But the alternative is leaving her alone with a man who may already know she's compromised. Who may be conducting his own interrogation right now, probing for weaknesses, looking for the tells that separate Nocturne from Marissa.
I scan the courtyard with trained efficiency. Guards positioned at strategic intervals. Exit routes all monitored. The Iron Choir doesn't host gatherings like this without layers of security. If her cover breaks, if the Conductor realizes the truth, we'll be lucky to make it out of the estate alive.
My hand moves to my pocket where the compact knife sits concealed. Not much of a weapon against this many hostiles, but better than nothing. I catalog other options: improvised weapons, potential allies, the distance between here and that terrace.
Every calculation leads back to the same conclusion: I'm too far away. If she needs me, if things go sideways, I won't reach her in time.
The stakes just shifted. This isn't professional concern anymore—it's personal, the kind that comes from knowing someone critical to you is in the crosshairs and you can't pull them out yet.
Marissa. Not Nocturne. Not the asset. Marissa, who trusted me with rope and tears and truth last night, who let me see past every mask she wears. The woman who got under my skin somewhere between surveillance footage and tactical debriefs, between calculated covers and Berlin's power games.
"Mr. Hayes." Koval appears at my elbow, champagne flute in hand. "You look tense. Surely you trust Nocturne to handle a simple conversation?"
"Of course," I say, accepting the champagne he offers even though I have no intention of drinking it. "Professional concern. Occupational hazard."
"Ah, but there's more to it than that, isn't there?" Koval's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I've been in this business long enough to recognize when a specialist has become personally invested in his asset. Dangerous territory, Mr. Hayes. Emotions compromise judgment."
He's probing. Testing to see how deep my connection to Marissa runs. Looking for weaknesses he can exploit.
"Nocturne is exceptional," I reply, keeping my tone neutral. "That kind of talent deserves protection."
"Talent, yes. But also a woman. A beautiful woman who's spent years learning how to use that beauty as a weapon." Koval takes a sip of his champagne, gaze never leaving my face. "Tell me, does she use it on you? Or have you convinced yourself that what's between you is somehow different?"
My jaw tightens. "What's between us is professional."
"Of course it is." Koval's smile widens. "Just as I'm sure the way you touched her in Berlin was purely professional. The way she responded to you. All part of the performance, I'm certain."
He knows. Not everything, maybe. But enough to understand that Marissa and I have crossed lines that specialists and assets aren't supposed to cross.
"The Conductor values loyalty above all else," Koval continues, voice dropping lower. "He rewards it generously. But betrayal? That he handles personally."
My earpiece crackles again. Fitz's voice this time, clipped and urgent.
"Kingslayer, Moreau's in the wind. He slipped our surveillance at the airport. We don't have eyes on him."
My blood turns to ice. Moreau is loose. A compromised Interpol director with access to every detail of this operation, including the fact that Nocturne is actually Marissa Vale, an undercover operative who's been feeding them intelligence for years.
And Marissa is on that terrace with the Conductor, completely unaware that her cover may already be blown.
"Understood," I murmur, barely moving my lips.
"We're trying to reacquire," Fitz continues. "But if he's made contact with the Choir, if he's warned them about Nocturne, you need to extract her now. We'll provide what cover we can, but this is going sideways fast."
I set my champagne down on the edge of the fountain, mind racing through scenarios. Every option ends in violence. If Moreau has warned the Conductor, if they know Marissa is compromised, then walking onto that terrace means walking into a trap. But leaving her there means abandoning her to interrogation, torture, or worse.
I can't let that happen.
"Mr. Hayes?" Koval's voice carries false concern. "You've gone quite pale. Is something wrong?"
I meet his gaze, and for a fraction of a second, I consider telling him the truth. That his organization is compromised.That we know about Moreau. That right now, agents are moving into position to dismantle the Iron Choir piece by piece. But that would only accelerate whatever's happening on that terrace, and Marissa would be the first casualty.
"Just need some air," I say, already moving toward the archway. "The champagne doesn't agree with me."
Koval's hand catches my arm. "The Conductor prefers his private conversations to remain private. I'm sure you understand."
I look down at his hand on my arm, then back up to his face. Let him see exactly how thin my patience has worn. "I need air. The terrace will do."
For a moment, tension crackles between us. Koval's smile never wavers, but his grip tightens. Other operatives shift position around us. Guards move closer. The atmosphere in the courtyard changes from social gathering to potential combat zone in the space of a heartbeat.
