AT PLATEFORM
The cold night air of Budapest smelled of oil and iron, the remnants of the train yard still clinging to Moreau's coat. His boots left quiet, careful imprints on the platform's damp wooden planks.
Behind him, the distant chaos still smoldered—a handful of confused workers, the hum of authority figures scrambling to contain a problem they didn't understand.
Moreau walked without urgency, yet his mind was a knife-edge of calculations.
The escape had been too easy.
And easy things were never safe.
His train had left without him. Not according to plan.
That meant someone else had moved first.
That meant the game had changed.
He pulled his pocket watch—one minute behind schedule. He exhaled. One minute was still within his control.
That was when he saw him.
Leaning against a pillar, reading an upside-down newspaper, was Théodore "Theo" Durand.
He was dressed far too casually for an intelligence agent—coat loose, hat tilted just a bit too much, scarf too flamboyant. A man who looked like he belonged everywhere and nowhere.
And he was holding a dripping sandwich.
A terrible sandwich. Something greasy, misshapen, possibly cursed.
Moreau stopped. Blinked.
Theo raised a hand in greeting—without looking up.
"Ah, finally. My favorite Frenchman who pretends he's not French."
Moreau's jaw clenched.
"Durand. What are you doing here?"
Theo flipped the newspaper right-side up, as if that was the problem all along.
"Eating a sandwich. You want a bite?"
Moreau ignored that. "You were waiting for me."
Theo chewed slowly, looking at him like an amused cat.
"Of course. You're predictable. You'd escape the yard. You'd come here. You'd expect someone to meet you. And here I am—waiting, sandwich in hand. Efficiency."
Moreau studied him, but Theo's face was one of practiced innocence.
"And how," Moreau said, his voice smooth as glass, "did you know I'd be here?"
Theo gestured vaguely. "A little bird told me."
"Which bird?"
Theo took an exaggerated bite of his sandwich.
"A hungry one."
Moreau was already dissecting every word.
Theo Durand was a fool in exactly the way fools were useful. A man people dismissed. A man who spoke in riddles and jokes but somehow knew things he shouldn't.
Moreau adjusted his gloves. "You have something for me."
Theo sighed dramatically.
"Yes, yes. But first—" He pointed a finger, dripping with sauce.
"Why did you miss your train?"
Moreau didn't flinch. The real question was—how did Theo know that?
"Because someone moved ahead of schedule."
Theo nodded sagely.
"And you didn't predict that? Tsk, tsk. Moreau, I thought you were better than this."
Moreau's patience was a thin thread.
"Get to the point, Durand."
Theo wiped his fingers dramatically with a handkerchief, then tossed a folded note onto Moreau's chest.
Moreau caught it effortlessly.
It was unmarked. Plain.
Moreau unfolded it, scanning quickly.
Five words.
"Train relocated. Operator compromised. Watch yourself."
Moreau's grip on the paper tightened slightly.
Theo grinned.
"Not as fun as my sandwich, but still quite a treat, no?"
Moreau's mind was already ten steps ahead.
Someone had compromised the one person controlling the train's movements.
Meaning, Moreau's enemy had just revealed themselves.
But Theo had known first.
Which meant Theo's loyalties weren't as clear as he pretended.
Moreau folded the note, slipping it into his coat. "Who gave you this?"
Theo stretched, completely unconcerned with the weight of the conversation.
"A hungry bird, remember? Now, let's walk. Too many eyes here."
Moreau glanced at the empty platform. "I see no one."
Theo grinned.
"Exactly."
Moreau followed Theo off the platform.
At the far end, near the dim glow of a station lamp, a figure stood.
Cloaked. Unmoving.
By the time Moreau registered them—they were gone.
Moreau's expression didn't change, but his mind was racing.
Theo, still chewing his sandwich, patted his coat pockets.
"Ah, I forgot to mention—someone else was waiting for you, too."
Moreau stopped walking. His gaze sharpened.
"Who?"
Theo licked some sauce off his thumb.
"A different bird. One that doesn't sing."
