The massacre
The hotel lobby hums with subdued elegance. Holographic displays ripple above the concierge desk. It shows news updates and stock tickers. Scent diffusers emit a custom fragrance—something expensive, like ozone and crushed orchids. Marble floors gleam under soft chandelier light. The faint clink of glasses floats over from the bar. At the reception desk, an adjusted-dressed concierge straightens his tie. His holographic name tag twitches in his nervousness. "Ms. Marron. Ms. Reed. How may I assist you?" Their presence causes an immediate ripple of attention. Guests pause mid-sip, and whispers ignite like static electricity.
Rachel, a walking emblem of controlled power. A sharp, tailored jacket frames her. Ivy vibrates with kinetic energy. Her blond curls bounce with each step, her gaze daring anyone to get in her way.
Rachel tilts her head, a polite but distant smile on her lips. "We're looking for a British guest, Marcus Gallagher. A friend told me he's staying here."
The receptionist's eyes scan a translucent screen embedded in the counter. "Ah, Mr. Gallagher. Tragic, he isn't in at the moment."
Before Rachel responds, Ivy slaps her hands on the counter. She leans in to negotiate a hostile takeover. "Then we'll wait in his room."
The receptionist doesn't even blink. "I don't think that's allowed."
Ivy waves off his resistance as if it's a bad smell. "Relax, we're not here to rob Marky. Don't judge us by the color of our skin."
The receptionist exhales through his nose, amused but unimpressed. "Nice try, Miss Reed. But playing the race card isn't get you into Mr. Gallagher's room without permission."
Rachel chuckles, shaking her head at Ivy's shamelessness.
Unfazed, Ivy jabs a thumb toward Rachel. "That's fine. He's family. Look who she is!"
The receptionist's skeptical gaze slides over Rachel. He takes in her perfect posture and aura of untouchability and lifts an eyebrow. "Family? How did that happen?"
His colleague with the excitement of someone who lives for celebrity drama, chimes in. "Don't take her at face value. But she's not wrong—Mr. Gallagher is close with her family. A month ago, he was here with the Thévenets."
Rachel stiffens. The mention of Nicki's family cuts through her like ice water.
Oblivious to the sudden chill in Rachel's demeanor, the younger receptionist carries on. "Remember that French lady he was with? That was Rachel Marron's niece—his goddaughter."
Ivy's mouth falls open, her eyes darting to Rachel for confirmation. But Rachel's face has lost its usual composure. Her gaze is razor-sharp, locked on the desk.
Sensing the tension, the second receptionist softens his tone. "I'm sorry, but we can't let you into Mr. Gallagher's room. However, he's booked a table at eight in our restaurant. You could meet him there?"
Ivy brightens, already picturing the scene. "Perfect. Two stars crashing dinner? That'll be the highlight of his year."
Rachel, still reeling from the mention of Nicki, hesitates. "Do you think this is a good idea?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" Ivy asks, her tone breezy. "People would pay a fortune to have dinner with one of us. He gets both for free."
Rachel exhales, straightening her shoulders. What if Nicki put Marcus up to something? What if this dinner becomes a battlefield? But then she remembers her parents urging her to speak with him. And Ashley—Ashley was always fond of Marcus.
She nods. "Fine. Let's do it."
Ivy grins and hooks her arm through Rachel's, dragging her toward the elevator. "Dinner and a little intel-gathering? This is going to be fun."
Rachel doesn't answer, her gaze fixed ahead. Fun. Sure. Let's see how long that lasts.
The restaurant feels like a hidden oasis. A lush mirage of old-world elegance colliding with the sleek precision of the future. Potted palms. They stretch toward the ceiling, their leaves casting delicate shadows over marble floors. Hanging greenery separates tables, offering an illusion of privacy. The soft ambient lighting makes them glow from fixtures disguised as oversized orchid petals. The hum of conversation blends with the occasional chime of digital menus recalibrating orders. Somewhere in the background, a string quartet plays. All the members, holographic—flawless, ethereal, cold, and indifferent to their audience.
A discreet drone floats overhead. Its sensors twitch. It assesses each guest, cataloging jewelry values and security risks. A robotic bartender, polished chrome, eerie grace. He polishes a glass with delicate fingers that mimic human movement too well.
