Beneath Geneva, in a vault older than most nations, an old man stirred.
Not old in the sense of years—though his bones had seen centuries of empire and collapse—but old like marble. Like myth. A man who had been behind more companies, coups, and coronations than any history book would dare name.
His name wasn't on any board.
But his fingerprints were on every power deal in the last 40 years.
He watched the live feed from Halcyon Tower flicker onto his wall, grainy and grayscale, but clear enough. Alex Voss standing in a room of traitors, barking threats like a caged lion. Mina Asari locking her office, thinking she was untouchable.
"Adorable," he muttered.
A man in a three-piece suit entered the vault silently, setting down a silver tray with a glass of blood-red wine and a dossier.
The old man opened it.
Inside: profiles. Voss. Asari. Rynes. Claire.
His fingers paused on Claire's name.
"She's alive," he said.
"Yes, sir."
"And working against me?"
"Not yet. But close."
He nodded once, then turned to a chessboard beside the monitor. The board had no white pieces—only black. Each piece had a tiny engraving: an initial, a symbol, a debt.
He picked up the black queen, ran a thumb over the base, and placed it forward.
"The board is reset," he said softly. "Let them think they're fighting each other. When the blood dries, I'll decide who's left to clean the mess."
The man behind him waited.
"Send the signal," the old man said. "Tell the girl to make her move."
"The girl?" the aide asked.
The old man smiled, a terrifying, patient thing.
"Claire."
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