Location: Berlin
It was raining heavily. The atmosphere was dark and quiet, yet the city moved on—people hurrying under umbrellas, cars splashing through puddles, life pretending everything was normal.
He walked through the street, his coat soaked, eyes scanning the shadows. He found a telephone booth—rusty, half-lit, forgotten by time.
He needed help.
Lifting the receiver, he dialled a code—a number known only to him, Jack, and Agent Miranda.
The line clicked.
"Six," came Miranda's voice—low, alert.
"I need your help. It's something important… something's going off," he said, his voice sharp, urgent.
"There are agents behind me asking about you and Jack," she replied. "I can't promise you anything… but I'll try. What is it?"
"A number: B-TR 9485."
"I'll see to it."
"Call me when you have something... you know what to do."
The line went dead.
Two days. That's all that was left before the summit began.
Jack had to know.
The storm was coming—closer, faster, and this time, it wouldn't pass quietly.
Location: CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
The agent walked briskly through the corridor, tension clinging to him like sweat. Pressure built with every step. He stopped at the door, knocked once, then entered.
"The package will start on its way to the location in 30 minutes, sir. Is there anything else you want me to do?" the agent asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
Cyrus didn't look up immediately. When he did, his gaze was ice.
"Found Six?" he asked coldly.
The agent hesitated. "No, sir. He burned the op to the ground. Escaped clean. Sources suggest he might be in Berlin."
Cyrus stood.
He stepped forward—slow, deliberate—and grabbed the agent by the throat. It wasn't a choke, but it hurt. The kind of pain that humbles.
He leaned in close, voice like poison.
"When I say I want something done, I want it done. I don't want your might or but when you're talking to me. I want results. Is that clear, Agent?"
The grip tightened.
The agent barely managed, "Yes, sir."
Cyrus released him.
The agent turned to leave.
"Find anyone close to Six," Cyrus added darkly. "Do not kill them. Bring them to my chamber."
"Yes, sir."
And with that final order, the agent vanished down the hallway—Cyrus standing still, watching like a predator.
Location: A library in Berlin
The rain hadn't stopped. It lashed against the streets like needles from the sky. Berlin's shadows seemed darker tonight, soaked in silence and secrets.
Six stepped through the creaky glass doors of an old public library tucked between forgotten buildings. The place was dimly lit, shelves towering like grave markers, dust clinging to untouched knowledge. The air smelled of mold, parchment... and something older — something hidden.
A single reading lamp flickered near the front desk. Behind it sat an old librarian with silver hair, his glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, reading a worn-out volume of Goethe.
Six approached.
"Do you sell umbrellas here?" he asked, voice calm, low — rehearsed.
The librarian didn't look up. He turned a page slowly and said, "I'm afraid you're in the wrong place, boy."
Six replied with a whisper, leaning in slightly."I guess so… but the sun has set… it's raining heavily… the storm is brewing outside. The day is like a raging fire. Help is needed."
That got his attention.
The librarian paused. A flicker of recognition passed behind his eyes as he closed the book.
"Which umbrella do you need?" he asked.
"The kind that doesn't get detected in this modern world," Six said. Then quietly added, "9560."
There was a long silence. The librarian stood without a word and walked down a narrow hallway to his left, disappearing into darkness. A moment passed… then another. Six's hand gently hovered near his coat, near the hidden blade on his wrist. Just in case.
Then — footsteps. The librarian returned, holding a plain, weathered brown satchel. He handed it over without meeting Six's gaze.
"It contains the necessary," he said. "Including the umbrella."
Six took the bag and nodded. No words. Just a silent understanding.
Outside, thunder cracked across the Berlin skyline.
He stepped back into the rain.
Now… all he had to do was wait for Miranda's call.
Location: CIA HQ, Langley, Virginia
She swiped her card and walked into the headquarters. She slowed down her pace of walking. She was called into a meeting with Cyrus. She knew why she was being called for, what to say, what not to say, and when to say.
She walked through the corridors and reached the door, knocked on it, and went inside.
"Agent," Cyrus greeted, voice low and composed. "Sit."
She didn't. Just stood there — her silence louder than any answer.