Rachel and Ivy step inside, a study in contrasts. Rachel glides forward, her presence regal, her posture exuding unshakable authority. Ivy, in contrast, bounces. Her restless energy radiates through the space, an electric current. Her eyes scan the room.
The maître d' materializes with the kind of effortless grace that comes from years of managing egos. Mastered in dress, his suit is so carved it could cut glass. His smile, warm but measured. In fact, the kind of expression that offers luxury but keeps true indulgence out of reach.
"Good evening, Ms. Marron, Ms. Reed," he greets them. His voice, smooth with the faintest undercurrent of amusement. "How may I assist you?"
Ivy leans in with a conspiratorial grin. "We're here to join my boyfriend for dinner. Marcus Gallagher."
The maître d' pauses—for a beat—then exhales a single, elegant chuckle. "That joke was amusing, Miss Reed."
Before Ivy can fire back, a junior employee rushes up to the maître d', whispering something urgent. He lifts a finger toward the women in a silent gesture of apology and steps aside, listening straining.
Ivy watches him, eyes narrowing. "Did he laugh at me?" she mutters.
Rachel, unfazed, seizes the moment. She bends toward the maître d's touchscreen and skims the reservation list. Her fingers hover—then move with practiced precision. Marcus Gallagher, Table 28. A swift entry. A subtle adjustment. Then, she straightens with a jerk, assuming her original stance right as the maître d' returns.
He clasps his hands in front of him, giving Ivy a knowing look. "If you'd told me Jasper Rothko was your boyfriend, I have believed you," he says. "But you, a black hip-hop musician from New York, and this British gentleman?" He tilts his head, amused. "No way."
Ivy gasps, clutching her chest. She's ravaged. "Excuse me? I'm inclined to take that to heart"
The maître d' lifts a single brow. "Your entire demeanor tells me you don't even know Mr. Gallagher. Otherwise, you'd be well aware of what I'm talking about." He gestures toward the bar, where a waiter pours a glass of something amber and ancient. "Here, among the staff, we call him Back-in-the-Colonies Limney."
Ivy squints. "That sounds insulting, but I can't decide to whom."
The maître d' only smiles the perfect balance of politeness and subtle mockery.
Rachel, unbothered, steps forward. "Besides," she says, voice smooth as silk, "Mr. Gallagher reserved a table for three—tonight at eight."
The maître d' doesn't bother hiding his skepticism. "Absurd," he murmurs, turning to his screen. One tap, then another.
Then—oh.
He stares at the confirmation as if it's a glitch in reality. For a moment, he even looks offended. "Mr. Gallagher," he muses, to himself, "dines alone. Even when that other British gentleman visits—Portman—Mr. Gallagher insists on privacy. The exceptions I've seen are the Thévenets and the children's grandparents."
Rachel's smile remains, but her eyes darken at the mention of Nicki. "Nicole Thévenet is my sister," she states. "The children's grandparents are Shelley and Gaderian Marron." She gestures toward herself. "I'm a Marron."
The maître d' regards her, calculating. Then, at last, he exhales a breath, conceding with a nod, pivoting with ease. His hand gestures toward the dining room. "Right this way."
And like that, Ivy hooks an arm through Rachel's, grinning. "See? Easy. You gotta believe in yourself."
Rachel sighs but follows, her gaze sharp. It's never that easy.
It's almost eight, so Marcus Gallagher must be coming soon. The maître d' is still curious and takes a look out of the entrance to the restaurant. There's no Marcus in sight, but it doesn't matter, it's not yet 8 o'clock.
Every table is its own secluded world. Surrounded by jungle-thick vegetation sprouting from futuristic glass planters. A translucent ceiling casts an artificial sunset, programmed to shift with the time of evening.
Rachel and Ivy settle into the table, a futuristic glass construction with rounded corners. Its surface smooth as a luxury car hood. The moment they sit, a holographic centerpiece flickers into being. It's a bouquet of orchids and glowing candles, pulsating with warm, golden light. Without warning, the whole table shifts into an immersive autumn scene. The table top made of intelligent glass transforms into a passage of Indian Summer.
Rachel leans back, wary. "Do we wait to see how this Marcus reacts, or do we order now and pretend we don't care?"
Ivy swipes through table themes on the controlled display and ignores the conversation by a hair. "He won't shoot us straight away," Ivy chuckles, her voice a sharp twist of irony. Then she becomes thoughtful and looks at Rachel with concern. "He's not a double-zero agent, is he, or does he have a license to kill?"
