Chapter Eleven

Commissariat, Marseilles

The interview room was as bare as Hill expected: a metal table, two chairs on either side, walls painted a weary grey that did little to disguise their age. A single camera sat in the corner, its red light blinking like a half-hearted heartbeat.

Luc Moreau lounged in his chair, hands folded neatly on the table. He wore a light linen suit, cream against his tanned skin, the sort of casual elegance that suggested he had dressed not to impress the police but to amuse himself. His hair was combed back, his jaw clean-shaven, his lips tilted in the faintest of smiles.

Across from him, Duval sat rigid, papers spread before him like weapons. Rousseau leaned back slightly, arms crossed, his impatience barely concealed. At the far side of the room, observing through the one-way glass, Hill, Sommers, and Claire watched in silence.

The moment Moreau’s eyes slid to the glass, Claire felt a shock. He wasn’t supposed to see them, but something in his look — sly, knowing, too direct — made her feel exposed.

“Shall we begin?” Duval said in French, his tone clipped.

Moreau tilted his head, then replied in flawless English. “Oh, let us. I do so enjoy these little dances.”

Duval switched smoothly to English, though his accent carried through. “You knew Rebecca Price.”

“I meet many people.” Moreau’s voice was silken, unhurried. “Marseilles is a city of travellers. The port brings them, the streets keep them. Harper was charming. Very English. Very… earnest.”

“You were seen with her the week she disappeared.”

“Seen? By whom? People love to talk. They love to imagine. Gossip is a kind of theatre, Inspector. You should know — you direct it.”

Rousseau leaned forward suddenly. “You mock us. Eleven women are dead.”

Moreau’s smile widened a fraction. “Eleven, yes. A fine number. Balanced. Almost biblical.” He tapped his finger against the table, three times, as though in emphasis. “And yet you have no evidence. None at all. Just whispers. Whispers are not justice.”

Through the glass, Sommers muttered, “Cocky bastard.”

But Hill didn’t answer. His eyes had narrowed, fixed on Moreau’s every movement. Something about the cadence, the little quirks of the man’s posture. He had seen it before — not here, not in this body, but in London. In Cutter.

Claire felt it too. Her pulse quickened as Moreau glanced again toward the glass, the smile sharpening. For a moment, she thought — no, she knew — that his gaze landed directly on Hill and Sommers.

“Shall we continue this charade?” Moreau said suddenly, still addressing Duval and Rousseau, but his voice seemed to thrum through the glass. “Or perhaps I should greet our visitors properly?”

Duval blinked. “Visitors?”

Moreau’s smile deepened. He turned his head fully now, staring straight at the glass as if it were not there.

“Detective Chief Inspector Hill. Sergeant Sommers. We meet again.”

Claire’s breath caught.

Sommers stiffened, muttering, “Bloody hell…”

Duval glanced sharply toward the glass. “How…?”

Hill spoke into the microphone connected to the room. “We’ve never met, Monsieur Moreau.” His voice was even, controlled, but Claire sensed the steel beneath it.

Moreau chuckled, low and rich. “Ah, but we have. Not in this skin, perhaps, but in the work. Brother Cutter sends his regards.”

A chill settled over the room. Sommers swore under her breath. Duval’s expression flickered — confusion, then irritation. “Enough games. You will answer the questions, or you will—”

“Or I will what, Inspector?” Moreau’s tone sharpened suddenly, though the smile never left his face. “Be held without cause? Interrogated without evidence? You cannot, and you know it. Unless you charge me formally, I will walk out that door. And if you keep calling me in without reason, I will sue. Harassment, unlawful detention, discrimination. The courts will listen, because unlike you, I speak their language. And they like men who smile.”

Rousseau flushed red. “You dare—”

Moreau cut across him with a lazy gesture. “I dare because you have nothing. They had nothing with Cutter until it was too late, and you have nothing now. History repeats itself, gentlemen. But you? You’re too blind to see the pattern.”

His gaze slid back to the glass, and Claire swore she felt it on her skin. “Except for you two,” he said softly. “You’ve seen the pattern. You’ve tried to stop it. And yet here we are. Another city. Another stage. Another body cooling in the dark.”

For the first time, Hill leaned forward, his voice sharp through the microphone. “You think you’re clever. But you make mistakes.”

Moreau’s eyes lit with amusement. “Do I? Or is it you who makes mistakes, always chasing, always arriving too late? You’ve not yet learned, Inspector. Evil wears many faces. Always has. Always will.”