He leaned back. "Strange times we live in. Friends turn to ghosts. Ghosts turn into stories. Stories become threats."
Miranda said nothing.
Cyrus continued, "I assume you've heard the rumors. Names being whispered again. Names that should've died years ago. Like... Jack. Like Six."
A flicker in her eyes. But still, she remained silent.
Cyrus stood up. Walked toward the window, hands behind his back.
"You used to be reliable, Miranda. Sharp. Loyal. Now you walk around like you're waiting for something to explode."
He turned, his eyes sharp.
"So tell me... Are you the fuse?"
Finally, she spoke. Cool. Controlled.
"I'm not the fuse, sir. I'm the warning before the fire."
Cyrus smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"You're stepping out of line."
She took a step forward. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Lines blur when the wrong people are in power."
Cyrus's smile vanished.
"You think I'm the wrong man?"
"I think," she said slowly, "you've forgotten what side you're on."
Cyrus approached her — face inches away.
"I built this agency with blood and steel. I made the calls no one else could. Don't you dare lecture me on sides."
She didn't flinch. "Then maybe it's time someone did."
A beat.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Agent," he said, voice barely above a growl.
She stared him down.
"So are you, sir. The only difference is… I'm not bluffing."
She turned to leave.
"Miranda," Cyrus said sharply.
She paused.
"I won't warn you again."
She looked over her shoulder.
"Good," she said. "Because next time, I won't be listening."
She walked out, leaving the storm to rage outside — and inside.
Cyrus called one of his agents. He came in fast.
"I need eyes on Agent Miranda. Anything suspicious...take her life. Inform me every 2 hours. Is that clear??" said Cyrus.
"Yes, sir." The agent responded and left the room.
Location: Langley, Virginia – CIA Parking Deck
The dusk bled into the sky like a bruise, the air heavy and still. Miranda stepped out of the building with practiced calm, but her eyes scanned the shadows. She moved quickly to her car, unlocked it, and slipped inside.
With the engine off, she pulled out her secure line. Dialed.
It rang once.
"Tell me," came Six's voice — low, clipped, watchful.
"I ran the number," Miranda said. Her voice was quiet, guarded. "Got a hit...but I have a feeling I'm being followed. Cyrus called me in."
"What happened?" Six's tone sharpened.
A moment passed.
"He warned me. Told me to stay away from you. From Jack." Her words were edged steel now.
"And we both know you're not going to do that."
A ghost of a smile crossed her lips.
"It's a truck. Registered under an NGO. Destination: Geneva — probably part of the summit logistics. Medical aid, food supplies, all very clean on paper."
"Too clean," Six muttered. "Basel border?"
"Yeah. That route. Low inspections, diplomatic courtesy — they planned this well. I'll send you the info."
A pause.
"Thank you, Miranda," Six said.
She softened, just a little. "You be safe. Both of you. I need you and Jack alive."
"You too. Keep an eye behind you...and take care of Claire."
She leaned back in the seat, the shadows hugging the edges of her face.
"See you soon, Six."
The line went dead.
She started her car and went.
Back in Berlin, Six knew...everything they've fought for, everything they've loved may come to an end, and there wasn't any time to waste.
Location: Berlin Safehouse
The storm had passed, but the silence it left behind was heavier than thunder.
The safehouse was cold, dimly lit. The rain still trickled outside, clinging to the windows like quiet whispers. Six sat hunched on a chair, wiping blood from a gash on his side. His breath was shallow — not from pain, but from the truth clawing its way to the surface.
He picked up the encrypted phone. Dialed. It rang once.
"Six, you alright?" came Jack's voice. Alert. Concerned.
Six didn't waste time.
"Jack...it's Geneva. The summit. That's where it all ends. That's where they're going to strike."
"What are you talking about?"
"The black site in Berlin was a cover. They're moving everything — intel, weapons, dirty money, even recruits — all of it, hidden in NGO shipments headed to the summit. Once they're in...they'll wipe it all. The leaders. The truth. The people."
Jack was quiet. Processing.
Six's voice trembled — not with fear, but fury.