The tabletop cycles through an underwater reef, complete with drifting jellyfish. Then Angel Falls in Venezuela, mist curling at the edges.
Rachel's expression tightens, a cloud shadowing the sun. She studies her friend with a raised brow: "There are no double-zero agents. You know that James Bond is a flick?"
Ivy's eyes widen: "Oh yes, of course!"
She stops on a space motif. A blazing sun hovers in the middle of the table before shrinking away into a planetary tour. Mercury, Venus, and Earth, all rush past. As the simulation exits the solar system, comets streak by. Nebulae and far-off galaxies appear.
Ivy hums a familiar tune. "Dun dun dun, dun-da-dun, dun-da-dun…" The Imperial March from Star Wars.
Rachel frowns. "That's not hip-hop."
Their drinks arrive.
Ivy grins, still focused on the table. "Yeah, I know."
Rachel shakes her head. She mutters something about uncultured tastes while flipping through the holographic menu.
The maître d' keeps checking the entrance, tapping a sleek display that flickers with soft blue light. Eight o'clock is approaching, and Marcus Gallagher should be arriving any second. The maître d' glances up again—Marcus is always precise, never a second late. The holographic clock above the bar shifts its numbers in a liquid motion. 19:59. Another glance at the door. No, Marcus.
Then—8:00 sharp. A flicker of movement. Marcus is standing right before the maître d', as if materialized out of thin air.
The maître d' stumbles back, his breath catching in his throat. "Oh my God!" he yelps, clutching his chest, wide-eyed with shock.
Marcus smiles and grins, unfazed. "That's a very kind, good man. But one Mr. Gallagher is enough. I'm already starting to blush." His voice has that effortless upper-crust elegance, every syllable crisp, vowels polished to a shine.
The maître d' exhales, patting his jacket. "Mister Gallagher, you are always so—so—incredible how punctual!"
Marcus tilts his head in amusement. His clipped British accent rolls like a well-aged scotch. "Yes, dreadful habit of mine. Tell me, is my table punctual?"
The maître d' hesitates, shifting on his feet. "Of course, sir. Miss Reed and Miss Marron are already waiting."
Marcus freezes. His aristocratic poise shatters for half a second. He blinks, his expression unreadable.
"I… beg your pardon?"
The maître d' senses danger. A sheen of nervous sweat threatens his forehead. "Sir… something is wrong? Did I make an error?"
Marcus exhales, composing himself.
"They arrived and claimed to have arranged dinner with you."
The maître d' eyes him with care.
Marcus stares, then closes his eyes for a long, pained moment. "Good Lord."
The maître d' leans in, almost conspiratorial. "It seemed a bit strange, sir when Miss Reed claimed to be your… girlfriend."
Marcus blinks. Once. Twice. Then:
"Did she, indeed?" A slow grin forms. "Well. That's a game two can play."
He gestures at the maître d's display, a transparent screen hovering in midair, its sleek interface adjusting as Marcus flicks his fingers. He points to an adjacent table, close to Ivy and Rachel's, separated by a wall of dense foliage.
"Give me that one. For a moment." He slides five $100 bills across the maître d's wrist tablet with a subtle push of his thumb. "I rather fancy a jest myself."
The maître d' hesitates. He nods, fingers ghosting over the transaction scanner. Marcus, already moving, doesn't wait for gratitude.
Marcus settles into his chosen table, flicking his wrist to activate the interface. A holographic seascape blooms over the surface. Some schools of the neon fish dart through hauntet coral formations.
The chandelier glows like a suspended galaxy, its gold-and-crystal arms stretching across the high ceiling. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook a city drenched in lights. The hum of New York nightlife muffled by thick velvet drapes. A scent of aged whiskey and expensive perfume lingers around, mingling with the hushed conversations of Manhattan's elite.
A beer arrives at him as if he had ordered one.
He lifts it, not touching the glass head-on—no, that would be unthinkable. Instead, he wraps a napkin around it with meticulous precision. He brings it to his lips without leaving so much as a smudge. DNA is for lesser men.
His left hand opens, conjuring a holographic sphere that hovers above his palm. It's a menu interface, spinning, a celestial body. With a tap, he dials a linkcode in place of an old-world telephone number.
