The new medical center occupied a converted warehouse in London's East End. What had once been industrial space was now a facility that combined free clinic services with training programs for survivors who wanted to learn healing professions.James stood at the entrance, watching guests arrive for the opening celebration. Three months had passed since the Ashcroft empire's collapse, and tonight was about acknowledging how far they'd all come.Dr. Kenji Tanaka arrived first, flying in from Tokyo where he maintained both his underground clinic and a new partnership with the Sterling Foundation. He embraced James like the brother he'd never had."The space is impressive," Tanaka said, surveying the facility. "Training rooms, medical equipment, living quarters for students. You've built something permanent.""We've built something permanent," James corrected. "This is all of ours."Dr. Ana Silva arrived with her daughter Mariana, who'd become the unofficial mascot of their survivor commu

Marcus hired the investigative team within twelve hours of the coordinated attacks. Not just any investigators, but specialists in international criminal networks—people who'd tracked cartels, terrorist organizations, and corrupt governments.Their lead investigator, a woman named Dr. Sarah Chen (no relation to James's Dr. Chen), spread her preliminary findings across Marcus's conference table three days later."These weren't random attacks," she began without preamble. "They were professional psychological operations. Let me show you why."She pulled up profiles of each targeted survivor. "Dr. Tanaka—the clinic in Tokyo is his identity. He's spent eight years building trust with Tokyo's invisible population. Destroying it attacks his sense of purpose.""Dr. Silva—her daughter is her reason for surviving. Going through the child's room specifically, leaving everything else untouched, sends a message that they can reach her whenever they want.""Dr. Osman—he works in war zones, treatin

The coalition gathered in person for the first time since the celebration. Marcus had arranged a secure location—a conference center outside London with security measures that made the earlier safe houses look casual. Every member who could travel was present, faces on screens for those who couldn't.Margaret stood at the front of the room like a professor delivering a lecture on death."I'm going to be completely honest about what you're facing," she began. "The Consortium has been silencing threats for over three hundred years. They don't do it messily. They don't do it publicly. They make people disappear in ways that raise no questions."She pulled up a document on the screen. Names and dates."1987—physician who attempted to escape with facility documents. Found dead in his apartment, ruled suicide. 1994—journalist investigating acquisition patterns. Car accident, mechanical failure. 2003—lawyer preparing to file suit on behalf of a victim's family. Heart attack at age thirty-sev

Prague at dusk looked like something from a postcard. James walked through the Old Town Square deliberately, following the route Margaret had mapped. This was where Consortium scouts operated, where they watched for talented physicians who might be vulnerable to acquisition.He made himself visible. Ordered coffee at three different cafes. Lingered at medical supply shops. Made it obvious he was a doctor, alone, possibly hiding.The approach came on his second day, exactly as Margaret predicted. Two men in expensive suits, speaking German-accented English."Dr. Thorne? We've been looking for you."James let fear show on his face. Real fear mixed with calculated performance. "I don't know what you're talking about.""Asset T-07," one man said quietly. "Fifteen years is a long time to run. Aren't you tired?"James tried to move away. They blocked him with professional efficiency."We're not here to hurt you," the second man said. "Just to bring you home.""I'm not going back," James sai

Week four bled into week five, and the facility’s routines began to feel like a second skin. James moved through the corridors with the practiced deference of someone who belonged. He treated clients whose names alone could topple governments, smiled at the right moments, and kept his questions small and harmless. Every night he transmitted fragments of the Consortium’s machinery—client lists, transfer records, the quiet conversations between physicians who had long ago stopped believing they had a choice.But something gnawed at him. The Council spoke of “the Archive” in passing, with the reverence people reserved for scripture. No one explained what it was. The phrase appeared in secure messages James glimpsed on unattended terminals, always encrypted, always followed by the same instruction: Contribute.He needed to see it.Opportunity came on day thirty-three. Chancellor Rothschild scheduled a follow-up examination for his lingering neuropathy. The tremors had nearly vanished, and