Claire’s throat tightened. She remembered the files, the photos, the cold neatness of each victim’s pose. This wasn’t simply arrogance; it was theatre. Performance. A ritual, almost.

Duval slammed his hand on the table. “Enough! You think you frighten us? You are nothing but a coward. A parasite.”

For the first time, the smile faltered. Moreau’s eyes flashed with something darker, a depth that seemed to stretch far beyond the man himself. His voice dropped, a growl beneath the silk. “Careful, Inspector. You stand in waters deeper than you imagine. And some things… some things bite back.”

The room fell silent. Even Rousseau shifted uneasily, his bravado muted.

Then, just as quickly, Moreau leaned back, the smile returning as though it had never left. “Am I free to go?” he asked lightly. “Or shall we continue this delightful waste of time?”

Duval stared at him, fists clenched. Then, with visible effort, he gathered the papers before him. “For now. But do not mistake our silence for defeat, Monsieur Moreau. We will find proof.”

Moreau rose smoothly, adjusting his cuffs. “Proof. Yes. You cling to it as children cling to fairy tales. But do hurry. Time, after all, is running out.”

As the guards led him from the room, he gave one last look through the glass. Straight at Hill. Straight at Sommers. And he winked.

⸻

Back in the observation room, Sommers swore again, shaking her head. “How the hell did he know us?”

Hill didn’t answer immediately. His jaw was set, his eyes still fixed on the empty chair Moreau had left behind. Finally, he spoke. “Because it wasn’t him who knew us.”

Claire shivered. “The entity.”

Hill nodded. “Whatever was in Cutter… it’s in him now. And it knows exactly who we are.”

Chapter Twelve

Luc Moreau stepped out of the Prefecture with the same easy smile he had worn inside. To any passer-by, he was simply a well-dressed man leaving a brief appointment, perhaps a businessman delayed by official paperwork. Only the sharpness in his eyes betrayed anything else—a glint of triumph, of certainty, as though he had passed an examination no one else could understand.

Across the street, a tram rattled past. He waited for it to clear before strolling towards the Vieux-Port, his hands in his coat pockets, his gait unhurried. But inside, the entity that rode him whispered with hungry amusement. The encounter had confirmed what he already knew: they had followed him here. The English detectives. The same pair who had robbed him of Cutter.

And yet—here they were again. Watching. Helpless.

He paused at a café terrace, nodding politely to the maître d’, who ushered him to a corner table. He ordered a glass of red wine and sat, tapping a finger idly against the stem. His reflection in the café window shimmered for a heartbeat, the face twisting—not his own, but something older, crueler, vast. Then it was gone, leaving only Luc Moreau once again.

“You did well,” the voice coiled inside him, cold and intimate. “You unsettled them. You reminded them of what they cannot touch.”

Moreau allowed himself a small nod, as though agreeing with some private thought. “Hill and Sommers,” he murmured, in flawless English. “They still play at hunters.”

The voice laughed softly, a sound like dry leaves stirred by a bitter wind. “Hunters without teeth. They stopped Cutter’s body, not me. You are proof enough of that. Soon, another will fall. Let them run to Marseille, to Paris, to London—it matters not. My work continues.”

Moreau sipped his wine, his eyes drifting across the square where tourists wandered obliviously. He thought of the girl Harper, her bright chatter, her delighted admiration of his accent. Her fear at the last moment. The memory brought no flicker of conscience. Only satisfaction.

⸻

Back at the Prefecture, Duval closed the blinds of his office and set the file heavily on his desk. Hill and Sommers sat across from him; Claire lingered near the door, arms folded tightly. Rousseau leaned against the wall, scowling.

Duval rubbed his temples. “You saw what I saw. He mocked us. He knew there was nothing we could hold him on.”

Rousseau shook his head. “He’s playing a game. But I don’t like it. He looked straight at that mirror, Inspector. As if he knew who was there.”

Hill spoke then, his tone controlled but edged. “He did know. That wasn’t theatre.”

Duval frowned. “How could he know you? You’ve never crossed paths.”

“Not with him,” Sommers said, leaning forward. “But with the thing inside him. Bundy in America, Cutter in London, now Moreau here—it’s the same pattern. The same signature. And it knows us.”

Claire cleared her throat, her voice low but steady. “I’ve listened to killers for years, Inspector. I know bravado when I hear it. But this—this was not bravado. It was recognition. And if you press him again without evidence, he will sue, exactly as he promised.”

Hill met her gaze evenly. “No. We stay close. We watch. And when he slips, we’ll be there.”

