The humid Washington air clung to Zaeem's tailored linen suit as he stepped into the sterile chill of the FBI field office. His polished Oxfords clicked softly against the marble floor, a stark contrast to the muffled urgency radiating from cubicles nearby. A junior agent, looking impossibly young and harried, intercepted him. "Mr. Al-Hassan? Director Vance is expecting you. Right this way, sir." The agent's voice held a tremor Zaeem recognized instantly – the tremor of fresh, raw fear.
Director Vance's office was a study in controlled chaos. Maps plastered the walls, red pins marking locations that formed a grim constellation. Vance himself looked like he hadn't slept in days, his eyes shadowed, his hand gripping a lukewarm coffee mug like a lifeline. He didn't offer pleasantries. "Al-Hassan. Thank you for coming on such short notice." He gestured to a chair. "You've been briefed?"
Zaeem settled into the chair, his posture impeccable despite the oppressive atmosphere. The scent of stale coffee and desperation hung thick. "Only the essentials, Director. A pattern. Targeting your own." His voice was calm, low, carrying an undercurrent of steel. "Agent Dark was the latest."
Vance pushed a thick dossier across the polished desk. The top sheet bore a stark crime scene photo: Agent Dark sprawled in The Grand Majestic hotel, shot through the heart. silencer gunshot wound. "Six agents in eight months," Vance rasped, tapping the photo. "Different cities. Different methods. Always clean. Always... *personal*. Like he knows them." His knuckles whitened around the mug. "He leaves a signature. A single, perfect obsidian stone placed on the victim's chest. Col. Smooth. Utterly untraceable."
Zaeem's fingers brushed the glossy image. Agent Dark's vacant stare mirrored the dread pooling in his gut. He flipped through the dossier. Names. Faces. Locations. A sniper in Seattle. Poison in Portland. A staged car wreck in Chicago. Each victim an elite FBI agent. Each kill precise. Each with that damn stone. The obsidian felt heavy in his mind, cold as interstellar void. Vance leaned forward, shadows deepening beneath his eyes. "He's hunting *us*, Al-Hassan. He's picking us off. And we're blind
The Grand Majestic suite swallowed Zaeem whole. Silk sheets whispered against his skin, too soft, too quiet. Outside, Vegas pulsed—neon arteries bleeding light into the desert. He sat propped against plush pillows, the dossier spread like a wound across his lap. His thumb traced the victims' names again: *Miller. Chen. Rodriguez.* Routine checks tightened his throat. Then: *Dark, Elias.* Shot through the heart. The Majestic. Room 712. Zaeem's own room key—712—burned cold in his pocket.
He flipped the page. A face stared back. Dark eyes, sharper than Zaeem remembered. A smile that once promised forever, now frozen in an FBI badge photo. *Agent Kaelen yourt.* Poisoned in Portland. Eight months ago. Obsidian signature confirmed. Zaeem's breath hitched, sharp as glass. Kaelen. His Kaelen. The man who'd walked out five years ago, leaving only silence and a shattered ring on the kitchen counter. Now… this. A perfect black stone placed on his still chest. Cold. Smooth. Untraceable.
The dossier blurred. Vegas's neon pulse outside the window felt obscene, garish against the quiet horror spreading through his veins. Kaelen wasn't just another agent. He was the ghost haunting Zaeem's empty apartment, the unanswered call in the dead of night. And someone had erased him. Cleanly. Personally. Fury ignited, cold and precise, deep in Zaeem's gut. It burned away the shock, leaving only a razor-sharp edge. He hadn't thought of Kaelen in months, maybe years. Now, the killer had dragged him back, made him a pawn in this sick game. *No.* Zaeem's fingers tightened on the paper, crumpling Kaelen's photo. This wasn't just a hunt for FBI agents. This was personal. For him. The killer knew. Knew about Kaelen. Knew about *him*.
Zaeem cries remembering his time with kaelen as boyfriends deep in love till kaelen left without a word.
***
The neon glare of Las Vegas Boulevard pulsed against Axcella Zed's windshield as her rented sedan crawled through the midnight traffic jam. Jetlag clawed at her temples, but adrenaline kept her sharp. France felt like a distant, smudged memory. Here, the air tasted of exhaust and desperation. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the dark leather. *David.* The name echoed in her skull, a relentless drumbeat. Five years. Five years of silence, of stolen funds, of betrayal that festered like a wound. She'd tracked whispers across continents – shell companies, forged identities, whispers of a shadowy operator embedded deep within Vegas's glittering underbelly. And now, finally, a concrete lead: a penthouse address flickering on her encrypted burner phone's screen. Tonight, the hunt ended. Tonight, David paid.
Axcella navigated the sedan into the subterranean garage of a sleek, obsidian-glass tower downtown. The air here was cool, sterile, smelling of concrete and expensive car wax. She parked in a shadowed corner, away from the cameras. Her reflection in the rearview mirror was stark: dark eyes hardened by years of calculated pursuit, high cheekbones sharpened by resolve, dark hair pulled back in a severe knot. She wore nondescript black tactical pants and a fitted grey jacket, blending into the shadows. From the glove compartment, she retrieved a compact Glock 43, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency before sliding it into the concealed holster at the small of her back. The cold weight was a familiar comfort, a promise. She didn't seek violence, but she embraced its necessity. Justice demanded it. David had stolen more than money; he'd stolen her trust, her future, her belief in anything resembling fairness. He'd vanish into another identity if given a chance. She wouldn't allow it.
(END OF ARC 1)
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