London rain clung to Morgana Thayle's coat like an uninvited shadow. It slicked her hair against her face, ran in cold rivulets down her gloves, but she didn't bother to brush it off as she approached the glass building on Vauxhall Bridge.
To the city, the place was nothing—a bland block with tinted windows, no sign on the door. To her, it was a hive of secrets. A home, of sorts. A trap, most days.
The revolving door hissed, swallowing her whole.
Inside, the air smelled like recycled oxygen and disinfectant. The receptionist didn't speak, only scanned her face. An iris lock blinked, humming softly as it matched her pattern.
Welcome back, Cilantro.
The alias glowed green on the screen. She let it sit there for a moment. There was something reassuring about the fact that here, her real name—Morgana Thayle—no longer mattered.
Weeks ago, she'd walked away from Marrakesh under a false passport, traded in stolen art, and left a trail of lies like bread crumbs in a desert. And now here she was again, stepping back into the one place that knew everything and trusted no one.
"Ma'am," one of the junior analysts murmured, holding a door open for her. His tone carried something like reverence, or fear.
Morgana didn't break stride. The analysts had a habit of whispering her codename when they thought she couldn't hear. As if saying it out loud might summon trouble. Maybe it did.
The elevator ride to the top floor was long and silent, the kind of silence that lets you hear your own heartbeat. She checked her reflection in the mirrored wall: damp hair tucked behind her ears, no makeup, eyes sharp. People underestimated sharpness.
The doors slid open to reveal the unmarked hallway. At the end was a single door, no nameplate. That was where the real work began.
---
The Director was waiting, as she knew he would be.
"Cilantro," he said, without looking up from his tablet. His voice was clipped, economical, as though each word was rationed. "Two weeks' rest. I trust you made good use of it."
"Define rest," she replied, dropping into the chair opposite him.
His office was stripped bare of personality. Metal shelves, metal desk, metal blinds. The only softness was in the way he looked at her—like a chess master considering which piece to move next.
"We've got something delicate," he said. "New players in the field. One of them knows you."
That sentence tightened something in her chest.
"We need you in Prague. Officially, you're back to trading paintings. Unofficially, you're after an auction lot that should never exist. The kind of lot that can start wars if it falls into the wrong hands."
He slid a folder across the desk. Real paper. That alone told her this wasn't a digital game. She opened it. A single photograph: a torn fragment of a painting. Someone had scrawled a word in the corner, almost hidden in the canvas: Heretic.
"An art piece?" she asked.
"An encoded list of assets hidden in pigment layers. It's a map, disguised as a masterpiece. And the seller has taken an interest in you."
Morgana lifted her gaze. "What's the catch?"
"You'll be partnered," the Director said.
She blinked. "I work alone."
"Not this time. Orders from higher up. And Cilantro…" His voice softened, which was worse than when it was sharp. "The seller knew you would come. This is bait. Whether for you or for us, we don't yet know."
She closed the folder with a snap and leaned back. Through the rain-streaked window, London blurred into silver and gray.
Her last mission had cost her three scars and one friend. Now they wanted to throw her back into the game with a partner who could easily get her killed.
"Who is this partner?" she asked.
"You'll meet him tomorrow."
"Him?"
"You'll manage." The Director stood, signaling the end of the conversation. "Get some sleep. You leave at dawn. And Cilantro—"
She paused in the doorway.
"Be careful. Whoever's behind this already knows your name. They might know more than that."
---
Outside, the storm hadn't let up. She pulled her coat tight and stepped into the wet London night. Somewhere out there, someone was baiting her. And tomorrow, she'd take it.
The mission had already begun.