A silence settled over the room, heavy with unspoken doubts. They all knew how thin that promise was.

Claire finally spoke again, softer. “Inspector, I think he enjoys the attention. He’ll keep taunting you. But what he said—‘you have no idea what you are dealing with’—he meant it. He wanted you to feel small. Powerless.”

Duval looked from her to Hill and Sommers, then to Rousseau. “Then we don’t give him what he wants. We hold the line. Quietly. Until we have enough to close the trap.”

Hill didn’t reply. He simply stared at the closed blinds, picturing Moreau’s mocking salute, the same smug arrogance Cutter had worn before Sommers’ bullet.

Only this time, he thought grimly, it wouldn’t be so easy.

Chapter Thirteen

The streets of Marseille glittered in the lamplight, the air thick with the mingled scents of sea-salt and frying oil. Luc Moreau walked among it all as though he owned the night. His coat was buttoned neatly, his stride calm, but every so often his head turned slightly, as if following an unseen thread.

The entity whispered within him, sharper now, urging.

Eleven hearts silenced. And yet the hunger grows.

Moreau’s lips twitched. His eyes scanned the boulevard until they settled on a girl in a pale green dress, standing alone at a bus stop. She was young, perhaps no more than twenty, clutching a book to her chest, her gaze restless at the darkened street beyond.

He slowed, adjusting his cuff. His smile formed, warm and reassuring, the mask that had already lured so many.

⸻

At the Prefecture, Hill leaned forward over the spread of photographs—grainy shots of alleyways, forensic stills of butchered flesh. He traced one image with a finger.

“All in different arrondissements,” he muttered. “No pattern of place. But the method—always precise, always hidden. Until the body turns up.”

Sommers grunted. “And always him in the background somewhere. Witnesses, waiters, hotel staff. They all remember the polite monsieur.”

Duval shifted in his chair, weary but stubborn. “You have no proof. Only conjecture. Surveillance is all we can authorise.”

“Then surveillance it is,” Hill said flatly.

Claire, arms wrapped around herself, spoke quietly from the corner. “You won’t stop him with surveillance.”

The silence that followed made the blinds seem to hum.

⸻

Moreau lit a cigarette, its glow catching the edge of his smile as he approached the girl.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said smoothly. “The buses here run late. May I walk you a little? It is not safe.”

Her hesitation was brief. The book in her arms shifted as she nodded, half-grateful, half-anxious. They fell into step together, his tone gentle, his stride protective.

Inside, the entity pulsed with anticipation. Yes… walk with her. A quiet street. A closed door. The twelfth.

⸻

In an unmarked car, Rousseau sat with binoculars pressed to his face, jaw set.

“Target moving,” he reported into the radio. “Rue du Refuge. He’s picked up a girl.”

Hill’s voice crackled back. “Stay on them. Don’t engage. We’re two minutes out.”

Rousseau swore under his breath. “Two minutes too long.”

Through the glass, he saw Moreau lean closer to the girl, speaking softly, charmingly, his hand brushing just close enough to make her laugh nervously. Rousseau’s gut twisted.

Moreau paused outside a shuttered shopfront, gesturing as though remarking on the architecture. The girl glanced up, distracted for a moment.

In that heartbeat, his eyes changed—shadows lengthening in their depths, the smile widening just past human.

But then—it was as if he sensed the presence of Rousseau,   turning, he looked directly at him and smiled.

Moreau straightened, polite mask restored. He offered the girl a bow, murmured something about the lateness of the hour, and left her under the flickering lamplight.

He vanished into a side street before Rousseau could reach him.

⸻

Back in the car, Rousseau’s hands shook. “He knew, he knew I was there.”

Hill and Sommers exchanged a grim glance.

“Then the game’s changed,” Hill said, voice low. “He’s not hunting alone anymore. He’s hunting us, too.”

Chapter Fourteen

Marseille slept uneasily that night.

The trams had ceased, the port lay hushed beneath the low clouds, and the narrow streets curled inward on themselves, holding secrets close. In one such street, behind shuttered windows and a locked iron gate, Luc Moreau moved with quiet precision.

A lantern burned on the table before him. Its flame bent oddly, as though disturbed by a draught, though no window was open. Laid neatly beside it were twelve objects: a button torn from a coat, a lock of blonde hair bound in ribbon, a pearl earring still dark with dried blood, and a folded cinema ticket. Tokens, each carried from the dead.

Moreau touched them one by one, and as his hand passed over them, the whisper rose in his ears, low and familiar, the voice that had been with him since Cutter’s fall.

