THE SETTING – DECEMBER 1919, THE TRAIN TO PRAGUE
It is the eleventh hour of the journey. Not a moment wasted, yet nothing overtly begun.
The train hurtles forward through the frozen landscape, steam rising into the void of the cold Czech night. The great war had ended, but this was not peace—merely an armistice between future wars.
Inside the second-class carriage, time breathes slow. The heat from the coal-fed furnace is uneven, making one side of the carriage stifling while the other fights the bite of winter. The air smells of damp wool, burnt tobacco, and the faint iron of dried blood from someone's cracked knuckles.
Passengers sit like pieces on a board, but not all of them know they are playing.
There are twelve people in the carriage.
Moreau notes them without appearing to. The way his eyes pass over them—casual, indifferent. But nothing is casual.
Those who do not matter:
A factory worker, sleeping, his face smeared with oil.
A young mother, clutching a child. The child stares at Moreau—children always recognize something different.
Three Czech bureaucrats, loud, their discussion on post-war inflation genuine.
Those who do:
The Austrian Officer – An old warhound from the Kaiser's army. His left hand trembles—not from cold, but memory. His boots are polished, but his coat is repaired in two places. A man who has lost rank but not purpose.
The British Agent – Seated across from Moreau, hidden behind a copy of The Times. The newspaper is from three days ago—an intentional mistake. A man reading for appearance, not information.
The Unmarked Courier – Dressed in the manner of a Czech clerk, but his bag is locked with a naval-grade clasp. His fingers twitch near it. He knows what he carries.
The Woman in the Green Coat – She sits near the window, reading a book that she hasn't turned a page of in the last thirty minutes. The brooch at her collar is a silver eagle, wings down. A Prussian insignia—but Prussia no longer exists.
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Moreau flips open his cigarette case.
Inside, only one cigarette remains.
This is a test.
Without looking up, he speaks.
"A pity, isn't it?" He turns the case just slightly outward—enough for the British agent to see. "The scarcity of good tobacco these days."
A beat.
The British agent does not reply. But there—a slight shift in his grip on the newspaper. A hesitation. He understood the signal.
Not an ally. But a confirmation.
Moreau lets the case snap shut and places it back in his pocket. He lights the cigarette with an indifferent flick, knowing now that he is not the only one on this train hunting for something.
Across the carriage, the woman in green coat speaks.
"Pardon me," she says in perfect French. "Would you have another?"
Moreau looks up. Her expression is neutral, but the request is too precise.
He exhales slowly, watching how she waits. Too poised. Too practiced.
He pulls out the case again, flicks it open. This time, the case is full.
A contradiction.
Her gaze flickers. The test is complete.
"I seem to have miscounted," Moreau says, handing her one. She takes it, but does not light it.
No further words. But now they both know.
The train jerks—a rough transition between tracks. A deliberate signal, perhaps?
The old Austrian officer exhales, folding his hands over his cane.
"They say Prague is different now," he muses, his accent thick. "Different flags, different rulers. But the stones are the same."
Moreau remains silent.
"What do you think, monsieur?" The officer turns to him.
Moreau weighs his answer. Too indifferent, and he will be marked a fool. Too opinionated, and he will be noticed.
"History does not care for flags," he replies.
The officer chuckles. But the British agent does not.
Something in the answer unsettles him. Good.
The woman in green taps her unlit cigarette against her palm. A quiet signal.
Something is about to happen.
The courier stands.
His bag is locked, but his coat is unbuttoned—easy access to whatever he is carrying. He moves toward the door leading to the next carriage.
Moreau sees it before it happens.
The woman in green moves first—but not toward the courier. Toward the officer.
Her boot slides slightly outward, a movement so precise it is almost imperceptible.
The officer rises—only to trip.
A perfect, accidental fall. His cane clatters. His body collapses into the aisle.
In that split second, the courier hesitates.
Moreau moves.
A single step. His elbow knocks against the courier's bag. Not enough to draw attention—just enough to make the key slip slightly.
The courier barely notices. But Moreau does.
The clasp is not locked.
The woman in green smiles politely, apologizing as she helps the officer up.
The courier moves through the carriage door—without realizing his bag has been subtly tampered with.
Moreau flicks the ash from his cigarette.
The woman in green finally lights hers. The first drag is deep—as if she has just completed a long task.
She does not look at him. But under her breath, she murmurs:
"Now we wait."
Moreau does not reply.
But he knows the truth.
The real battle will not happen here. Not yet.
Something has shifted.
And everyone in this carriage knows it.
The train rumbles forward, cutting through the frozen landscape. Inside the carriage, the tension has settled—but not dispersed.
The courier has stepped into the next carriage, unaware that his bag has been compromised. The woman in the green coat has lit her cigarette, her job in this precise moment complete. Moreau sits still, his cigarette burning down, his mind processing every thread that has been pulled.
It should be over.
But it isn't.
The British agent lowers his newspaper.
"You know, I once heard a curious thing about Vienna," he says, his voice casual, but with edges sharpened by something unseen.
Moreau does not look at him immediately. This is a test.
"Did you?" Moreau exhales the last of his cigarette, crushing it underfoot with precision. No wasted movement.
The agent folds the newspaper carefully, making sure it aligns perfectly—a man of control. A man who does not like disruptions.
"It was something about the war. About men who should have died, but didn't."
The Austrian officer shifts slightly. He is listening now.
The woman in green turns her page—finally. But she, too, listens.
Moreau does not reply. Because this isn't about Vienna.
This is about Prague.
The train lurches again, but this time, something is different.
The carriage door to the dining car hisses open—and for the first time in this precise game, a piece moves that was not accounted for.
A man enters.
He is not dressed for the cold. His coat is too thin, the kind a man wears when he expects to be indoors, not traveling through winter.
His shoes are polished, but too new. Not worn by travel, but as if they were put on for a reason.
His eyes move too quickly. He is trying to place someone before being placed himself.
Moreau does not move.
The woman in green does not turn her head, but her posture adjusts by a degree.
The British agent folds his newspaper completely. He has recognized the shift.
The man walks forward, slowly, surveying the carriage. He moves like a man pretending to belong. And Moreau sees it before it happens.
The man is not a passenger.
He is a hunter.
And he is looking for someone.
Moreau watches him make the smallest misstep.
His hand drifts to his coat—not out of habit, but out of calculation.
And that tells Moreau everything.
The man is armed.
Not like a soldier. Not like an officer. Like an assassin.
Moreau does not react immediately.
Instead, he speaks—to no one in particular. To the air itself.
"Strange night for a stranger, isn't it?"
The British agent does not move.
The woman in green exhales her smoke.
The Austrian officer grips his cane tighter.
The man hesitates—just for a second.
Moreau sees it.
And now he knows.
This was not part of the plan.
This was something else.
Something worse.
The train gives one final violent jolt.
The lights flicker—only for half a second. But in that half-second, everything changes.
When the lights stabilize, the man is already moving.
Not toward Moreau.
Toward the next carriage—the one the courier entered.
Moreau realizes it too late.
He was never the target.
The courier was.
And now, the game has shattered.
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