"As for resources, let's just say anything I've asked for, they've made good on. Equipment. Intelligence. Funding. Operational support. Medical. Legal, if needed. No questions asked beyond what's necessary for security and mission parameters."
"Give me an example. Concrete."
Connor motioned to the building around us, the walls, the foundation. "This place was the start. A safe house. Staging ground. Somewhere burned operators could come if they needed sanctuary." He took another drink. "Now they're buying up the whole set of buildings. The entire block. Quietly. And fast. Planning to turn it into a fortress and operations center."
I whistled low, genuinely impressed despite everything else weighing on me. "Can I get a jet pack? I've always wanted a jet pack. Since I was a kid."
Connor actually chuckled, some of the tension breaking like ice cracking. "We can ask. But it might stick out in Paris. Draw unwanted attention from aviation authorities."
"Fair point."
The moment of levity faded quickly, reality settling back in like fog rolling off the Seine at dawn.
Cold. Unavoidable. Suffocating, if you let it.
I could feel the weight of our history hanging in the room like a physical presence. All the things we'd survived together at St. Paul's. All the things we'd done separately afterward to stay alive and free. All the scars—visible and otherwise—that we'd carry forever whether we wanted them or not.
"Should we bring in the rest of the Nine?" I asked, voicing the thought that had been circling. "Would that be safer? Safety in numbers? Consolidate instead of scatter?"
Connor shook his head immediately, no hesitation. "I thought the same thing when this started. But until we find out who's really behind St. Paul's phoenix rise—what organization, what funding source, what infrastructure and connections—it's probably best to take it slow. Keep everyone scattered and hard to find."
He paused, meeting my eyes directly.
"And besides, do you know what it took to find you in Bangkok? How many resources I had to burn just to locate one man who didn't want to be found?"
I grinned despite everything, remembering the layers of misdirection I'd built over years. False identities. Cash transactions. No digital footprint. Moving constantly when I wasn’t on official missions. "That was on purpose."
"I know it was. You're good at disappearing." Connor's expression was somewhere between proud and frustrated. "The others did the same thing. When the warning whisper went out—when someone realized St. Paul's had somehow survived andwas actively hunting us—everyone scattered and went to ground. Deep. Professional. Some of them I can't find at all anymore, even with Dominion Hall's resources."
That made sense. Frustrating as hell, but tactically sound.
We'd survived this long by being invisible.
By trusting no one except each other.
"Best to leave them that way," Connor continued quietly. "For now. Until we know more. Until we understand the full scope of what we're facing."
"So, what's the next move?" I asked, restlessness building in my chest like pressure. "I'm not really built to stand around and wait for them to come at us again."
"Neither am I," Connor admitted, something dark and familiar flickering across his face. Old anger. Old trauma. "But until we get a better sense of who and what we're dealing with—and yes, we've been actively looking, using every resource we have, every contact, every database we can access—probably best not to make any sudden moves that draw more attention or reveal our capabilities."
I raised my beer bottle slightly. "You mean like killing a dude and giving his buddies concussions?"
Connor chuckled again, darker this time, the sound carrying years of violence neither of us would ever fully escape or forget. "Must be serious if we're laughing about it. That's how you know it's bad. When the jokes start."
He was quiet for a moment, staring at his beer bottle like it held answers to questions he didn't want to ask.
Then, softer: "You remember the first time they tied us up at St. Paul's? Left us in those empty rooms alone? Sensory deprivation?"
The memory surfaced immediately, vivid and unwelcome.
Cold concrete. Darkness. Silence so complete it felt like drowning.
I took another drink, pushing down the old anger that never really faded. "I cherished the quiet I could finally enjoy."
The lie tasted bitter.
"How many days was that?" he asked.