The circle nears completion. The path opens. Call him.

Moreau inhaled. The air was heavy with copper, with rot, though the room was spotless. He closed his eyes, allowing the voice to guide his tongue. Words formed, syllables older than France, older than Latin, rasping as if dragged from stone.

The flame bent lower, then shot high. On the wall opposite him, a shadow spread, taller than any man, horned and twisting, its mouth opening in a grin that was not his own.

Soon, the voice crooned. The Master comes.

⸻

At the Prefecture, Duval poured himself coffee strong enough to strip paint and stared at the file spread open on his desk. The clock read past midnight, but none of them had gone home.

Hill sat opposite him, jacket off, sleeves rolled, his lean face drawn with fatigue. Sommers stood by the window, smoking despite the no-smoking sign, her shoulders tense as a dockworker’s. Claire had taken over a side desk, her pen scratching furiously, noting every word, every inference. Rousseau, slouched in a chair, rubbed at his eyes but kept listening.

It was Claire who spoke first. “He didn’t kill her.”

The others looked up.

“The girl at the bus stop,” she continued. “He walked away. That isn’t in his nature. Eleven victims and suddenly restraint? No. He knew Rousseau was there. He’s not only killing, he’s—”

“Performing,” Hill finished grimly.

Sommers flicked ash into the wastebin. “Taunting us. Making a theatre of it.”

Duval tapped the desk with a blunt finger. “And why? What does he gain by letting us live inside his play?”

Hill leaned forward. “Because it isn’t just him. There’s someone else—behind him. We’ve seen this before. The killings aren’t random. They’re steps.”

Claire looked up sharply. “Steps toward what?”

Hill’s eyes were hard, shadowed by memory. “Toward someone he calls ‘the Master.’”

The word hung there, stark, unwelcome. Duval frowned, but Rousseau shifted uneasily, remembering the strange look Moreau had given the one-way mirror.

“You sound as though you believe this,” Duval said slowly.

Hill met his gaze without blinking. “I don’t believe. I know.”

⸻

Meanwhile, Moreau’s ritual deepened.

He laid the tokens in a circle. His lips moved ceaselessly now, voice guttural, eyes rolled back so only the whites showed. From the lantern’s flame rose shapes—shifting, momentary, half-glimpsed faces of those already gone. They screamed soundlessly, mouths wide, eyes stretched in terror.

Moreau’s own voice dropped, became layered, as though another spoke through him. “Eleven marks… eleven offerings… one more to go, the twelfth shall open the way.”

He pressed his palm to the table, and when he raised it again, the wood smoked with a charred symbol, burnt there without fire: a circle with three intersecting lines.

He whispered reverently. “The Master is near.”

⸻

Rousseau slammed the car door hard enough to rattle its hinges. “We can’t just sit here, watching him! He’s playing with us like cats. And all we do is make notes?”

Hill walked steadily beside him, calmer but equally grim. “We move too soon, we lose him. He wants us angry. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

Sommers muttered, “Bloody satisfaction’s all he has.”

Inside the Prefecture, Claire had been sifting through records long after the others had left for surveillance. Now she lifted her head, a strange look on her face.

“Inspector,” she called softly.

Duval came over. “What is it?”

She turned the page so he could see. It was a parish registry, brittle and yellowed. Names written in fading ink.

“Look. Eleven deaths in the last year. Moreau’s trail. But here—” She tapped the line. “Each date corresponds to a saint’s feast day. Each victim died on a night connected to martyrdom.”

Duval stared. “Coincidence.”

But she shook her head. “Not coincidence. Pattern. And in three nights’ time, it is Saint Cyriacus. The patron of exorcists.”

Duval felt his stomach sink.

⸻

In the shuttered house, Moreau whispered that same name.

“Cyriacus. A mockery. Your feast shall be blood. The twelfth shall fall beneath my hands, and then the Master walks.”

The shadows writhed higher, the circle burned brighter, until the lantern guttered and died.

When the light failed, something vast lingered in the dark. Not inside him, but outside, pressing close, as though the walls could not keep it out.

Moreau’s breath quickened. For the first time, he felt not master but servant.

And he smiled, teeth gleaming in the dark.

By dawn, the team was haggard. Hill and Sommers returned from the long watch empty-handed. Moreau had disappeared into the city and never re-emerged.

Claire stood by the evidence board, the pattern of dates and symbols now pinned there for all to see. “It’s not about opportunity. It’s about ritual. The victims, the timing—it’s a liturgy in blood.”

