The moonlight over Zyphorion was chilly now—less spotlight and more scalpel.
Phantom remained motionless in the corridor just beyond the grand ballroom, the heavy doors behind him deadening the music, the laughter, the lies.
His scarlet eyes—half-hidden under the streamlined silver half-wolf mask—met the eyes of the man before him.
Hawk mask.
Black formal suit.
Hands in pockets.
And that smile.
The puppeteer behind the scenes, pulling the strings while everyone else danced. The real puppeteer behind the curtain.
Phantom didn't budge.
Didn't move.
He merely tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling.
"Good game so far," he said calmly. "Each piece played with finesse. Each move calculated."
A pause.
"So… what's your next move, Veltre?"
The name resounded like a gunshot in church.
The man's smile widened—barely. Just enough to be noticed.
Like a chess grandmaster long seeking a worthy opponent.
"You always pick up so quickly,"Sorin said, voice smooth and measured, born of quiet ruthlessness. "This… is precisely why I like you."
Phantom let out a long breath, but his mind was already spinning of thoughts.
He's not surprised that I realize it is him. That implies he anticipated that. He wanted me to trace the trail… all the way here.
"Do you?" Phantom asked, voice laced with amusement. "Like me, I mean."
A flash of humor danced in Sorin's eyes, razor-sharp.
"You're unpredictable. Efficient. Bold."
He moved closer.
"And that makes you fun."
Phantom's fingers twitched within his gloves.
So this isn't intimidation. It's flirtation. Not romantic—intellectual.
He wants a sparring partner, not an enemy.
"And we have somewhere to go," Sorin added, pushing past Phantom as if they were already buddies.
Phantom didn't trail right behind.
His gaze narrowed behind the mask, intent on the figure moving ahead.
He's pushing me. Trying to find out how much I trust him.
But that's where he fails. Because he believes this is a game of cooperation.
A quiet smile curled Phantom's lips.
"I'll bite," he said, starting to move. "But if you think I'm one of your pawns—"
"You're not," Sorin cut in, looking over his shoulder. "You're the minister. The only piece that moves freely."
Phantom froze for half a second.
That wasn't mere flattery.
That was intel.
He buttoned his coat, his thoughts reconfiguring like a machine shifting its gears.
If this is a game of moves, then I'll let him go first. But I'll be the one who ends it.
As the two disappeared into the interior corridors of Zyphorion's Grand Hall, the air became colder—less lavish, more mechanical.
Something beneath this city beat like a secret heart.
A place even the light refused to touch.
Phantom glanced once at the fox-shaped tracker still hidden in his coat pocket.
A thief's gift… and now a hawk's invitation. This evening doesn't conclude with a mask being taken off.
It concludes with a truth being told.
And the next act commenced.
The hall to the bathroom was still. Not creepily still—just naturally quiet, the sort of quiet that belonged in a room as smooth and esteemed as this. A soft hum of music from the ballroom receded behind heavy walls, replaced by the faintest whisper of air vents above.
Two elite Zyphorion agents, clad in gold and black uniforms adorned with insignias sewn close to their collars, preceded them, their strides disciplined and unruffled. Their conversation, had there been one, was brief. Professional men doing a routine check. That was all.
A few paces behind them, two more men walked—not so much following, more like they simply shared the same destination. They did not say anything. No glances passed. Just two men walking. Slowly. Quietly. As if they had forever to do it.
The first two guys went into the restroom. The door slid shut with a gentle hiss.
The hall was empty.
There were footsteps.
It was Sorin and Phantom.
Sorin approached the door. One of the men left, nudging Sorin who was coming in. Their shoulders touched lightly—no apology, no notice. A typical meeting. The departing man kept walking down the hallway, strolling casually.
A couple of seconds later, Phantom entered the restroom as well.
Shortly afterward, the second man left.
He cast a glance at the hallway, rolled up the cuff on his sleeve, and moved forward, melting into the general hum of the building.
The two men left the hall quietly and stood waiting for something.
Nothing in their actions commanded attention. No one glanced backward. No one murmured.
It was all so... normal.
Moments ticked by.
Then the door of the restroom opened once more.
Phantom and Sorin came out. Not rushed. Not slow. Just moving.
They didn't look around. Didn't straighten their clothes. No tension in their shoulders. They were like men who'd used the toilet, washed hands, and stepped back into their night.
A few minutes later, the ballroom doors opened up to them again. They came back into the party under cozy lights and chandeliers, blending into the crowd like beads in the ocean.
Nothing had changed.
A short while later...
A low, silver-blue car hummed through the streets. Its look was dramatic—royal, minimalist, futuristic. The type of car you didn't see unless you were from a world where price tags didn't exist.
The two men standing outside the ballroom got into the car.
The vehicle started moving.
Inside, silence reigned.
City lights flashed by tinted windows.
Then—
A flash of static danced across the face of one of the passengers like a wave across quiet water. An instant later, the illusion faded. The individual who occupied that space was no longer the man the world had known. It was someone different.
Phantom.
To his side, the second illusion peeled away, and Sorin stood revealed—cool, serene, arms folded.
The illusion tech deactivated fully now. Their true identities settled back into place.
They hadn't changed in the car. That was accomplished long ago.
Phantom leaned back, exhaling slowly.
"That went smooth."
Sorin chuckled faintly. "Elite agents. Just two more pieces on the board."
Neither glanced back. The ballroom, the agents, the auction—it was all in their past now.
Their destination? Somewhere even deeper in the capital's underbelly.
The destination is—
Zyphorion's government HQ.
The stroll through Zyphorion's government headquarters was silent—spookily so.
Concealed from view, the VVIP wing did not proclaim its presence. No media, no guards, no ceremonial flags. Silence, and polished corridors that reflected just enough light to blur your outline.
Not a location intended to impress. A location intended to command.
Phantom accompanied Sorin, both appearing perfectly disguised as part of Zyphorion's Elite Agents. Their garments—made out of synthetic nanoweave fabric—clung to their physiques with precise authority. There was no awkward step, no unnecessary hurry. They were as they should be. The tech ensured it.
But under the disguise, Phantom's gaze refused to rest.
Every tile. Every corner. Every possible exit.
He learned them all by heart.
"No matter how advanced the disguise, I always prefer knowing the path out before the path in."
Their footsteps creaked softly as they moved further into the depths of the HQ. No one else tread that path. That was the idea.
Sorin spoke, a whispered voice.
Calm. Informative.
Like a professor giving a lecture on demons.
"There'll be four individuals in this room," he remarked. "Each powerful enough to bring down a continent if pushed in the wrong direction."
Phantom remained silent, though his eyes snapped towards him. Sorin didn't require confirmation. He merely kept going.
"First, Julius Treign. Head of the GAA. Manages all worldwide legislation that pertains to Awakeners—who qualifies, who vanishes. Efficient. Cold. Without feelings. Think of him as a calculator with legs."
"Second, Thalassa Wynne. Global Merchant Union Chairwoman. Wealthier than most nations, deadlier than all combined. Operates three mercenary guilds on the side, just for entertainment purposes."
"Third, Rovan Dusk. Security Chief of Zyphorion. Controls half the world's surveillance systems and the other half's dirty secrets. There isn't a single photo of him online—not one. He took care of it."
Sorin let the final name hang in the air.
"And then there's me."
Phantom breathed in the tiniest whisper of air through his nose, the closest thing he allowed himself to a chuckle.
"Four predators in a cage. Each smiling, each holding a knife under the table."
Their outfits have now changed to that of Sentinel's members.
They arrived at the last room—no guards, no code. Only a biometric scanner set into the cold obsidian wall. It flashed once and slid open with a hiss.