// VIAVILDA SHADOW-ACCESS GRANTED
// CROSS-REF: FERRYMAN SECURITY
STATUS: MATCH FOUND
The text flickers for a few seconds before stabilizing. Then a new message appears in blue.
Pickup confirmed. Private strip outside Lyon. Coordinates attached.
Transport: Jet → KEF → unknown site.
Compound coordinates classified. Still digging.
So they're somewhere in Iceland. They're expecting Henri Trottier, but he won't be making it anywhere close to there.
Well, Henri will show up…just not the real one.
I have less than three days to get rid of my loose end.
Then the fun really begins.
I close the laptop and step into the bathroom, reaching for the contact case.
I tilt my head back and slide the brown contacts in one at a time. My vision blurs, then adjusts. The man I used to know is no longer staring back at me.
I spend the next several minutes packing my bag, making sure everything's there. The balaclava sits on top, black like the rest of my clothes. I run my fingers over the fabric, oddly comforted knowing I can hide behind the mask and let the worst parts of myself take control.
Three days.
That's all the space left between now and the moment Calder's world opens just enough for me to slip inside. He thinks he's tightening his grip, locking things down, building his walls higher.
What he's really done is invite a better monster into his house.
Henri's buildingin Lyon is exactly what Cat's files described. I make mental notes of everything I can—the way his front door sticks, the one light flickering on the second floor. His schedule, his habits…the confidence of a careless man who thinks he's safe.
And I mean, if it weren't for me, he probably would be.
He smokes on the stoop every hour but only half a cigarette. Never finishes the rest. Drinks his coffee too fast. Talks on the phone like he enjoys being heard.
I watch him from across the street, from reflections in windows, from corners of rooms he never notices.
By late afternoon, I've got him completely figured out.
And by nighttime, I'm more than ready to get rid of him.
There's no guilt. No second-guessing. There never fucking was.
I'd kill a thousand men like Henri if it meant getting to them.
It's time.
Back in the alley across from his building, I pull the balaclava over my head. The disguise feels right. My breathing slows and the world sharpens into focus.
This is the part of me that doesn't hesitate. The part that enjoys what's about to happen.
Henri's door has a cheap lock. It gives in under ten seconds. I slip inside and ease it shut behind me, moving like a shadow.
Henri sits on the couch, beer balanced on his knee, the television washing his face in bright light.