"They'll bury the Syndicate with the world watching — make it look like a tragedy, an accident. But it's a purge, Jack. A reset. Everything we've fought for...everything we've lost...it goes up in flames in Geneva."
"Six..."
"No more time, Jack. No more doubts. We either stop this now...or the world burns in silence."
"Give me a way to reach Geneva."
"I've messaged you the details...the shipment...its the only way you can reach Geneva...but the trap that lies...I don't know about that."
Location: Safehouse, France
The message:
Contact point: Warehouse 9, Friedrichstraße, Berlin.
Time: 02:30 AM, local.
Truck ID: B-TR 9485.
Manifest: NGO – Humanitarian aid bound for Geneva via Basel.
Route: Berlin > Freiburg > Basel > Geneva.
Access point: Rear hatch, crate #19 – marked with blue stripe.
Note: No transponders. No signals. Eyes everywhere. You disappear now, or never.
Move quietly. Trust nothing on board. I'll see you on the other side.
The room was silent. Jack felt like darkness collided through. Time was running out. Innocent lives will be lost he doesn't act right now.
Promises...promises.
Time: 10:30 PMThe rain had finally stopped, but the air was soaked in silence.Not peace.Just silence.
The cracked window of the safehouse reflected the bruised night sky. Jack stood there—jaw tight, coat zipped to his throat, the message from Six glowing faintly on the burner in his palm.
B-TR 9485. NGO shipment. Basel. Border crossing between 2:00 – 2:15 AM. You have one shot.
Jack didn't reply. Just tossed the phone onto the mattress, grabbed his satchel, and stepped out the door like a man walking into the last storm of his life.
He didn't run. Didn't need to. His route was burned into his skull, every second carved with purpose.
10:45 PM
The alley behind the safehouse stank of rotting bread and damp wood. He cut through it, moving fast, keeping to shadows, until he reached Rue de la Gare. Factory worker disguise held firm—brown coat, cap, canvas bag. No tech. No metal. Just a folded map, a forged Swiss ID, and enough resolve to silence a nation.
Jack moved east. Not toward the main train station—too obvious. He veered off, down into the southern railyards. Freight territory.
11:05 PM — Strasbourg Freight Sector
The south yard was dead quiet, save for the slow grind of iron wheels.
A long SNCF cargo train lumbered into view on Track 3, hauling open-bed pallets wrapped in tarps and rain. Jack crouched, counted cars. On the seventh, he moved.
One leap. Landed between crates. No sound.
He lay flat. The train rumbled on, heading south.
11:40 PM — Near Erstein
The train clicked and bucked as it veered slightly west. Somewhere near Sélestat, it would split off to a side rail. That was his mark.
He felt the drag. Slowing.
He got up, adjusted his satchel, crouched—
And jumped.
His body hit the gravel, rolled once, then twice. Pain burst in his ribs. He bit down and pushed himself up.
Blood on his wrist. Coat torn. Vision blurred.
But he was up. And moving again.
12:05 AM — Outskirts of Sélestat
No headlights. No company. Just woods, a canal, and the distant hum of a sleeping town.
He hiked through the tree-line toward Route D1083. Minutes ticked like countdowns.
At the edge of the road, a single truck passed — dented, muddy, hauling crates of something that smelled like dirt and rot.
Jack raised a hand. Two fingers.
The driver slowed. Romanian plates. Tired eyes.
Jack opened his palm, flashing a 50-euro note. "Mulhouse," he said. "Now."
The driver nodded. That was enough.
1:10 AM — Mulhouse Industrial Sector
The ride was rough, the engine louder than Jack preferred, but it got him close.
He dropped from the truck near a row of abandoned factories. Shadows moved between walls here. Ghosts of industry. Good.
He didn't stop walking. Didn't look back.
1:25 AM — Rhine-Rhône Canal
He hit the water's edge. Fog rising off the black surface like breath from a dying god.
He followed the canal south, toward the crossing point. Each footstep buried in wet grass and forgotten gravel.
1:45 AM — Basel Perimeter
The checkpoint was ahead. Two fences. One road. One truck.
The NGO shipment.
Jack crouched near a drainage run-off, waiting for the security light to shift. He timed it — ten seconds between sweeps.