"Tell me, FBI heroes," Marcus purrs, voice as smooth as single malt, "how is your surveillance going? I ask because Rachel Marron is currently dining with me at the Waldorf Astoria. Do you have people here? I don't see any. If not, send some. Immediately."
His tone remains poised, but there's an edge now, irritation creeping in. He retrieves a discreet vial, spritzing a fine mist onto his fingertips. The liquid dries in no time, dissolving any trace of fingerprints—an old trade trick.
Returning to the holographic sphere, he taps on Rachel Marron's file. Her photo emerges, then shrinks, integrating into a vast, shifting network. Lines pulse and branch. A neural web, color-coded by relevance. A new touch summons Ivy Reed's file. Marcus skims, then pauses.
A note on a brutal rape. His expression flickers—brief, but telling. Years of forensic psychology sharpened his instincts. He sketches out Ivy's psychological landscape in an instant. Trauma leaves blueprints, after all.
His wrist flicks. A linkcode activates Ivy's phone. A soft murmur fills his earpiece. He does the same with Rachel's. The sound sharpens.
Ivy's voice, light, casual. "If he's nice, can we go to the Lego exhibition with him tomorrow?"
Marcus's brows lift. His head tilts. What?
Rachel, scandalized: "Who?"
Ivy, undeterred: "That Marcus Gallagher."
A grin spreads across Marcus's face, slow and wicked. Delight flickers in his gaze.
Rachel huffs, shifting in her seat, her long nails tapping against the glass table. "Say, are you insane?"
He turns his head, eyes narrowing toward the sound of Rachel's voice. A barrier of emerald-green foliage obstructs his view.
Rachel scoffs, crossing her arms. "Look where he's eating dinner—the Waldorf Astoria. He's a British diplomat and an elite officer. He's not going to a Lego exhibition with you and eating a damn hot dog."
Marcus, in response, sticks out his tongue and gives a dramatic thumbs down in the direction of Rachel's voice. His refined features contrasted with the childish gesture.
Ivy, pouting: "It seems so easy with Ashley."
Rachel sighs, rubbing her temples. "Because she's a small child. She expects less than someone like you."
Marcus stiffens. His brows knit together, lips parting in genuine offense. Excuse me?! His aristocratic dignity quivers at the notion that a child would expect less of him.
His eyes widen in mock horror, mouth opening as if affronted by such an accusation.
Marcus' expression shifts from mild horror to deep contemplation. One finger taps against his glass. Lego exhibition. Hot dogs. Small child expectations.
His eyes narrow.
This… requires further analysis.
Nothing in his training prepares him for Rachel's next words.
"With a man who talks like that," Rachel says, sipping her drink, "you go to the ballet. The opera. A musical is too plebeian for him."
Marcus' entire body locks up. His glass halts midway to his lips. His heartbeat slams against his ribs like it's trying to escape.
"What?" The sound escapes him, involuntary, horrified.
Marcus stares, dumbstruck, his mind racing through every possible interpretation. What does this woman think about him?
"You know better about men like that," Ivy sighs.
At another table, Marcus shakes his head in denial, while Ivy adds, "Why don't men like that meet us?"
Rachel shrugs.
But Marcus scoffs in silence, "Because 'men like that' have jobs where drug testing is mandatory, sweetheart."
A waiter glides past in a tailored tux. He offers an exquisite tray of hors d'oeuvres, the kind that needs a second mortgage to taste. Meanwhile, the glow from the ornate sconces creates an illusion of infinite decadence.
The restaurant hums with the low thrum of ambient music, smooth and manufactured, designed to make luxury feel effortless. The floor glows faint beneath the guests' feet, shifting hues in response to movement—subtle, expensive, unnecessary. The tables appear almost weightless. All surfaces, interactive. Their menus, displayed in holographic projections that ripple at the flick of a wrist.
Ivy sits slouched over the glowing table. Her cheek pressed against her palm, exuding the tragic air of a woman whose world has collapsed. The holographic menu flickers as a tear drops onto it.
"I need to know," Ivy mumbles, voice weak with sorrow. "Do you think what happened with Tinkerbell was a trick, not magic?"
Rachel straightens, caught off guard. "What did you think it was?"
Ivy lifts her head, expression haunted. "I wanted to see Tinker."
Rachel exhales, leaning back in her chair. "Who knows what she saw? She's seven. She's influenced."
