. Her katana parried the rain of blades Anecdote was flinging from the shadows, only for another burst from Frida’s machine gun to rake the metal beside her, forcing her backward, teeth clenched. Sweat slid down her temples, her black eyes glinting with exhaustion—yet the hand gripping the katana never faltered.

  On one side of the pool, caught in the glare of shifting spotlights, stood John and Anton. John leaned forward slightly, his teeth flashing as he whispered for Ash to hold on; Anton stared wide-eyed at the battlefield of demons.

  On the opposite side stood Ivy and Agron. Ivy, hands clasped behind her back, watched coldly, as though calculating the exact second she would need to intervene. Agron’s grin split the night—his glass eye fixed on Anton’s silhouette, and his fingers clicked rhythmically over the gold chip in his pocket.

  The tension snapped the moment Hannah and Isaac stepped onto the deck. Their footsteps echoed—both breathless from the chase and the fight inside the ship. Every gaze swung toward them.

  “Hannah!” John shouted across the deck, as Ash struggled against bullets and steel. “Call Kai—let’s end this!”

  His voice cut through the metal and gunfire, but Hannah didn’t listen.

  “Isaac!” Ivy’s voice rang from the opposite side, sharp, commanding through the smoke and carnage. “Get over here! The boat’s ready!”

  Agron was already charging toward the railing, where waves licked at the rescue boats, ready to swallow them and carry them far away with the relic.

  Isaac glanced toward Ivy and Agron—just for a second—but his eyes snapped back quickly. His black gaze locked with Hannah’s, and the world fell silent. Wind, explosions, screams—everything dropped away, leaving only the two of them.

  He stepped forward—she cut him off.

  No gloves, no ring, but every movement echoed their sparring match in the gym. Isaac moved fast and precise, but every time he could have struck her, his hand hesitated by half a finger’s width. Hannah, however, held nothing back. He absorbed or blocked her blows, always just enough not to retaliate.

  She knocked him down in one sweep, but he rolled, rose, returned to guard. She nearly clipped his shoulder; he caught her arm and redirected it, then shoved her, and she hit the wooden deck hard. Her breath tore from her lungs, and he stood over her, sweat dripping down his temple.

  “Move, Hannah,” he said quietly—not angry, almost pleading.

  She kicked him sharply in the ribs and sent him stumbling. She rose, black ponytail snapping against her neck as she settled back into stance.

  “You know I can’t.”

  The fight crashed across the deck—strikes, blocks, grapples. And then, in one sudden motion, Isaac’s pocket tore. The small velvet box tumbled out, hit the boards with a dull thud.

  Both of them saw it.

  They dove at the same time. Their hands touched it together, fingers colliding—but in that chaotic tug, the box slipped, bounced, skittered—

  and with a sharp metallic tap and a soft sound of breaking water, the golden rune-etched bullet vanished into the ocean’s black.

  They bolted to the railing, grabbed the cold bars, leaned over the edge. Only dark water and distant reflections of fireworks met them. The relic was gone—swallowed whole.

  Hannah and Isaac stared at each other, chests rising and falling. His eyes burned with frustration and helplessness; hers were cold but bright with adrenaline. For a heartbeat it seemed like one of them might reach out—or push the other over.

  Isaac broke first. He stepped back, ran a hand down his face, inhaled deeply.

  “Little bird!” Agron’s roar thundered behind them. “We need to go. We’ll never get it back.”

  Ivy had already lowered her gaze—one quiet come in her eyes was enough.

  Hannah stood rigid, fingers still white on the railing. She only watched him go. She didn’t try to stop him. Isaac turned, crossed the deck, and joined his people. Ivy and Agron withdrew their relics into the chip and the screwdriver, the light fading.

  The three of them—shadows under the moon—lowered themselves into the boat and slipped across the waves, disappearing into the night.

  On the other side of the deck, John and Anton were already sprinting toward Hannah. She still stared after the boat, unmoving, her heart tight beneath her skin. John raked a hand through his hair; sweat and battle-laced exhaustion mixed with the salt in the air. He leaned back against the railing and spoke in a calm, even tone.

  “Nothing to be done now, Hannah.”

  She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the fading glow of the boat. When it finally vanished, she turned aside and pressed her back to the rail. She exhaled heavily, covering her forehead with her hand, palm sliding down over her face.

  “Tyrion’s going to lose his mind when he sees this damage…” she muttered, voice half resignation, half bitterness.

  John pushed off the railing, stepping closer, trying to soften the blow.

  “Oh, he’s survived worse scenes. If anything, he’ll have an excuse to draft a new insurance contract.”

  His smile hung somewhere between a joke and comfort, but it wasn’t strong enough to break her rigid stillness.

  Anton wasn’t listening to either of them. His hands gripped the railing as if he meant to break it. He stared at the dark spot where the relic had vanished beneath the waves. His heart pounded, and one thought drowned out all others—

  This cannot be how it ends.

  He shrugged off his tuxedo jacket slowly, as if shedding fear. He tossed it over the railing, letting it hang in the void, then climbed up onto the edge of the ship.

  John’s eyes widened—but too late.

  Anton jumped.

  His body sliced into the water and disappeared beneath the surface.

  “What is that child doing?!” Hannah’s voice cracked with shock.

  John could only stare, speechless, eyes widening in stunned disbelief as he looked down into the dark sea.