He sprinted.Over the ditch.Through the fence tear.Behind the wheels.
Two men came off the front. A driver and passenger. Good physique...they were agents.
The truck was idling. No guards near the back. The NGO seal hung loose on its latch.
He noticed a few people standing near the truck.
Jack didn't know who they were. They didn't have any weapons in their hands. The clock was ticking.
The lock clicked.
A chill surged down Jack's spine as the container doors creaked open.
Two silhouettes. One hopped down and walked toward the front of the truck. The other stayed, turned to scan the crates. His eyes didn't even register the shadow slipping out from behind the aid boxes.
Jack didn't wait.
One smooth motion—his hand shot down to his thigh, drew the machete, and in one brutal arc—Crack. Slice.The blade sank into the man's throat like steel into soft wood. No scream. Just a wet gurgle.
But the second one wasn't alone.
A blur—A blade—Flash of silver.
The pain hit instantly—sharp, white, savage. A gash opened on Jack's left hand. His fingers burned.
The second attacker lunged again.
Jack slammed him hard—back-first—against the cold steel wall. The crates shook.
The man in the front seat heard it. Footsteps thundered back toward the container.
Jack didn't hesitate.
He spun, dropped low, and swept the guy's legs clean from under him. Before the man could even shout, Jack was on him—driving the machete into his throat in one clean slash. He twisted it once. Done.
Blood sprayed across the floor. It smelled like copper and adrenaline.
Jack pulled the pistol tucked into the man's belt and rose fast—Gun drawn—Eyes locked on the remaining figures in the truck.
They froze. Five of them. Smaller. Slighter.
Breathing fast.One reached for something.
Jack didn't flinch.
"Don't," he warned.
And then—
Pain.
A scream cut short in Jack's throat.
A blade jammed into the muscle near his right shoulder blade—deep, sharp, hateful.
He twisted.
Fury blurred his vision.
He struck back—elbow to face—bone to bone. The attacker fell. Jack gritted his teeth, pulled the knife free, and fired.
One shot.
A hand exploded in blood and scream. The small figure dropped, writhing.
Jack yanked his mask off.
And what he saw…
Stopped him.
Men, of young age.
25. 27. Maybe younger.
Eyes wide. Trained. Conditioned. One still held a knife. Another had glass shards duct-taped to his palms. Blood on their clothes. Fear replaced by cold obedience.
Recruits.
Echelon had changed the game. No more mercs. No more shadows in suits.
Now they were raising ghosts from birth.
Jack lowered the gun slightly, breathing heavily. The container reeked of blood and betrayal.
His eyes locked with one boy's. The man didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
Jack's wounded. Bleeding. Surrounded by recruits who were trained to kill like machines.
He's got a gun in his hand. They've got fear and conditioning in theirs. Instead of killing them, he dropped the gun. Grunted in pain and said, "You think they gave you a name. They didn't. They gave you a leash."
He continued, "Go ahead. Kill me. Like they taught you. Like they told you I was the enemy.But before you do—ask yourself: Why did they send you? Not them? Why do you bleed while they sit in rooms with gold clocks and wine?" They took your homes, just like they took mine. They've killed innocent people using you, your hands just so that they could live their lives peacefully, while we stain our hands."
"Look at the bigger picture. Do what's right… even if it means going off books."He ended.
For a moment, silence. Heavy. Almost unbearable. Then, slowly, the tension began to fall from the recruits' shoulders like rust peeling from old metal.
Weapons lowered. Breaths steadied.
One of them, the boy with blood smeared across his cheek, stepped forward. His voice cracked—not with fear, but confusion.
"Why? Why did you do this?"
Jack didn't blink.Didn't look away.
"Because someone has to, kid."
His voice was raw. Not righteous. Not dramatic. Just truth. Stripped and scarred.
The recruits exchanged glances. These weren't soldiers. They were survivors—twisted into weapons before they could spell their names right. They remembered the needles. The silence. The gaslighting. The faces of those who didn't make it.
But Jack... Jack didn't just kill their handlers. He broke the cycle.
He didn't see them as threats.He saw them as victims who still had a chance.