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Chapter 7 - CHAPTER 7 - THE VAULT

By the time Morgana and Callen reached the hotel, the city had gone quiet.

She sat at the desk with Emil's note in front of her, the ink still sharp and black.

> You can't protect them all.

Midnight. Charles Bridge.

Her fingers traced the paper's edge. Something about the weight of it—it wasn't standard stationery. She tilted it under the desk lamp.

Hidden in the fibers was a faint watermark: an antique dealer's sigil.

---

Decoding Emil's Clue

"That," Callen said, leaning over her shoulder, "is a mark from Bohuslav Antiques. Old Town. I've been there."

She raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you know about antique dealers?"

"Since I've had to break into a few," he said.

The Director would never approve, but she didn't bother calling. Emil wanted her to find something tonight, and every instinct told her the trail wouldn't wait.

---

The Shop

The streets of Old Town were deserted. Only a faint drizzle fell, soft as ash.

Bohuslav Antiques was a narrow, crooked building pressed between two taller ones. The windows were barred. A wrought iron sign creaked in the wind.

Callen crouched by the door, pulling thin tools from his jacket.

"You're very comfortable breaking into places," Morgana murmured.

"You're very comfortable watching," he replied without looking up. A soft click, and the lock gave way.

---

Below the Floorboards

Inside, the air smelled of dust and varnish. The shelves were stacked with clocks, porcelain, and faded oil paintings.

A spiral staircase led down to a cellar. And under the cellar—behind a false wall—they found it: a private vault.

The door was steel, old but solid. Morgana brushed her fingers across the combination pad.

"Do you trust me?" she asked.

"Not even slightly," Callen said. "Do it anyway."

She typed in a code. Emil's birthdate.

The door opened.

---

The Trap

The vault was small, lined with shelves. No gold. No jewels.

Just files, photographs, and a single desk lamp burning faintly.

On the desk was a black-and-white photograph.

It was Morgana.

Seven years younger.

In Marrakesh.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

"Someone took this from a roof," Callen said quietly.

There was writing on the back: We always come back to where it began.

---

The Psychological Blow

There were more pictures: her family estate, before the fire. The gallery where she grew up. Her father's portrait. All of it gone now, burned away in the scandal that ruined her life.

Emil had dug up everything.

On the table, a passport burned half through—her old life. And next to it, a modern photograph of her fiancé, the Director, with a single line underneath:

> Do you really know him?

---

The Alarm

Then came the beep.

Soft at first. Then faster.

"Alarm," Callen said, already moving.

They bolted as a high-pitched siren began to wail, rolling through the cellar like a physical force.

By the time they reached the shop floor, lights outside were already turning on. Security shutters started to drop.

"Left window!" Morgana barked.

He smashed it with a chair. They climbed out just as the shutters slammed shut behind them.

---

The Escape

They ran down a narrow alley, boots splashing through puddles.

Behind them, someone shouted in Czech.

Callen grabbed her hand and pulled her up a set of slick iron stairs, across a balcony, and onto a sloping roof.

The city opened around them in a sprawl of red tiles and fog. They didn't stop until they were three rooftops away, crouched against a chimney, breathing hard.

---

The Conversation

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing.

"You going to tell me," Callen said, "why Emil has pictures of you from Marrakesh? And why he's leaving breadcrumbs just for you?"

Her jaw tightened. "Not tonight."

"You can't run from this forever, Morgana."

"And you can't keep assuming you know me," she shot back.

Something in her voice made him pause. For once, he didn't push.

---

Back at the Hotel

When they returned, drenched and shivering, Morgana closed the adjoining door between their rooms without a word.

She spread the photos across her desk.

Her old life stared back at her: luxury, innocence, and the man who had pulled her from the wreckage of it.

But Emil was right about one thing.

She didn't know if she knew him anymore.

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