Ivy, undeterred, grips the edge of the table. "And Editha? She saw Tinkerbell too."
Rachel's mouth twitches. "Who knows what drugs she was on?"
Ivy slumps again. "Okay, what are we ordering for dinner?"
Rachel flicks her nails against the glass tabletop, watching the menu ripple. "For you? A McDonald's Junior bag for you. You'll be lucky and get a Death Star toy."
Ivy glares, then turns toward the corridor, scanning the restaurant with clear disappointment. "Marcus Gallagher isn't coming," she mutters. Her eyes dart toward the entrance as if sheer willpower might summon him.
Rachel arches a brow. "You don't even know what he looks like."
Two men arrive, guided by the maître d' with the polite stiffness of someone dealing with government types. They wear the kind of suits that aren't tailored but still cost too much. Earpieces, discreet but unmistakable. They sit down, exchange brief pleasantries with Marcus, and position themselves with an unobstructed view of Rachel and Ivy.
Marcus, in the middle of sipping his beer, lowers his glass with a slight frown. Something has shifted in his absence. His aristocratic features betray his intrigue, save for the faintest quirk of an eyebrow.
Across the way, Ivy lets out an audible sniff. Rachel startles, shifting to face her. "What now?"
Ivy wipes at her eyes. "Today was a bad day." Her voice wobbles with fresh emotion.
Rachel squints. "Ivy—"
"And Ashley—oh my God, Rachel." Ivy clutches her heart, dramatic. "Ashley was so sad when she left for school this morning. But when she came home, she was glowing, so happy." She exhales, eyes glistening again. "I would have liked to hear him speak to me in that genteel way he did with Ashley. I would have liked to see Tinker."
Marcus, who has been lifting his beer to his lips, pauses mid-motion. A slow, thoughtful smile spreads across his face. Ah. A sentimental woman. He finds this... delightful.
At the other table, Ivy sniffs again. "Why are you even meeting him, Rachel?"
Rachel watches her for a moment, then speaks without flinching. "He has information about someone I once knew. Finnian Devon."
At Marcus's table, the beer—halfway to his mouth—pauses again.
Ivy perks up, in that moment distracted from her despair. "Oh, yeah. The boy next door, Editha said."
Rachel's gaze grows distant. Her fingers drum patterns on the glowing table. "When I came to Dover from the U.S. at twelve, I felt isolated. The other kids thought I was American, and they made fun of the way I spoke. Editha was the first real friend I had." She taps a nail against the menu. "But I already knew about Finnian Devon. He lived next door. I didn't know how to talk to him."
Marcus leans back, fingers steepled. His interest sharpens.
Rachel exhales, her expression shifting—somewhere between fondness and amusement. "We became friends, though. And I loved annoying him." A slow, sly grin spreads across her face. "He hated it when I ran my fingers down his spine. Froze up every time. Like a deer caught in headlights."
She lets out a low, mischievous chuckle as if savoring the memory of Finnian Devon's discomfort.
At Marcus's table, his fingers twitch against his glass. His posture remains impeccable, aristocratic to the last. A flicker of something indescribable crosses his face. Recognition. Annoyance. A touch of horror.
Rachel's laughter lingers in the air.
Her memory is rudely interrupted.
The dim glow of the restaurant's ambient lighting reflects off the sleek surface of Ivy's padPhone as it vibrates on the table, its soft hum almost lost beneath the murmur of conversations and the faint strains of a digital jazz ensemble. Ivy frowns. The display offers no caller identity, only a blank space where a linkcode should be. The device recognizes the incoming transmission yet refuses to name its source.
Rachel leans in, narrowing her eyes. "That normal?"
Ivy shakes her head. The padPhone vibrates again, insistent, an unanswered question pulsing against the polished marble. A hint of unease settles between them.
She hesitates, then swipes to accept.
A voice, rich and measured, pours through the line like an actor delivering a soliloquy to an empty stage:
"The night, in its ceaseless hush, whispers to the weary heart, and in its embrace, we are neither lost nor alone. Grief, though cruel, is but the shadow cast by love, and what is love, if not the haunting ache that binds us to what was and what might yet be? If the girl found joy in a moment's company, then the stars themselves bore witness to the quiet triumph of light over the abyss. Would it soothe your heart to believe that in the vast design of fate, even sorrow has its place? That the weary shall yet find solace, and the lost shall, in time, hear the calling of home?"