Duval poured another cup of bitter coffee. “And the next step?”

Claire’s eyes flicked to Hill. She didn’t want to be the one to say it.

Hill’s voice was steady. “The next step is to reach the twelfth. That’s the endgame. And when it happens, the one he serves—whatever or whoever he is—will be revealed.”

Sommers folded her arms. “So we stop him before twelve.”

Hill looked down at the photographs, the files, the endless notes. He thought of Cutter, of the thing’s mocking laughter as blood soaked the London floor. He thought of Moreau, walking free in the Marseille night.

Finally, he said, “We stop him, or we all see the Master face to face.”

⸻

And somewhere in Marseille, as the city stirred awake, Luc Moreau walked among the crowds again. Handsome, polite, unhurried. But in his pocket, he carried a folded piece of paper, marked with a circle and three lines.

On it was a single name. His next victim.

Chapter Fifteen

The night had settled over Marseille like a low-hanging fog, the sort that seemed to press against the skin and silence the mind. Streetlamps cast pale circles on cobblestones, flickering as if uncertain of their own light. Somewhere, a ship horn bellowed across the port.

Luc Moreau walked calmly along the quay, hands in his coat pockets, the hooded lantern from the previous night gone. Tonight he carried something else: a folded piece of paper, inked with the familiar circle and intersecting lines. He touched it reverently. Inside, the entity stirred like a caged serpent.

Tonight… it hissed. Tonight, we complete the ritual.

Moreau’s lips curved. The twelfth. The culmination. The Master awaits.

He paused outside a small apartment, door ajar as if inviting him in. Inside, a young man hunched over a stack of books and papers. He looked up at the sound of the footsteps, smiled politely at Moreau, and froze.

⸻

At the Prefecture, the team was tense beyond measure. Hill had stationed Rousseau and Sommers in two separate cars flanking the block. Claire monitored a laptop, tracking Moreau’s movements via street cameras and local police reports. Duval paced the office floor, coffee growing cold in his hand.

“Any sign of him yet?” Duval asked.

“Every movement he’s made tonight,” Claire replied, voice tight. “It all leads here. He’s hunting. And this is it… the twelfth.”

Hill’s jaw was set. “Prepare yourselves. When we move in, we stay coordinated. No mistakes. He’s not just a killer tonight; he’s a conduit. That entity… it will fight.”

Sommers exhaled. “I’ve followed monsters before. Never like this.”

Hill’s gaze hardened. “Then consider this your lesson. Stay sharp, or we die with him.”

⸻

Moreau stepped inside the apartment. The girl at the desk looked up, fear creeping into her features as the room seemed to shift around them. Shadows stretched unnaturally, the corners of the room elongating as though leaning in to watch.

“Good evening,” Moreau said softly. “I’m here to complete what has already begun.”

The girl tried to rise, but the air around her thickened. A chill pressed down on her shoulders, whispering in tongues older than the city itself. Moreau’s eyes flickered, white at the edges, and the entity laughed in his voice.

“You… you are the twelfth,” it rasped. “The penultimate piece. The offering that calls him forth.”

The girls' scream echoed briefly, then stuttered as Moreau advanced. She reached out, but the lights in the apartment flickered violently. Shadows leapt from the walls. The smell of burning wax and iron filled the room.

⸻

Outside, Hill and Sommers crept up the stairwell of the adjacent building. Claire’s voice crackled over their earpieces.

“Visual on him. Apartment third floor. Move carefully—do not alert him.”

They paused at the landing, Hill signaling with a sharp nod. Rousseau’s car horn sounded low in the street below, a warning.

Inside, Moreau raised the folded paper. The circle and lines shimmered, twisting as though alive. A voice—not entirely his own—spoke:

The Master is watching. The culmination approaches. Bring the final piece.

The air pulsed. The walls groaned. Even the apartment door seemed to shiver on its hinges. Moreau’s control faltered for a heartbeat.

⸻

Hill kicked the door. “Police! Step away!”

Moreau turned, smiling. But the smile was jagged now, torn at the edges. The entity inside him hissed in fury.

Interference… they dare…

Sommers followed, gun raised. Hill’s eyes caught the symbols on the floor; the ritual circle glowed faintly. The young man cowered, trembling, trapped at the epicenter of Moreau’s dark will.

“Step aside,” Hill ordered. “You’re done.”

Moreau’s laughter fractured, uneven. “You… you think you can stop it?” he spat. “I am… nothing without him. And he…”

The circle pulsed. Shadows reached upward, writhing. For a moment, the room felt impossibly vast, as if the walls had dissolved, revealing the abyss beyond.

