The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the data wall behind him and the steady ticking of the antique clock by the bookshelf.
Miles sat at his desk, legs crossed, elbows resting lightly on the armrests of his leather chair. His eyes were sharp, distant—lost somewhere between the shadows of the past and the chaos of what was to come.
He reached for the phone. Dialed.
The line rang once.
"Hello, boss." Monica's voice came through, clear and composed. "I've already arranged a team. The investigation's underway."
Miles leaned back, listening.
"But... boss, if I'm being honest," Monica continued, her tone dropping, "I don't think there'll be any clues left. The event happened 17 years ago. The Tokyo trail was cold too. All we ever got was that single name... 'Old Master'."
Miles stared at the glass of untouched water on his desk. The surface perfectly still. His voice was low, but steady.