Then, silence.
Ivy stares at her screen. The call is gone, erased like a breath on glass.
Rachel, transfixed, exhales. "That was 'the Ghost.' He's listening to us."
Ivy's fingers fly over the sleek interface, attempting to redial. A cold message flickers across the screen:
'Linkcode does not exist.'
She mutters, "Damn. How does he do that?"
Rachel, still watching the device as if it might whisper secrets, folds her arms. "I don't know." Her gaze sharpens. "But I bet we don't need to dial a linkcode. He can talk to us whenever he wants to."
A quiet rustle. The maître d' appears beside their table, his presence so sudden that both women stiffen. He smooths his crisp uniform, his expression uncertain, as if he's been briefed on something unusual.
"Is the evening going well for everyone?"
Rachel eyes him, assessing. "Yes and no. I would have liked a longer conversation with Mister Gallagher."
The maître d' shifts, glancing down as if recalling a script. "Mr. Gallagher extends his apologies for being unable to join you due to an urgent matter. However, he has insisted that you are his guests this evening. The bill is covered."
Rachel's brows lift. "Why?"
The maître d' hesitates, clearly out of his depth. "He said something that I didn't quite understand. That he doesn't want to be considered a ponce." His lips form the unfamiliar word carefully, like it might be an insult directed at him personally.
Rachel leans back, exhaling. "The word has layers, but in this case, Mr. Gallagher means a man who lives off the resources of a woman."
A beat of silence.
Ivy and Rachel exchange a look, the unspoken question between them laced with realization.
Kyle. Wesley.
The maître d', still uncertain, inclines his head and departs, leaving them in the heavy hush of their thoughts.
Ivy breaks the quiet first. "How long do you think he was listening to us?"
Rachel's voice is quiet. "The whole time."
Still, they rise. A lingering curiosity pulls them through the restaurant's elegant sprawl, past gilded partitions and softly glowing tables, scanning for some trace of Marcus Gallagher. A shadow out of place. A set of eyes lingering too long.
Ivy lifts her padPhone again, holding it close like a relic of some divine encounter. "Hello?"
They listen. The air holds its breath.
Nothing.
Ivy tries again, softer. "Marcus?"
Silence.
She exhales, disappointed. "Maybe he's doing something else right now."
Rachel, gaze sweeping the room, murmurs, "They're trained not to react. Just listen. Just watch."
A final sigh, then Ivy speaks once more into the waiting quiet:
"Then it was particularly nice of you not to follow the usual rules with your call."
PLOMP!
Rachel stumbles. She swerves to avoid an overgrown planter, colliding with a stranger. The impact, brief but jarring. Her hands land instinctively on his chest, and his fingers brush her arms to steady them both.
Something irritates Ivy.
"Excuse me," Rachel mutters, stepping back, already dismissing the moment. The black man—a hoodie pulled low over his face—keeps moving. His hands stuff into the oversized pockets of his sweatshirt. His voice is quick, quiet, and deliberate.
Then he's gone.
"Nothing happened."
His gait, casual but efficient, blends into the dim corridors of the upscale venue.
Ivy, frozen in place, stares after him, her mouth open. "That... that guy just now..." She blinks, then blurts, "He has white hands."
Rachel's head snaps toward her, then back toward the retreating figure. Her eyes widen. "That was 'the Ghost.'"
Adrenaline floods their limbs. They take off after him, heels clicking against the polished floor. The chase is brief but urgent—they spot him as he reaches the elevator. The doors slide shut before they can make it.
"Damn it!" Rachel huffs.
"Other cabin!" Ivy grabs her hand. They rush into the next elevator, jamming the button for the lobby. Then hoping in stillness their quarry had the same destination.
Inside the other elevator, the stranger lifts his hands. White fingers grasp the edge of the hood and peel it back. Under the stark overhead light, the illusion vanishes. His 'black' face is nothing more than nylon, a mask painted with careful features. The disguise folds away. Now revealing Marcus Gallagher. Impassive and composed, as if he hadn't been sprinting through a luxury hotel in amateur theater makeup.
He steps out of the elevator into the lobby. Hurries to the door. Not long after, Ivy and Rachel arrive and scan the room.
By the time he steps into the lobby. Marcus moves with his usual aristocratic nonchalance, though his muttered observation betrays his irritation:
"Those two are more persistent than the Chinese counterintelligence agency."
