Rain came late in Tripoli.It began as a whisper—soft, uncertain—and quickly thickened into a steady downpour that rolled over the rooftops like a cleansing tide. The hideout’s tin ceiling cracked under the weight of it. Dust turned to mud. The blood Kabri had spilled earlier smeared into the floorboards, diluted by moisture, washed toward the threshold.Evelyn stood by the open window. A storm haloed her in silhouette—wet hair clinging to her neck, jacket sagging under the weight of rain. She held Kabri’s notebook in her hands, the one with Jamil’s name scribbled in the margins and codes written only he could ever decipher.Kabri sat at the edge of the mattress, arms resting on his knees. His face was dry now, but hollow. He had not spoken since the night broke into fragments around him. Not since Jamil’s recordings exposed Yusuf’s cold orchestration.Not since his reason for revenge turned into a double-bladed curse.Evelyn turned to him.“You loved him like a brother,” she said.“I

In the cold, wet veins beneath London’s surface, men had died for gold more than once. But tonight, it wasn’t greed that carved through the shadows—it was revenge.Kabri stood near an old maintenance shaft behind a forgotten Piccadilly Line junction, his breath quiet, eyes fixed on the tunnel ahead. His rogue cell—known now in whispers as The Ash Wolves—were scattered in precision across several entry points under the city. Every movement had been rehearsed. Every second, measured.He didn’t need orders anymore. His face was gone, his name erased. In the war for ghosts and kings, Saeed Al-Rai was all that remained.Hours Earlier – Briefing Room, Marrakesh SafehouseA flickering projector painted maps and structural blueprints across a canvas wall. Evelyn, now fully in play, pointed with a red laser.“This is Fred’s artery,” she said. “The Knightsbridge Vault connects through a service tunnel to this—an old coal route underneath South Kensington. From there, Fred moves gold in black cr

Cairo, Egypt Midnight. The city groaned beneath the weight of its history.Dust spiraled in lazy circles around the dim alleys off Al-Muizz Street, where minarets cast jagged shadows over buildings older than European cities. Here, under the indifferent watch of ancient stones and call to prayer, Kabri walked like a man threading time itself.He had entered the city under his alias—Saeed Al-Rai—with papers forged from three nations and a biometric mask that passed facial scans 92% of the time. His stride was slow but confident. The scar beneath his wrist itched, but he didn’t scratch it. It wasn’t pain—it was memory.He turned into a gated alley where time seemed to stop altogether.Two figures stood before a cracked blue door. Kabri nodded once. They nodded back. No words. The guards stepped aside.Inside, the room smelled of old citrus wood and jasmine. It was small. Tidy. A table. One chair. No electronics. A lamp burned a single flame.And beside the lamp sat a woman in mourning

The rain in Seville fell like whispers—soft, cold, and persistent. Evelyn stood at the edge of the old Alcázar garden, her hands trembling inside leather gloves. She wasn’t here for the view. Beneath the flowerbed near the marble fountain was a cache point, the kind only high-clearance agents knew existed.She crouched, removed the metal grid disguised as a drain, and extracted a black envelope wrapped in plastic. Inside: a photo, a burner SIM card, and a message scrawled in plain ink:"You’re in too deep, Evelyn. MI6 or Saeed? Choose wisely. You have 48 hours."It wasn’t signed. It never was. But she knew who it came from: Director Coates of MI6’s Special Asset Division.Evelyn didn’t curse. She didn’t scream. She just closed her eyes and felt the sting of betrayal twist in her stomach—for the hundredth time in a month.She had walked a line too thin to define. On one side, Kabri—now “Saeed”—a man whose darkness matched hers but whose love had kindled something she thought long dead.

Kabri hadn’t slept.Even as the sun began to crawl over Lisbon’s misty skyline, he remained seated in the far corner of the safehouse, a battered pair of headphones clamped to his ears, staring into the distance like a man unraveling the laws of time.The audio file had no metadata. No date, no time stamp. It had simply appeared on the decrypted folder extracted from Jamil’s second drive—file name: 04_REDSTAIN_FINAL.Kabri pressed play again.Jamil’s Voice (tired, low): "If you’re hearing this, either I’m dead or about to be. I don’t know what will kill me—Fred’s paranoia, Yusuf’s ambition, or my own guilt."The words were like a scalpel.Kabri gripped the edge of the table harder."Let me start from the beginning, because that’s what no one ever does. We all join the business thinking we’re smarter. That we’ll dodge the knives we ourselves sharpen. I was twenty-two when Fred found me in Cairo. I thought he’d be a mentor… but I didn’t realize then that he and Yusuf were already playi