Rain slicked the city like oil.Kabri leaned against a streetlamp in Montmartre, Paris, the glow of passing cars flashing in his eyes, but none of it touched him. Not anymore. The world had grown thin. The air no longer felt real—like a sheet of glass between him and the living.He had seen Jamil.He had read the letters.And now, a new puzzle piece had surfaced—a sealed envelope left inside a hidden drawer of Evelyn’s childhood cottage in Normandy. A place he never knew existed. A place with no birth certificate, no photographs older than age twelve, and no trace of a family name.The envelope bore one thing:E.V. File – Do Not Open Unless He Asks. J.M.Inside, not just words.Proof.The Journal EntryThe handwriting was unmistakable. Jamil’s. Neater here. As if writing to someone he adored.Evelyn turned seven today. We kept the candles low. She asked who her mother was. I told her: “A ghost with green eyes.” She laughed. That laugh is mine. The world can take everything, but it wi

The wind carried no name, no mercy, no direction.It howled like an orphan over the jagged cliffs of Croatia’s Dalmatian coast, where Kabri walked barefoot, unshaven, unshowered, and untethered to any remaining thread of reality. His coat, once stitched with Kevlar, hung loose like a war banner soaked in rain. His eyes—hollow. Like the world inside him had already died.He hadn’t slept in three days.He hadn’t eaten in two.He hadn’t spoken aloud since he left the Ardennes.His mind was a shattered cathedral echoing only with betrayal.Evelyn’s voice haunted him like a hymn:“You were the test subject.”Jamil’s video looped in his thoughts:“You were the ink. Nothing more.”And Amir’s last question struck the deepest:“Did he ever love you?”The Town of SilenceHe wandered into a nameless fishing town, the kind that didn’t exist on tourist maps. Just stone homes, cracked docks, and elderly women who spoke with their hands more than their lips.A boy offered him bread. Kabri shook his

The rain didn’t stop for two days.Portugal disappeared in the rearview as Kabri crossed into Spain, forged a trail through Andorra, and vanished into the cold heart of southern France. He moved under aliases now. Malik Nouri. Idris Fahad. Even Vincent Erodi, a name stolen from a dead customs officer in Trieste.He didn’t sleep. He didn’t trust maps.Only the voice in his head mattered—the one that whispered, “Jamil is still ahead.”The Mansion in the WoodsNestled in a stretch of untamed forest north of Annecy, France, Jamil’s so-called safehouse was anything but humble. Kabri had seen satellite images, heard whispers from former cartel runners and betrayed warlords. It was a myth made stone.Locals called it Le Fantôme Vert—The Green Ghost.Three stories. Reinforced walls. An underground panic tunnel that vanished into the Rhône.The compound was built like a chessboard: each corridor mirrored, each door meant to confuse intruders. It was once a resistance hideout in the 1940s. Now

The snow crunched under Kabri’s boots—slow, deliberate, soaked with the stains of violence.He didn’t run anymore.He walked.Each step was a verdict. Each breath a countdown.The coordinates he’d extracted from the intercepted message traced Amir’s forced relocation to a black site buried in the Belarusian marshlands. A former Soviet missile silo, now scrubbed from all satellite maps. No name. No road. No salvation.It was surrounded by frost-bitten pine and barbed fences. And by men.Armed men. Hired ghosts. Jamil’s elite.Kabri had studied the blueprints for hours, but there were no secret doors now. No hidden shaft, no sedative, no camera to sneak through.There was only the front gate.And his fury.Cold Steel EntryThe guards were bored.Three of them stood by the front gate with rifles slung lazily over their backs, chatting in Serbian about football and vodka.Then, one of them noticed the man in the black coat walking toward them across the clearing—alone, no weapon in hand.

The snow came in silent waves.Kabri stood outside the chapel before dawn, the horizon a dull bruise behind the mountains. His breath fogged the air, mingling with the bitter wind, as he watched over the valley below. It had been three days since Amir first opened his eyes and spoke. Three days since Kabri had heard the truth wrapped in a child’s whisper. Three days since he’d slept.The monastery's silence was fragile. Too fragile.He felt it in his bones before the sound even came.A distant crunch of snow.Deliberate.He crouched by the arched window of the chapel, scanning the slope leading to the path. At first, nothing—just a grey blur of wind, stone, and white.Then he saw her.She moved like a shadow in velvet.Black coat. Hair tucked under a fur-lined hood. A rifle slung across her shoulder in the unmistakable way of a trained assassin. Her boots barely disturbed the powdery snow.Kabri’s pulse slowed. Then surged.Evelyn.She was alone.Or pretending to be.The StandoffKa