...
..
.
The night smelled of coal smoke and rain, the distant hum of Budapest still restless. Moreau walked with sharp, calculated steps, his mind already five moves ahead—yet still one behind.
Theo, chewing on roasted chestnuts from an unseen vendor, strolled beside him, unbothered by the tension in the air.
"You ever think about changing careers?" Theo mused. "I hear the circus is hiring. You'd make a fine tightrope walker, Moreau. All this balancing act of yours."
Moreau ignored him. Too much noise, too many distractions.
Instead, he turned over the small matchbox Theo had given him. A cheap thing, reeking of tobacco, with a handwritten name on the inside flap.
T. Löwenstein.
Moreau's fingers tightened slightly.
"Well, that's an interesting face you're making," Theo grinned, tossing a chestnut into his mouth.
"This name shouldn't exist," Moreau murmured.
Theo tilted his head dramatically. "Ah. A ghost from the past? A long-lost lover? A particularly aggressive debt collector?"
Moreau ignored the stupidity. Löwenstein had been erased. Officially.
If this name was appearing now—it meant someone was rewriting history.
And Moreau hated revisions he didn't authorize.
"Where did you get this?" he asked.
Theo licked his fingers.
"Oh, you know. A bird. A particularly well-fed one this time."
Moreau exhaled slowly.
Theo's ridiculous "bird" code meant it had come from an informant who wasn't aligned to any official agency.
Meaning: a wildcard.
Meaning: dangerous.
The building was nothing special. A forgotten apartment complex near the train yards, the kind of place where men worked late shifts and forgot how to dream.
Yet Moreau saw everything.
The dust in the stairwell had been disturbed recently.
A faint chemical smell still lingered—chloroform, maybe.
The door to Apartment 6 was slightly ajar.
Too easy. Too obvious.
Moreau glanced at Theo, who had not stopped eating the entire time.
"Would it kill you to be subtle?" Moreau asked.
"Subtlety is for people with bad reflexes," Theo muttered, kicking the door open with zero hesitation.
The room was empty. But not untouched.
Moreau's eyes scanned the room instantly.
A half-eaten meal. The fork still balanced on the plate. Someone had been taken mid-bite.
A fresh newspaper on the table—dated tomorrow. That meant whoever did this had planned ahead.
Theo whistled, leaning against the doorframe.
"Well. Either the operator fled, or someone gave them a very aggressive dinner invitation."
Moreau stepped further in, brushing his gloved fingers along the tabletop. No signs of a struggle.
Meaning:
Whoever took them—did it professionally.
Or worse.
The operator went willingly.
Then Moreau saw it.
A playing card, tucked under the plate.
The King of Spades.
Theo, still annoyingly casual, picked it up and flipped it between his fingers.
"Oooh. A signature move. I like these guys already."
Moreau ignored him, mind sharpening. The King of Spades wasn't just a calling card—it was a message.
A king was in play.
But whose king?
As Moreau turned, something caught his eye through the window.
A boy.
Around 12. Standing too still in the alley below. Watching.
Moreau's instincts flared.
He moved toward the window, fast. The boy didn't run. Didn't even flinch.
Theo, without breaking his damn comedic timing, casually tossed a coin out the window.
It flipped through the air—straight toward the boy.
And the kid caught it.
Without looking.
Moreau's mind locked in. That was not the reflex of a street urchin.
That was a test.
Theo grinned.
"Well, well. Either he's got great instincts, or we just tipped a very well-dressed spy."
Moreau opened the door, stepping outside fast—
But the boy was already gone.
A ghost. A signal. A challenge.
Theo, hands in his pockets, exhaled dramatically.
"So, the operator's missing, someone left a dramatic playing card, and now we've got a ghost child performing magic tricks. I gotta say, Moreau, your life is a thrilling disaster."
Moreau's jaw tightened.
"This wasn't just about the train anymore."
Theo's eyes sparkled.
"Oh, good. I was getting bored."
.
.
.
.
.
Thanks a lot for picking this up ...