Ivy gasps, distracted. "I saw Jasper Rothko. He hadn't to go to some premiere party today?"
Rachel, unimpressed, mutters, "I see someone too."
Ivy follows her gaze and lands on Wesley, who is not alone. A woman clings to his arm, laughing at something he's said.
Rachel snorts. "Come on."
"Oh!" Ivy realizes. "He's out with his ex."
Rachel doesn't break stride, moving with the ease of a woman who refuses to rattle. She beelines to the reception desk, lowering her voice to Ivy as she leans in. "Isn't it humiliating enough that I'm financing my brother's mistress?"
The receptionist greets her, and Rachel offers a polite, but distant, smile. "I need a pen and paper."
As she writes, Wesley and his date approach the exit. She folds the notes and looks up as if surprised to see them.
"Wesley? What a coincidence. Hello, Kimberley."
Rachel covers up the return greeting by communicating with the receptionist: "Please pass this on to Mr. Gallagher. My thanks to him for this interesting evening. It's a shame that he has his obligations. But we have to do it again as soon as possible, but this time I'll invite him."
Ivy, grinning, interjects, "That's right. He's not a ponce."
The receptionist, Wesley, and Kimberley all exchange confused looks, lost on the reference.
Rachel, unfazed, adds, "Or he can stop by. He knows where I live."
The receptionist takes the note with a nod. As she steps back, Wesley narrows his eyes. "Why don't you call him? If the evening was so great, why didn't you exchange your linkcodes?"
Rachel flinches, but there's a half-second pause before she replies, "As the British government's security officer assigned to me, you can assume he already knows everything about me. I don't have my phone with me."
Wesley tilts his head. "Neither does Ivy?"
Rachel exhales. Caught. She doesn't let it show, but the checkmate lands hard.
'Damn it,' she thinks.
Wesley, caught off guard: "Why did you give that whole monologue to the receptionist instead of writing it down? Did you want me to hear it?"
Rachel lifts her chin, eyes flickering with irritation. "Come on, Ivy, we still have things to do."
The two women stride toward the exit. Wesley's voice, laced with something too smug to ignore, cuts through the air. "Why are you dragging Ivy along when you're supposed to be having an 'interesting evening' with some guy?"
Rachel stops mid-step, turning. Her voice, sharp as glass: "If I don't find what I need at home, I'll look for it somewhere else."
Gasps ripples through the lobby. A heavy silence follows her words, pressing against Rachel's shoulders as she walks out. The city air feels thick when she steps outside as if the weight of every staring eye is still on her. She breathes in deep, the coolness cutting through the flush on her skin. She doesn't look back.
They slide into the backseat of a taxi. The hum of the engine fills the silence between them. Rachel presses her hands over her face. "My career's going up, but my private life is crashing. How humiliating. I invent male acquaintances, and then people see right through me."
Ivy, unfazed, keeps her cell phone in front of her face. "Mister Brit? We're on our way to the cinema. You coming?"
Rachel lifts her head enough to watch Ivy's face, hopeful.
Nothing.
Ivy rolls her eyes and presses harder. "Come on, don't be like that. Rachel's mood is way down. You should do something about it."
A beat.
Then, a message:
unknown sender "I'm not your entertainer!"
Meanwhile, in the dim corners of New York, less cheerful things unfold.
The night hums with distant sirens and the occasional pop of gunfire far off in the borough's sprawl. Here, on this abandoned football field in East New York, silence reigns. The deep, guttural rumble of engines echoes across the empty bleachers. The streetlights cast a dull orange haze. A glow flickering over the polished surfaces of the vehicles. Too pristine, too alien in a place left to time and neglect.
The gang members lurking in the stands. Eyes flicker between each other, their hands twitching near their waistbands. Something about this scene doesn't sit right. Some of them carry the quiet marks of street life. A tattoo peeking from under a collar, a flash of silver from a chain. The cold, assessing eyes of those who are always sizing up their surroundings.
The cars cut a straight path across the field, blocking it, leaving the gang with no choice but to watch. The driver-side doors of the cars open in eerie unison. Figures emerging clad in tailored suits and black balaclavas, their movements precise, practiced. The way they step onto the cracked asphalt suggests something beyond mere criminals. There's a military efficiency to them. A discipline reeking of something deeper. Something colder than the usual street deals these gangsters knew.
