May 27th, 6:45 AM - Hallway
Adolf woke to the sound of retching.
Through the thin walls, someone was being violently sick. He checked his watch—too early for a hangover, even by his standards. The retching came again, desperate and painful, followed by a thud like a body hitting the floor.
Peterson's room.
Adolf threw on clothes and rushed into the hallway. The others were already emerging from their alcohol-themed sanctuaries—Jim from the Vodka room, clutching his ever-present notebook and something that glinted silver in his jacket pocket. Jean-Pierre appeared shirtless from the Tequila room, moving with practiced urgency that seemed too rehearsed. Peter clutched his robe, stepping back from the Martini room doorway as if death might be contagious. But his eyes weren't fearful—they were calculating, measuring everyone's reactions like data points.
"Peterson?" Adolf pounded the Brandy room door, its brass nameplate gleaming mockingly in the hallway light. "You alright in there?"
Silence.
Jim's mind raced: Calculate the variables. Process the data.
6:52 AM - Brandy Room
Jean-Pierre's shoulder hit the door with military precision. The lock splintered on the second impact—too easily, as if he'd done this before.
Inside the 150-square-meter Brandy room, eight bottles of premium cognac lined the mahogany shelves like silent witnesses.
Peterson Matthew convulsed on the bathroom floor, white foam bubbling from his lips. His hands clawed at his throat, but his right index finger traced something deliberate in the spilt foam. A bird? Wings spread in death? The pattern trembled, incomplete, before his hand went still.
"Merde!" Jean-Pierre dropped to his knees with unsettling efficiency. "Alkaloid poisoning. Cardiac glycosides." His diagnosis came too quickly, too precisely. I've seen this exact presentation in Lagos. But was I investigating Phoenix, or...
"Don't contaminate the scene!" Jim produced a professional magnifying glass from his jacket—the same jacket that held tools no reunion guest should need. His analytical mask cracked, revealing something desperate.
Peter remained frozen by the doorway, pulling a handkerchief to scrub his palms raw. He hadn't touched anything, yet he cleaned obsessively. "He was always paranoid," Peter muttered. "Seeing conspiracies everywhere." But his eyes never left Adolf's face, watching for reactions.
Peterson's lips moved. They leaned closer:
"Phoenix... Santorini... five delivered... beware the—"
The warning died with him.
7:15 AM - Kitchen
Behind dried lavender and false chamomile, Adolf found the chamomile jar reeking of bitter almonds. The texture was wrong—gritty with foreign residue that glinted like crushed glass.
Jim forced his engineer's mind to engage. "Heat activation," he muttered, studying the tea preparation with tools he shouldn't have brought. "Oleander glycosides become lethal above 70 degrees Celsius. Boiling water triggered maximum toxicity within minutes." His expertise felt too intimate, too practiced.
"Professionnel," Jean-Pierre whispered, examining the poison mixture. His familiarity was deeply unsettling. "Precisely calibrated. Mixed with dried tea to mask texture and scent. Untraceable." His voice carried the weight of classified knowledge. The exact method from Beirut. From Lagos. Always the same botanical signature.
Peter's defensive anger exploded: "Why is everyone staring at me? I didn't poison the herbs!" But his stance betrayed preparation—weight shifted toward the exit, muscles coiled to run or fight.
Adolf noticed something else: Peterson's teacup was still warm. The poisoning had happened recently, but Peter claimed he'd been awake for hours in his Martini room, unable to sleep among the gin-scented pillows and crystal decanters that reflected the morning light like fractured diamonds.
8:30 AM - Study
Morrison's research equipment filled the room like an altar to betrayal. Adolf recognized every piece—the distillation setup, the specimen jars that had held their professor's groundbreaking compounds fifteen years ago.
Jim's hands steadied as he examined the modifications, his expertise now undeniable. "Enhanced extraction protocols. Someone's been perfecting Morrison's formulas. These yield calculations show 300% increased potency." His voice carried professional appreciation that chilled the room.
Behind botanical specimens, Adolf found a leather portfolio—dusty, locked, humming with danger. Inside: financial documents and business cards embossed with a phoenix rising from flames. But these weren't calling cards—they were receipts.
"Phoenix Operations: Santorini Contract. Item 23A: Botanical delivery. Payment: 2.1M EUR. Status: Completed. Witnesses: Eliminated."
Jean-Pierre picked up a card, his face darkening with recognition he couldn't hide. "Santorini. Three bodies in a villa. Greek shipping magnate and his security team." His voice carried classified weight. "Officially, accidental poisoning. Unofficially..." He set the card down like a live grenade. "Phoenix doesn't leave witnesses."
But his eyes held something Adolf couldn't read—was it the look of a hunter, or the hunted?
9:15 AM - Morrison's Final Gambit
Peter found Morrison's message behind the kitchen clock while Adolf cracked Peterson's laptop in the corner. Two revelations are unfolding in parallel, each confirming the other's nightmare.
"Phoenix listed us," Jim called out, reading over Adolf's shoulder. "All of us. Peterson traced the money."
Morrison's final letter, red wax cracking like dried blood:
"They forced me to perfect the research before planning my elimination. Phoenix Operations has used my formulas in seven confirmed assassinations. When I threatened exposure, they decided to eliminate everyone who knew the original work. The killer is someone I taught. Someone I trusted. Check Peterson's banking records—he found the money trail. The phoenix mark is how they sign their kills. One of you is not who you pretend to be. —J.M."
Peterson's laptop revealed more:
"May 20th: Berlin pharmaceutical CEO - oleander glycosides, undetectable autopsy. Phoenix payment: 5.2M EUR.
May 22nd: Adolf Richter triggered bank investigation. Phoenix contract authorized: 'Academic cleanup.'
May 23rd: Jean-Pierre Dubois Interpol file flagged - multiple contacts with Phoenix targets.
May 24th: Jim Larsen forensic consulting for European intelligence. Tools consistent with Phoenix methodology.
May 25th: Peter Hoffman psychological profile perfect for Phoenix recruitment.
Final entry - 2:37 PM: They know I know. This is an execution masquerading as a reunion."
Adolf frowned. That final entry was timestamped when Peter claimed to be hiking alone, with no internet access. Then who had uploaded the log?
The room fell silent except for volcanic rumbling that echoed their collective heartbeats.
"We're all on Phoenix's list," Adolf said quietly. "Different reasons, same fate."
"Peterson died trying to warn us," Jim added, his analytical facade completely gone—but he'd always carried forensic tools, never explaining why. Adolf wondered if Jim had come not to analyze a scene, but to prepare one.
Jean-Pierre's expression turned unreadable, eyes locked on the phoenix card as if confronting an old enemy. His silence was louder than any denial.
Peter continued scrubbing his palms until they were raw, as if the act could erase more than germs. "This is insane," he whispered. "We're university friends, not assassins." His eyes darted toward his Martini room, where eight bottles of premium gin stood like crystal soldiers on their shelves.
But Adolf stared at his former classmates—Jim with his suspicious Whiskey room tools, Jean-Pierre emerging too expertly from Tequila-scented luxury, Peter's nervous glances toward his gin-soaked sanctuary, and himself in the Vodka room that now felt more like a tomb than a refuge. One of them had spent three years building an assassination empire on their professor's stolen research, hiding behind familiar faces and alcohol-themed comfort.
Bang!
The gunshot that would end everything was still thirty-six hours away. But Adolf could already feel death circling with a familiar face and a voice he'd once trusted.
Outside, oleander's bitter perfume mixed with sulfur and the metallic scent of fear. The island pulsed with malevolent anticipation, its volcanic heart counting down to eruption.