Ethan left the Zurich node in silence, the cold air cutting across his face as he emerged into a quiet alley several blocks from the train station. The wind was sharp, almost surgical in its chill, slicing through the seams of his coat as if nature itself wanted to remind him of the risks he'd just taken.
Snow had begun to fall in slow spirals, a gentle, hypnotic cascade that blurred the edges of the cobblestone streets, but his mind was racing too fast to notice. Each breath turned to vapor, each step echoed slightly in the stillness of the alley.
He had seen enough in that terminal to understand one thing—his father hadn't just played with fire. He had built the furnace. Designed the blueprints. Fed the flames. And now, somehow, impossibly, Ethan was sitting at the control panel, unsure whether he was meant to extinguish the blaze or let it consume the world.
He took a winding route through the district, weaving through narrow passages and shadowed lanes. Every few turns, he glanced behind him. Habit. Instinct. Training he didn't remember receiving but now obeyed like second nature.
He ducked into a coffee shop briefly—not to buy anything, just to blend in—before continuing on foot through the southern part of Kreis 4. At one point, he paused near a newspaper vendor, using the reflective surface of a trash bin to watch behind him as he switched SIM cards with trembling fingers. The replacement card had been preloaded, anonymous, stripped of identifiers.
But even with all his precautions, the unease clung to him like damp clothing. A twitch in the spine. A tightening of the jaw. That ancient warning system built into the bones.
He was being followed.
Two blocks later, it wasn't a feeling. It was a certainty.
Three men, dressed to blend in but moving with an orchestrated rhythm—like sharks in streetwear. One always lagging just enough to look distracted. Another crossing diagonally every time Ethan changed direction, pretending to check his phone or examine street art. The third had vanished entirely—until Ethan turned a corner and nearly ran straight into him.
The man smiled with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. "Mr. Alden."
Ethan moved first. Pure reflex.
His shoulder slammed into the man's chest, the impact solid and sudden, knocking the man off balance and sending him stumbling back against a wall. Ethan sprinted into a narrow passageway lined with trash bins and rusting bicycles. His feet pounded the pavement. The edges of his vision tunneled. He heard the calls behind him, the crunch of hurried footsteps. They were flanking him—coming in from both sides like a coordinated net.
A trap.
Desperation propelled him into a low-ceilinged tunnel between two old buildings. The passage reeked of damp concrete and stale oil. He thought it would lead out—but it didn't. It was a dead end. The brick walls closed in, forming a tight courtyard boxed on all sides. Graffiti scrawled across the back wall in angry neon letters. A pile of abandoned crates offered no cover.
He spun around. The three were already there. Guns drawn. Steady hands.
Ethan raised his own slowly, keeping his eyes moving. No uniforms. No insignias. No barked orders. Just the same quiet, surgical efficiency he saw in Zurich's terminal—agents, or something worse.
"You accessed Project ECHO," one of them said, voice calm as a machine. "You weren't supposed to."
Ethan's voice was edged with forced calm. "What now? You shoot me in broad daylight?"
"No."
The man raised his weapon.
"Silenced."
A sharp pfft rang out—almost gentle. One of the attackers jerked sideways, a sudden spasm, and a red mist bloomed from his temple. He collapsed without a sound.
Before the other two could react, a second shot rang out—another controlled burst. The second man crumpled, twitching, before his weapon even left his side.
The third spun, panic overtaking precision—but too late.
A shadow moved with ruthless speed from behind a steel dumpster. A boot slammed into his gut, lifting him briefly off the ground. The gun skittered across the stones, and the man groaned, curling in on himself.
Darius Kellan stepped into the open, his silhouette framed against the snow-dimmed light of the alley. He wore black gloves, his coat flaring as he moved, unbuttoned just enough to reveal the black sheen of body armor beneath. His face was stone—cold, unreadable.
Ethan stared. "You."
Darius raised a single gloved finger. "Save it. You're bleeding time."
He crouched down, grabbed one of the attacker's phones, and crushed it under his boot with a muted crunch. Fragments scattered.
"They tagged your signal," he said without looking up. "You didn't mask your exit from the node. Cassian should've warned you."
Ethan's mind whirled. "I didn't tell Cassian where I was going."
Darius paused. His tone darkened. "Then you've got a bigger problem."
Ethan exhaled, a hot breath in the cold air, nausea creeping up as the adrenaline drained. His hands trembled slightly now, not from fear—but from the knowledge that he had underestimated the reach of whatever game he'd stepped into.
"Who the hell are you?"
Darius didn't answer. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small—round, metallic. A coin. Etched with the Alden crest at its center, weathered but unmistakable. The same design Ethan had seen in the vault. The family symbol no one outside the bloodline should've had.
"Your father gave me that in Prague, fifteen years ago," Darius said. "Told me that if the world burned, I should find his son."
Ethan stood frozen.
"I'm not here to control you," Darius continued, voice even. "I'm here to make sure you stay alive long enough to matter."
Ethan finally nodded, slowly. "Then start by telling me where we're going."
Darius glanced upward. "Somewhere warm. Somewhere clean. Then we talk."
They moved quickly. Darius guided him through more alleys, avoiding CCTV, entering a back door of a quiet, unremarkable apartment building. The interior stairwell smelled of metal and dust. The elevator was ancient—manual crank system, long out of standard code. A security camera above the door had been disabled, wires cut clean.
Inside the flat, the air was heavy with the scent of gun oil and old paper. The space was simple but clearly reinforced—double-reinforced windows, soundproofed walls, reinforced door with mechanical locks. One wall was covered in weapons—compact SMGs, silenced pistols, knives arranged like surgical tools. A server hummed softly in the corner, its blue lights pulsing faintly.
Ethan turned slowly, absorbing everything.
"So what now?"
Darius poured two glasses of water from a steel jug and handed one over. He sat across from Ethan, the furniture sparse but functional.
"Now you tell me what you saw in the node."
Ethan hesitated. His mouth felt dry, and the silence felt too still.
"I saw leverage," he finally said. "Names. Codes. Pressure points. Things that can topple nations."
Darius nodded slowly. "Then you've just stepped into the real war."
Ethan studied him. "And you? What's your role in this?"
"I was Marcus Alden's blade in the dark," Darius replied, eyes steady. "And if you want to survive what's coming, you'll need someone who knows where the bodies are buried."
Ethan sipped his water, feeling the glass cold in his palm. Then set it down deliberately.
"Fine. But I don't trust easily. And if you lie to me—"
"You won't get the chance to find out." Darius's voice was low, flat. No bravado. Just fact.
They stared at each other. Neither flinched.
Then Darius stood, walked to the window, and parted the curtain with two fingers.
A car sat idling across the street. Same model. Same make. Subtle. Watching.
Darius turned back.
"That was just the beginning, Ethan. You've kicked a sleeping empire."
He locked eyes with him, voice like steel.
"You have no idea who we're really up against."