The Conductor is waiting in this city. So is the evidence we need to expose Moreau. So is the choice about whether what Archer and I have become will hold under pressure—or shatter completely.
10
ARCHER
Marrakesh, Cerberus’ Riad
Marrakesh hits differently than Berlin's cold precision or Monaco's glittering facades. Heat wraps around us the moment we step off the plane, thick and demanding, carrying the scent of spice markets and ancient stone. Cerberus owns properties scattered across multiple continents, but this riad tucked deep in the medina feels like stepping into another century.
Narrow alleyways twist through the old quarter, walls painted in sunset oranges and dusty roses, lanterns casting geometric shadows across worn cobblestones. Tourists drift past in clusters, cameras raised, oblivious to the fact that two operatives move through their midst unnoticed.
The riad's entrance is easy to miss unless you know where to look. A carved wooden door is set into a weathered wall, unmarked, giving no indication of what lies beyond. I press my palm to the biometric lock hidden in the decorative brass, and the door swings open on silent hinges.
Cool darkness greets us. Then my eyes adjust to the transition from harsh sunlight to shaded interior, and the space reveals itself in layers. A central courtyard opens to the sky,with a fountain murmuring in the center and intricate tilework climbing the walls in patterns that seem to shift when you're not looking directly at them. Rooms branch off on multiple levels, connected by staircases carved from local stone.
Cerberus keeps this place for operatives who need to disappear for a while. Logan stayed here during the Casablanca operation last year. Nitro used it as a staging ground for the Tangier extraction. And now it's ours for however long we need to maintain our cover before tomorrow night's gathering.
"Beautiful," Nocturne says, her voice echoing slightly off the tiles. She's already cataloging exits, blind spots, defensive positions. Training doesn't sleep just because we do.
"There are two bedrooms upstairs," I tell her, gesturing to the upper level. "Choose whichever you prefer."
"Archer."
The way she says my name makes me pause. When I turn, she's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Exhaustion shadows her eyes, but beneath it runs a current of need. Raw. Undisguised. The kind that's been building since Berlin, maybe longer.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Don't," she says quietly. "Don't pretend we're going to sleep in separate rooms like nothing happened between us."
She's right. We crossed that line already. Multiple times. In Berlin, on the plane, in every loaded silence that's stretched between us since the villa. Pretending otherwise is insulting to both of us.
"What do you want me to say?" The question comes out rougher than intended.
"The truth would be refreshing."
"The truth." I move closer, drawn by forces I've stopped trying to resist. "The truth is that I should maintain professional distance. Should focus on the mission, on keeping you alive longenough to stop the kidnapping and dismantle the Iron Choir's operation. Should not be thinking about how you looked when you almost kissed me at altitude, or how your hand felt in mine when the turbulence hit."
"But?" she prompts, tilting her head up to meet my gaze.
"But apparently I'm not as disciplined as I thought I was."
Relief washes across her face, quick as lightning. "So what do we do about it?"
"We need to address this," I say. "Address what's happening between us before it compromises the operation."
"Address what?" Her voice has that careful neutrality she uses when she's trying to hide how much something matters. "We had sex in Berlin. Operatives do that. Stress relief, mutual need, nothing more complicated than basic biology."
"Is that what you think it was?"
"What else could it be?"
"Us." The word settles between us, heavy and undeniable. "We need to address us."
"There is no us," she says, but her voice wavers on the last word.
"Liar."
Her jaw tightens. For a moment I think she might actually maintain the fiction, might retreat behind that Nocturne persona and leave me standing here like an idiot who read everything wrong. Then her breath hitches, just once, and I know I've won.
