THE SILENT ACCOUNT
POV: Elodie Fray
Location:The Alps (Train to Zurich) -> Banque Privée de Zurich (Vault Level)
Track:Survivor– 2WEI (Cinematic Cover)
Sensory:The sterile chill of air-conditioned marble, the hushed whisper of wealth, the burning sting of adrenaline in a tired vein.
Mood:High-Stakes Performance & Cold Anxiety.
The train cuts through the Alps like a needle through white silk.
Outside the window, the world is a blur of snow-capped peaks and pristine pines. Inside the first-class compartment, the air is warm and smells of expensive leather and stale coffee. I sit opposite Alaric. We look like a couple on a winter getaway. We are lying.
We are two fugitives holding our breath as we cross the border. Alaric is wearing a turtleneck sweater and a wool coat we bought in a thrift shop near the Savona station. The high collar hides the bruising on his neck. He has shaved the beard in the train stationbathroom, revealing the sharp, aristocratic jawline, but his skin is the color of ash. His shoulder is a firestorm. I can feel the heat radiating from him across the small table. The infection from the seawater and the unsterile field surgery in the boxcar is fighting back. He is running on Ibuprofen and sheer, stubborn malice.
"Passports," the conductor announces, sliding the door open.
I hand over the documents Matteo forged.Jean-Luc Dubois. Marie Dubois.My hands don't shake. I am getting too good at this. The conductor scans them. He glances at Alaric, who is feigning sleep, his head resting against the cool glass. "Is monsieur alright?"
"He has the flu," I say, my French flawless thanks to my mother’s obsession with European finishing schools. "We are going to a clinic in Zurich."
The conductor nods sympathetically, stamps the tickets, and moves on. The door clicks shut. Alaric opens his eyes. The silver irises are rimmed with red, the pupils dilated. "Are we there?" he rasps.
"Twenty minutes."
He sits up, wincing. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bottle of eye drops. "My right eye," he says, handing me the bottle. "It’s cloudy. The scanner won't read it if the cornea is inflamed."
"Alaric, your eye isn't just inflamed. You have a fever of 103."
"Just put the drops in, Elodie. Dilate the pupil. Clear the redness. I need ten seconds of clarity."
I take the bottle. I lean over the table. He tilts his head back. I see the broken capillaries, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. He looks like a king who has spent too long inthe trenches. I squeeze the drops. One. Two. He blinks, tears streaming down his face. "Burns," he hisses.
"Good. Pain wakes you up."
The train slows. The announcement chimes.Zürich Hauptbahnhof.
"Showtime," Alaric whispers. He stands up, buttons his coat, and straightens his spine. For a moment, the fever vanishes. The slump disappears. The Director returns. It is a terrifying transformation. A performance of vitality put on for an audience of security cameras.
"Let's go get our money," he says.
Zurich is a city of clocks and secrets. It is clean, orderly, and quiet. The complete opposite of the chaos of Genoa or the grit of the boxcar. We take a taxi to the financial district. We don't speak. TheBanque Privée de Zurichstands on a corner, a fortress of grey stone and polished brass. There is no sign, just a discreet plaque.
We walk in. The lobby is a cathedral of silence. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, tellers behind bulletproof glass who speak in hushed tones. A concierge in a three-piece suit approaches us. "Monsieur, Madame. How may I assist you?"
"We have an appointment," Alaric says. His voice is smooth, authoritative. "Vault 774. The account holder is Graves."
The name hangs in the air. The concierge doesn't blink, but his posture stiffens. "One moment, please." He types on a terminal. He looks up. "Dr. Graves. It has been a long time. The Manager, Herr Vogel, will escort you personally."
Vogel appears moments later. A small, nervous man with wire-rimmed glasses. "Doctor," he bows. "We heard... rumors. An accident in the States?"
"Greatly exaggerated," Alaric says dryly. "As you can see."
"Of course. Please, follow me."
We are led through a heavy steel door, down a spiral staircase, into the bowels of the earth. The air gets cooler. The silence gets deeper. We reach the main vault. It is a massive circular door of chrome and steel, easily two feet thick. Vogel types a code. The wheel spins.Clank. Clank. Clank.The door swings open.