A figure appeared, only for an instant. Tall, faceless, robed in darkness, the Master’s presence pressed into the room. Its power was immediate, undeniable, and horrifying. Even Hill and Sommers, separated by walls and distance, felt a cold wash run down their spines.

Then it vanished.

Moreau staggered back, eyes wide. “No! He… he will—”

Sommers lunged, tackling Moreau to the ground. The entity shrieked inside him, a chorus of fury and despair. Hill kicked the circle, scattering the tokens, the folded paper catching flame from the lantern.

The young man bolted from the apartment, gasping, free.

⸻

Outside, the team converged. Hill and Sommers dragged Moreau into the stairwell. He thrashed, screaming in a voice that was half-human, half something else.

“You cannot contain me! He will rise! He—”

A final shriek echoed, then Moreau collapsed, lifeless, his eyes wide and blank. The entity was gone. Whatever had possessed him, whatever had driven him to eleven murders and one attempted twelfth, had vanished.

Hill pressed a hand to his forehead, exhaling slowly. “It’s over… for him.”

But Claire’s eyes lingered on the street outside, where the shadows seemed darker than they should have been. “Not over,” she whispered. “Not by a long shot.”

Rousseau and Duval arrived, catching their breath. “What did you see?” Duval asked.

Hill shook his head. “A glimpse. Something behind him… something bigger. That’s what Moreau served. That’s the Master.”

Sommers looked grim. “So we’ve stopped the pawn, but the king… he’s still out there.”

Claire nodded. “And he’s watching. Always watching. And now he knows we know he exists.”

Hill studied Moreau’s corpse, then the burned remains of the ritual. “Then we prepare. We stay together. We learn. And when he moves, we’re ready.”

Duval rubbed his temples, exhausted but resolute. “We’ve survived tonight. That’s all that matters. For now.”

Hill’s gaze drifted toward the Vieux-Port, where the first pale light of dawn touched the water. Somewhere in Marseille, the Circle waited. Somewhere, the Master observed. And somewhere, the darkness was already planning its next move.

The team looked at each other, silent but united. This was not the end.

It was only the beginning.

Epilogue

The dawn crept slowly over Marseille, painting the port in washed-out gold and silver. The streets were quiet now, save for the occasional gull or the distant clang of a ship’s bell. The city, oblivious, went about its waking hours, unaware of the horror that had prowled its alleys just hours before.

In a small, secure office at the Prefecture, the team gathered around a battered table. Coffee steamed in chipped mugs; files and notes littered the surface.

Hill rubbed at his temples, tired but alert. “We got him. Moreau is finished.”

Sommers leaned back in her chair, eyes never leaving the scattered symbols and photographs. “Finished… but not the end. That thing he served—whatever it is—it’s still out there.”

Claire folded her hands, staring at the floor. “He’s smart. Patient. And he’s watching us now. Whoever, or whatever, the Master is, we’ve made ourselves part of the game.”

Rousseau, silent until now, finally spoke. “We’ve survived tonight, but only by a hair. Next time… we won’t have that luck.”

Duval, pragmatic as ever, set his mug down carefully.

“Then we prepare. We gather intelligence. We train. And we stay united. That’s the only way to survive what’s coming.”

Hill looked around the room, at the faces of those who had walked into darkness and lived. Cutter, Moreau, the ritual, the fleeting shadow of the Master—it was a burden, but also a bond.

“We’ve seen the darkness,” Hill said slowly, voice steady. “And we’ve learned. We won’t let it rise unchecked again. Not if we can stop it.”

Claire glanced at him, a small, grim smile forming. “We’ll need every skill, every ounce of courage. And luck won’t save us next time.”

Sommers leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. “Then we become what the darkness fears. Quiet, vigilant… unrelenting.”

A pause fell over the group. Outside, the city continued to wake. The waves lapped gently against the quay, masking the tension that still lingered in the air.

Hill’s gaze lifted to the window, toward the distant streets where shadows still pooled. “The Circle is out there,” he said softly. “And we now know they exist. But we are ready. Together.”

The team nodded, a silent agreement passing between them. The battle was only beginning, but they were no longer powerless.

Somewhere in the vastness of the city—and perhaps beyond it—the Master watched. The pieces were moving, and the game continued. But for now, the investigators of the Prefecture were the ones holding the board.

And that, for them, for today, was enough.

And somewhere beyond the waking city, a figure cloaked in shadow smiled, knowing the game had only just begun.