The city was too polished, too well-lit, too aware of itself to offer shadows thick enough for people like him. The rain fell in a steady mist that blurred the electric brilliance turning luxury storefronts into shimmering ghosts.For days now, Mercer and his small team had tracked Erich Voss, the discreet Swiss banker the Browns believed held the thread leading to the BlackFog Collective. But Mercer, seasoned as he was, could feel something sour in the pursuit. Voss wasn’t hiding. He was performing.Every day began the same a usual routine. The banker at a cafe, sipping black coffee, reading the magazine as though the world was ending. Every day he boarded the same train on the east line, briefcase in hand, heading toward the financial district where polished towers mirrored the sky. Every day he paused just long enough to peer into reflective glass, not at himself but at what might be behind him.Mercer knew that look. It wasn’t nervousness,it was control.“East tramline again,” Ce

The train slid into Prague’s main station signalling an end to the journey to Prague. Mercer was the first to step out, his long coat pulled tight against the winter bite. Behind him, Celeste adjusted her scarf, balancing her laptop case against one hip. Daan followed last, broad and silent, his frame cutting through the early commuters like a prowling animal.Prague was too beautiful, Mercer thought sarcastically for the secrets it carried. “Not bad,” Daan muttered, scanning the old square through the train station’s arches. “Better beer than Zurich.”Celeste ignored him. Her mind was already racing ahead. “I picked up where we left off. The Triarii symbol showed up in old logistics archives tied to a company still active here. A shipping front. They call themselves Orbis Trade Consortium.”Mercer raised a brow. “And it’s still operating openly?”“Yes,” Celeste said, pulling out her tablet to show him. “Registered as a mid-level logistics firm moving machine parts across Central Eur

Kate Brown’s penthouse rose above the city like a glass crown. Tonight, all she saw was herself composed, controlled, and lying to itself.Mercer’s report still pulsed through her head. The Prague front, the prisoners with their clipped, fatalistic phrases, the symbol that had drawn them out of Zurich like fish to a lure. She set her palm to the cold pane and let memory surface not the tidy, public history of Kate Brown, capable and relentless, but the private path she’d taken into a tunnel without exits.It hadn’t begun with Reynolds. It had begun with a door opening in her life that no one else knew existed.Only after creating a connection with the anonymous shadows,did Reynolds step forward. Not as a herald of opportunity, but as their emissary a golden shareholder with grandfathered voting power and a smile that never reached his eyes. He didn’t pretend to introduce the shadows; he didn’t need to. His presence alone told her whose wind was at his back.There is a moment coming,

The interrogation chamber in the lower levels of Brown Tower was a stark, unforgiving venue. In the place is a single metallic table bolted to the floor, and harsh fluorescent lights that turned sweat into a sheen of nervous glare.Mercer stood with arms folded, his sharp eyes fixed on the three prisoners dragged in from Prague. Beside him, Celeste leaned casually against the wall, though her fingers toyed with the cigarette she wasn’t allowed to light. Daan adjusted the folder of notes in his hand, calm, precise, his expression unreadable.Behind the one-way mirror, a larger gathering watched. Davis, Victory, Henry, and Reynolds were all present. Even Kate had been summoned to observe, though she sat back from the glass, legs crossed, trying to maintain her mask of calm. The chairman, Henry, said little, but his fingers tapped against the arm of his chair in a rhythm that betrayed both tension and calculation.Mercer’s voice cut across the room like steel scraping stone.“You know wh

The revelation spread like fire in a drought-stricken forest. By dawn, every major financial paper, online bulletin, and gossip column carried the headline:“The Late Chairman’s Son, Ven Brown, Lives.”For the first time in years, the Brown Empire was not controlling the narrative, it was being controlled by it.The atmosphere inside Brown Tower was suffocating. The boardroom was packed with executives and restless shareholders. A murmur of voices buzzed like flies until Henry slammed his palm against the polished table.“This is not a rumor anymore,” Henry growled, throwing down the morning paper. His voice carried the weight of both elder brother and chairman, but for once even he struggled to control the storm in the room. “It has a name. Ven. The media doesn’t run with names unless someone feeds them directly.”“Which means someone inside our walls is deliberately leaking to destabilize us,” Davis snapped. His normally composed suit was rumpled, his tie loose, eyes ringed from a