They landed in Casablanca at midnight.
Morocco was warm, golden, and buzzing with a pulse that Ava could feel beneath her skin. Julian barely spoke as they moved through the city—eyes scanning faces, fingers always twitching toward the knife he now carried in his jacket.
"This place," he murmured, "is where Noura stopped pretending to be human."
They took a cab to the edge of the old medina, where Julian led Ava through a maze of narrow alleys, their walls stained with age and secrets. He stopped outside a weather-worn door with no sign, just a carved symbol near the handle—an Ouroboros. A snake eating its own tail.
Ava raised a brow. "Comforting."
Julian didn't smile. He knocked once. Waited.
Then a slit in the door opened—and a pair of cold, pale eyes stared back.
A voice spoke in French. Julian replied, fluent and low.
The door creaked open.
Inside was dim. The walls were lined with books, cameras, locked drawers. The air smelled of ink, leather, and old betrayal.
And in the center, behind a mahogany desk, sat a man with white hair, inked fingers, and the calm of someone who'd watched empires rise and fall.
"She's building something again," Viktor said. "But this time, it's not art. It's *access*. High-level political doors. Corporate secrets. Blackmail that could spark wars."
Julian's voice was quiet. "She's done hiding."
Viktor nodded. "Which means your time is almost up."
Ava looked up. "Then help us."
Viktor tilted his head. "Why would I?"
"Because you made her," Ava said. "And maybe now you regret it."
Viktor stared at her for a long moment. Then, softly:
"Every creator regrets their masterpiece eventually."
He walked to a shelf, pulled a small black flash drive from a hidden slot.
"This," he said, "is the blueprint of her current network. Password-protected. You'll get one chance to use it before she finds out it exists."
Julian stepped forward. "And the password?"
Viktor smirked. "The name she fears most."
Ava blinked. "Yours?"
"No," he said. Then met her eyes.
"*Yours*."
He looked up and smiled.
"Well," he said in perfect English. "If it isn't my favorite ghost."
Julian stepped forward, tense. "Hello, Viktor."
Ava stiffened. *This* was him?
Viktor didn't rise. Just gestured to the chairs. "You brought company. You always did fall hard."
Julian ignored that. "She's not just company. She's the reason I'm still standing."
Viktor turned to Ava. His gaze was sharp, intrusive, but not unkind. "Then she's the only leverage you have left."
Ava spoke. "We came for information. On Noura."
At the name, Viktor finally reacted—his mouth tightened.
"She's resurfaced?" he asked.
Julian nodded. "Worse than before. And untouchable."
Viktor leaned back. "Ah. So now you've come to your creator to kill your sister."
"She was never my sister," Julian said.
"No," Viktor said. "She was better. Smarter. Colder."
He stood at last, walked to a locked cabinet, and pulled out an envelope. Tossed it on the table.
Ava opened it.
Inside were photographs. Surveillance. Noura in cities all over the world. Istanbul. Zurich. São Paulo. And one recent: her entering a private club in Lisbon—with Elias.