Igot back to the Sanctuary just after midnight, adrenaline still humming under my skin like electricity despite the long walk through Paris streets.
The lights were still on in the sitting room, warm glow spilling into the hallway through the open door. Not unusual—Ellsworth seemed to keep odd hours, moving through the building like a ghost who never actually slept or needed rest. Probably didn't, knowing his background. Former SAS operators didn't retire so much as they just found new missions.
But when I walked in, it wasn't just Ellsworth maintaining his vigil.
Connor sat in one of the leather chairs near the unlit fireplace, a book open on his lap but his attention clearly elsewhere. His posture was too alert, too ready, weight forward like he might need to move fast. He'd been waiting for me.
Knew something was wrong before I walked through the door.
That was Connor. Always reading situations three moves ahead.
He looked up the moment I entered, eyes sharp and assessing in that way I remembered from school.
"What's wrong?" he asked immediately.
No preamble. No small talk. No pretending he didn't already know something significant had happened just from the way I was moving, the tension I was carrying.
That was Connor. Always had been.
Direct. Efficient. No wasted words.
I dropped my jacket over the back of a chair and ran a hand through my hair, suddenly exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with physical fatigue and everything to do with the weight of history catching up.
"They found me."
The room went very still.
Even the air seemed to stop moving, like the building itself was holding its breath.
Ellsworth appeared in the doorway from the kitchen, arms crossed over his chest, face unreadable but attention focused entirely on me with laser precision.
Connor's expression didn't change outwardly, but something shifted behind his eyes. Recognition. Concern. Immediate tactical calculation about what this meant for everyone.
"St. Paul's?" he asked, though the answer was already written in the tension of my shoulders.
"Yeah."
"When?"
"Tonight. A few hours ago." I moved into the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands, needing motion to process. "The fat men from the fight club were in on it. Took me to an abandoned building in the industrial district east of here. Three suits waiting. Professional operators. Military backgrounds, I'd guess. They knew who I was. Knew about the Nine. Had surveillance photos from Bangkok. Recent ones."
Connor leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, processing every detail. "And?"
"And I put them down. Two unconscious. One dead. Three shots. Then I ran."
Connor and Ellsworth exchanged a look.
Not surprise. Not disapproval. Not judgment about the violence or the body count.
Just ... acknowledgment.
Understanding that things had just escalated from theoretical threat to active combat.
From hiding in shadows to open warfare.
"Where did this happen?" Ellsworth asked, voice perfectly calm like we were discussing grocery lists instead of corpses cooling in an abandoned building.
I told them the area, described the building with detached awareness.
