Viktor Shadowbane called back forty-three minutes after we ended.
It was enough time to confirm his network had been tagged in half a dozen places and not nearly enough time to stitch a counterplan. When his projection resolved in my office, the theatrical silhouette was gone. In its place stood a middle-aged man with neat, greying hair and a face built for vanishing into crowds—ordinary in the way only professionals manage.
"Congratulations, Arthur," he said, voice unfiltered and precise, the cadence of a man who'd once briefed cabinets. "I underestimated you. I haven't made that mistake in fifteen years."
I brought up the dossier Jin and Kali had finished minutes earlier. It unspooled beside us: dates, postings, ghosts.