Greg Portman steps forward, his posture relaxed but calculated, like a man who knows he's already won. He flicks his gloved fingers toward the trunk of one of the cars. Two masked operatives move, swinging it open to reveal the AMM-117.
The device gleams under the flickering orange glow of the streetlights. Compact, brutal, and alien in its sleek, metallic design. All looks more like something out of an off-the-books weapons program than anything that should be sitting in the trunk of a car. The gang members take a step back, their bravado thinning under the weight of curiosity and fear. They've seen guns, seen rocket launchers, but this—this feels different.
A scar-faced gang leader with a chipped tooth takes a step forward. His shoulders squared despite the gnawing unease. "Yo, you looking for something?" His tone, laced with a forced nonchalance, but the way his fingers flexes his nerves.
Portman doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he gestures toward the gang leader with a surprising familiarity. "Why don't you come over? We're testing a high-tech weapon. Thought you might appreciate a demonstration."
The gang leader hesitates. The others exchange wary glances. Some of them, the younger ones, are already intrigued. Their survival instincts, clouded by the promise of something new, something powerful. But the older ones know better. Nothing that comes for free is ever worth taking.
"What's this all about?" the leader finally asks, his voice edged with suspicion.
Portman steps closer, placing a gloved hand atop the device as if he were introducing a piece of fine art. "This is a plasma mine. It tracks and locks onto a programmed target, moves toward it, and—" he lets the silence stretch, a smile perceptible beneath his mask, "—detonates. Five hundred square feet of plasma hotter than the surface of the sun. Nothing left but a memory."
The gang leader swallows hard. Someone near the back mutters a curse under their breath. The balance of power in this meeting is shifting fast.
"So… you guys are, what? Some kind of Brits?" the leader asks, voice tight.
Portman chuckles, low and amused. "Yeah, you could say that."
The gang leader exhales, processing. Then, after a beat, he asks, "And what? You guys into organized crime or something?"
Portman's gloved fingers drum once against the device before he answers. "Something."
The gang member's posture shifts. "And what? You guys are into organized crime?"
"You could say that," Portman responds, his tone smooth and unfazed.
"Planning a big robbery, huh?" the gang member presses, feigning interest while calculating risks.
"Something like that. We could use some help." Portman's offer hangs in the air, thick with implications.
The gang member cocks his head, intrigued but cautious. "We can help you with whatever you have planned."
Portman activates the mine. It begins to stretch out metal legs, rising with a mechanical hiss. The movement is insect-like, unsettling in its precision. It stands upright, resembling a metallic creature ready to pounce. The gang members' eyes widen, torn between awe and fear. Their bravado falters as they witness something beyond their world.
The gang member leans in, trying to read Portman's expression. "So what's the target, then?"
A sharp, humorless laugh escapes Greg. "Antisocials," he replies, his voice cold with disdain. "That's where you can help us."
The AMM-117, now operational, clicks and hums as its metal legs move with eerie grace. It darts forward, its optical sensors flickering. A shadow shifts at the far end of the field—a group of onlookers watching from the bleachers. The machine changes course, scuttling toward them with lethal intent.
Portman turns to his suited colleagues, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "One of you will do me a favor. I'm a British officer, and this scum is beneath me." He flings a hand toward the gang member beside him.
The gang member has no time to process the insult before the air erupts with gunfire. The sharp crack of suppressed rounds slices through the night. His body jerks as the bullets rip through him. His expression frozen in shock before he collapses onto the cracked asphalt.
Then comes the detonation.
A white-hot flash ignites the night, followed by an ear-splitting roar. The plasma charge erupts, unleashing a shockwave of fire and energy. A moment of silence precedes the horror. Everything within fifty feet disintegrates in a storm of blistering heat. The ground glows molten in the aftermath, scorched debris raining down as the scent of burnt ozone clings to the air.
The Scattermen watch, expressions unreadable, standing at the precipice of destruction. The explosion casts jagged shadows across their faces. Silhouettes flickering, specters in the aftermath.
Portman steps forward, surveying the ruin with clinical detachment. His grin returns, slow and satisfied. "That's the power we're dealing with," he muses, turning to his assembled crew. "Any questions?"
In the weight of his words, the scent of scorched flesh and smoke weaves into the stillness. The answer is clear: there are no questions. Only obedience.