The rebellion ran on new, fierce energy, but its fuel was desperation. Sophia's ascension had streamlined their purpose, but it hadn't magically filled their bellies or cured their sickness. The real cure, the luminous symbiosis brewed in Liesel's hidden labs, was a precious, painstakingly slow trickle. For every vial they distributed, there were a hundred hollow-eyed faces left wanting.It was within this gap, between hope and reality, that the Judas Flame flickered to life.His name was Kees. He had been a minor functionary in the old city archives, a man whose life had been defined by order and quiet routine. The collapse had shattered that. He’d joined the resistance not out of fiery ideology, but out of a simple, animal need to protect his wife, Annelies. She had the Scourge. The dry, rattling cough was the soundtrack to his every waking moment.He had seen Sophia only once, from a distance, during a distribution in a ruined church. He'd seen the awe in the crowd, the way people

The safe house was a tomb, and they were its ghosts. They had staggered in one by one, through different routes, drawn by a pre-arranged emergency protocol. A repurposed cold-storage locker beneath a butcher shop, the air thick with the ghost of old blood and the new, sharp scent of fear. There were seven of them. Out of the thirty who had been at the stock exchange.Sophia sat on an overturned crate, her back to the cold, humming metal of a freezer unit. Her ankle was already a memory of pain, the torn ligaments and fractured bone knitted together by the silent, furious work of her body. The physical wound was gone. The other wound, the one inflicted by the Judas Flame, was festering.She looked at the six faces huddled in the dim light. Elara, her face etched with a grief so deep it seemed to have aged her a decade. Liesel, her practical hands trembling as she tried to inventory their meager medical supplies. Rik, the grizzled fighter, his knuckles white as he cleaned his weapon. An

The fungal glow was a poor substitute for the sun, but it was light. It illuminated the vast, cathedral-like space of the cistern, the arched brickwork soaring into darkness, the still, black water reflecting the soft, blue-green luminescence. It was a place of profound silence, broken only by the steady, metronomic drip of water from the ceiling and the ragged, shivering gasps that still wracked Sophia’s body. She sat on the concrete ledge, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The filth of the canal was a second skin, a cold, slimy armor of sewage and decay. Her clothes were plastered to her, heavy and reeking. But the physical cold was nothing compared to the chill that had settled in her soul. Elara found her there. She must have used one of the other, cleaner access routes. She moved quietly, her footsteps echoing softly in the cavernous space. She didn't speak at first. She just sat beside Sophia, the warmth of her body a small beacon in the damp chill. She held out a blan

The fog was his ally. It clung to the cobblestones of the Amstel, muffling sound, blurring edges, turning the world into a ghostly tableau. Markus Hale stood within it, a more solid shadow amidst the shifting grey. The frantic, desperate energy that had driven him from the sewers was gone. In its place was a glacial calm. He was a man who had already written his epitaph; everything that came next was merely punctuation.Pieter had given him the key, but it was a key of opportunity, not a map. The rest, Markus had to carve for himself. He remembered the old codes—not just the digital passphrases, but the human ones. The rhythms of boredom, the tells of complacency. He remembered which guards preferred the warmth of the guardhouse to the chill of their rounds, which ones were heavy drinkers, which ones could be trusted to look the other way for a price.This time, the price was not bread or promises, but oblivion.He found his first target near the incinerator building, just as Pieter h

The corridor outside Ken’s cell was a throat of shadows, and there was a whisper passing through it. Ken moved with a stiffness that was more than physical; it was the rigidity of a man stepping out of his own coffin. Markus was a phantom at his side, a guide through the hell he had helped design.They reached the service entrance, the heavy door still ajar, a sliver of foggy night visible beyond. Freedom. It was so close Ken could taste it—a metallic tang in the air, so different from the stale death of his cell.That was when the world started bursting with noise and light.The main corridor behind them flooded with the harsh white glare of tactical lamps. Boots hammered on the stone, a synchronized, terrifying rhythm. A voice, cold and sharp as a scalpel, cut through the din.“Halt!”Inspector De Vries stood at the head of a squad of black-armored soldiers, his face a mask of controlled, incandescent fury. His eyes, devoid of all humanity, locked not on Ken but upon Markus. The bet