  The dark depths swallowed Anton the moment he dove in. Cold water clamped around his chest as he flailed his arms and legs, desperately searching for the faint glimmer of the box in the black. His lungs burned. There was no air. And then everything went dark.

  In the next moment, a crooked grin appeared before his eyes, and the bell rang through the water as if echoing through glass. Flock danced in the depths, his limbs bent at impossible angles, his facial features warping as laughter spilled out of every corner of his head.

  “Fantastic move, kid!” he said, the words tearing through the water like a dream breaking apart.

  Anton heard the laughter inside his skull—shrill, tinkling, sickening—but he didn’t stop. He pushed through the water with his arms, diving deeper, closer to the bottom. Breath failed him again. His body convulsed, throat burning, eyes widening—

  and again, darkness.

  Flock revived him once more, laughing like a child smashing its toys.

  “You should see your face, kid! Hilarious!” he cackled, tiny bubbles fleeing from his mouth.

  A few more times, Anton died and returned, each time more desperate but more determined. Until finally Flock stopped, folded his arms, and theatrically leaned in toward him.

  “Enough, kid. I’ll get the little box for you.”

  He vanished in a spiral of bubbles, then reappeared right in front of Anton, holding the small box. He placed it into Anton’s hand, curled the boy’s fingers around it, and whispered:

  “Hold on tight, kid.”

  Flock grabbed him by the shoulder and — in a burst of water and shattered silence — flung him upward toward the surface, then dragged him all the way to the ship’s deck.

  Anton lay on the wet planks, clutching the box, his chest rising and falling like he’d surfaced from hell itself. The first thing he saw was Hannah leaning over him. Her eyes glowed with panic as her fingers gripped his shoulder to pull him upright. He coughed, choking on water, gulping at the air, while her voice cracked with worry but remained sharp as ever.

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  John was there in an instant. He stripped off his tuxedo jacket and dropped it over Anton’s trembling shoulders. The fabric soaked quickly, but at least it gave warmth. Anton, still gasping, managed a breathless laugh and lifted the box in his hand. Hannah’s attention snapped instantly from his face to the small, soaked case. She seized it, snapped it open, and peered inside—the golden bullet gleamed under the first streaks of morning light.

  Her jaw tightened. She shut the box and slid it deep into her inner pocket, then helped Anton fully to his feet.

  “Don’t ever do that again, okay? Stick to the plan.”

  Anton nodded, still shaking from the cold, but the smile on his face said everything. He had done it. He had helped the team. Flock slipped back into the bell in his pocket that very second, the tiny chime that followed sounding like laughter from their final act.

  The three of them headed toward the interior of the ship as the sun slowly climbed over the horizon, bathing the deck in gold.

  “Come on, let’s warm you up,” Hannah said, worried, gently patting his cheek and forehead.

  John, hands folded behind his head, added with a grin:

  “We could grab something to eat too!”

  Anton let out a boyish laugh, even as his teeth chattered.

  Pearl, April 20th, 2025

  The yacht Pearl glided through its final meters toward the harbor, ropes clattering as sailors rushed to secure her. The city breathed differently from the sea — the smell of asphalt, exhaust, and fresh bakery bread washed over them the moment they stepped onto land.

  On the edge of the street stood the three who had survived seven days on the water. John, with his backpack thrown over one shoulder and sunglasses shielding him from the morning light, looked exactly the same as when the mission began — smiling, as if it had all been nothing but an extended vacation. Hannah and Anton stood across from him.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a ride?” Hannah asked.

  John waved her off with a grin.

  “No need. The airport is the opposite direction from where you two are headed.”

  Anton, eyes bright with admiration, clenched his fists excitedly.

  “Are you going across the border again?”

  Just then a cab screeched to a stop in front of them. John’s grin widened. He slapped Anton’s shoulder hard enough to almost knock him off balance, and as he opened the taxi door, he said:

  “Work’s already waiting.”

  He climbed inside, gave them one last wave, and disappeared into the noise of morning traffic.

  Hannah turned to Anton, her eyes darkening for a brief second.

  “Wait for me by my car. I have something to take care of.”

  Anton nodded, confused and curious, but smart enough not to ask. She was already turning away, her long ponytail sweeping across her back as she walked down the street.

  The alley was dim, far from the harbor noise and morning cars. The walls smelled of damp stone and dust, with an old gutter dripping somewhere in the distance. Isaac stood leaning against the wall, cigarette dying between his fingers, his phone casting a pale glow on his face. Only when he heard a soft, almost fragile “Hey” did he lift his gaze. He slipped the phone into his pocket and took a single slow, cautious step forward.

  Hannah stood in the shadow and pulled the box from her inner pocket. Without ceremony, she tossed it toward his chest. It landed squarely in his palm, cold and heavy, and he lowered his eyes to it for a moment.

  “Consider it payback for the USB,” she said, her voice calm but weighted. “Now we’re even.”

  The box sat in his hand as though it burned. He smiled — more with his eyes than his lips — and tucked it into the pocket of his leather jacket.

  “What are you gonna do about the report?” he asked quietly, gaze fixed on her.

  Hannah waved it off, casually, though exhaustion and defiance flickered in her eyes.

  “Don’t worry about my reports. They’ve already told the politicians not to bring anything truly valuable on board anyway.”

  Silence fell between them — but it wasn’t empty. It was dense, charged, as though both knew they had just crossed a line they couldn’t step back over.

  He smiled again, faintly, as she turned away, her silhouette slipping back toward the sunlight of the street.