Damien Voss sat on the edge of a broken rooftop in Marseille, the cold Mediterranean wind pushing against his coat, flapping the torn fabric like a dying flag.
Below him: sirens. News vans. Panic.
It was beautiful.
One dead Prime Minister, and the entire framework of European diplomacy was unraveling. Emergency economic meetings. Closed-door summits. Secret memos flying like shrapnel.
And no one was asking why.
They were only asking how to stop it.
Exactly as Damien planned.
A voice crackled in his earpiece. "You're live on the London feed. Do it."
Damien glanced at the old burner phone in his gloved hand. He didn't move.
"Damien," the voice repeated. Urgent. "Now. Show them."
But Damien didn't press send. Not yet. His breath misted in front of him, sharp against the winter chill. He was a careful man. Patient.
Too patient, some said. That was why he'd survived when others died screaming in prison camps no one would ever acknowledge existed.
Suddenly, the door behind him burst open.
Damien spun, gun raised.
Only Asher would walk into a trap with that kind of arrogance.
Asher smiled. Lean, scarred, brutal. A soldier with a conscience frayed to nothing, a cigarette hanging from his lip.
"Relax, boss. It's just me," Asher said, brushing snow off his sleeves. "But you're not gonna like this."
"What?"
Asher took the cigarette out, flicked it over the ledge.
"They're coming. And not the amateurs. The Black Sun."
Damien's jaw clenched. "You're sure?"
"I used to work with some of those bastards, remember? CIA, MI6 rejects, mercenaries on steroids. Full deniability."
"They want this done quiet."
"They want you done quiet."
Damien nodded once, pocketing the burner phone, unread message still waiting. London would have to wait.
This changed everything.
Meanwhile, in Lyon...
Mara Sen watched the encrypted satellite feeds pour in.
Black vans. No insignias. Moving fast through Marseille.
They weren't Interpol. They weren't French domestic units either.
Whoever they were, they had clearance above hers — and they were closing in on Damien's last signal.
"Director," she snapped into her comm. "We've got another actor on the field. Black ops. Western origin."
Silence.
"Director?"
More silence.
Mara's stomach twisted.
They'd cut her line.
Back on the rooftop, Asher cocked his rifle.
"We should run."
Damien didn't move. His pale grey eyes locked on the dark skyline of the city.
"No."
"Damien—"
"They've played by shadows. Quiet assassinations. Bribes. Blackmail."
He finally looked at Asher, eyes full of ice and flame at once.
"It's time we stop whispering."
With a flick of his thumb, Damien pressed SEND.
Across London, every television, smartphone, and billboard lit up at once.
No sound. Just one image.
The face of Victor Strand, laughing, holding a champagne glass, seated at a table beside open briefcases of heroin, guns, and contracts marked with the names of charity organizations.
The caption below it read:
"Your kings. Your gods. Your charities. Your slaughterhouses."
The world gasped.
The Black Sun hit the rooftop thirty seconds later.
And Damien Voss was already gone.