The lakefront of Geneva glittered with the reflections of a city at peace, but Eren knew better. He leaned against the cold stone of the Quai du Mont-Blanc, hood drawn low, the cigarette between his lips burning to ash. His gaze scanned the water, the cafés, the darkened windows across the boulevard.
Vale's words clawed at his memory. They're not after the Bloom anymore. They're after you.
He flicked the cigarette into the lake. It hissed as it hit the water.
"Eyes up, Eren," he muttered. His instincts screamed. This wasn't just paranoia. They were here.
Three figures emerged from the crowd of late-night strollers, too casual, too measured. One smiled too wide as though greeting an old friend. Another fiddled with his coat pocket. The third's gaze lingered on rooftops, scanning for sniper nests.
Professionals. Not Swiss police. Not random thugs. Black ops.
Eren straightened, rolling his shoulders. "Guess we're doing this the hard way."
The first man approached. "Mr. Vale?" His English was flat, accent blurred to nothing. CIA training. "We need you to come with us. Quietly."
Eren smirked. "You'll forgive me if I don't like unmarked invitations."
The man's smile froze. His hand twitched. That was all Eren needed.
In a single move, he slammed the man's head against the railing with a sickening crack. The body slumped as two suppressed pistols cleared their holsters in perfect sync.
Pfft. Pfft. Soft, lethal pops cut through the night.
Eren dropped low, dragging the unconscious body as a shield. Bullets thudded into flesh that wasn't his. With a grunt, he shoved the man into his companions, sending them stumbling.
The promenade erupted in chaos. Tourists screamed. A couple dropped their gelatos and ran. Sirens wailed in the distance.
Eren didn't hesitate. He drove his elbow into one attacker's jaw, spun, and wrenched the pistol free. The gun was sleek, government-issue, still warm in his hand.
He fired once, twice. One man collapsed against a lamppost. The other ducked behind a bench, returning fire in sharp bursts.
"Shit," Eren hissed. He sprinted toward cover—
—and froze at the sound of a familiar voice.
"Eren!"
Vale emerged from a side street, trench coat flaring behind her, her face half-shadowed. But it wasn't her presence that made his blood run cold—it was the shimmer around her fingertips, faint but unmistakable. A distortion, like heat waves bending light.
The Bloom.
"Vale, what the hell are you—"
She tossed him a small, blinking device. "Catch!"
He snatched it mid-air. A disk, humming like a heartbeat. "What the fuck is this?"
"Trust me."
He pressed the button. The device pulsed red, then detonated—not with fire, but with silence.
The world folded inward. Gunfire ceased. Glass shattered in perfect stillness. The attackers dropped, clutching their ears as though invisible claws had raked through their skulls.
Eren staggered back, disoriented. His vision blurred, his equilibrium failing. And Vale—Vale stood calm, eyes glowing faint violet, veins pulsing with unnatural light.
"You…" His throat tightened. "That wasn't tech. That was you."
Her lips trembled, but before she could answer, the night split apart with a blinding white spotlight.
A black helicopter hovered over Lake Geneva, rotors ripping the water into violent spray. Its searchlight locked on them like God's eye.
A voice thundered through loudspeakers:
"STAND DOWN. BOTH OF YOU."
The insignia gleamed against the chopper's side—CIA.
"Great," Eren spat, shielding his eyes. "The Americans finally show their hand."
But before the helicopter could descend, the air warped again. Another aircraft emerged from the darkness, sleek and unnatural. Its surface gleamed like liquid metal, soundless, ominous. No markings. No flags.
The CIA chopper swerved, adjusting weapons. The second aircraft didn't move. Didn't need to.
Vale's whisper carried on the wind. "It's not them. It's worse."
Eren turned. "What do you mean, worse?"
She looked at him, violet still burning in her eyes. "They've been here longer than you think. Watching. Waiting."
The two machines faced off above the lake. Searchlight against shadow. Human steel against something that bent the night itself.
Then, from the rooftops, a sniper's scope glinted. Not American. Not Swiss. Indian RAW operatives, moving like ghosts, rifles primed. On the other side of the boulevard, a van rolled to a stop—MI6 signatures, equipment bristling. And in the crowd, plainclothes operatives murmured into earpieces in languages from Moscow, Beijing, Ankara.
Every major power was here.
And Eren, standing at the center of the square, realized Geneva wasn't just a city tonight. It was a chessboard. And he and Vale were the king and queen, everyone else the predators closing in.
Vale's hand brushed his. "We need to move. Now."
He tightened his grip on the pistol, eyes flicking from helicopter to alien craft, from rooftop snipers to operatives threading through the panicked crowd.
"No," he said. His voice was low, hard. "We need to survive first."
The unmarked aircraft shifted, silent and deliberate. The CIA helicopter answered with a missile lock.
The city held its breath.
And Geneva prepared to explode.