Part 1
[Wake up, mister Saviour. The underworld eagerly awaits your miracles.]
4th June, 2030.
I stirred in my string-tied hammock bed, swaying gently like a condemned man before the gallows. It was hanging from the ceiling — a child's plaything I had found in Austria's largest mall. I paid for it after convincing a stranger to let her child escort me to the cashier. Easier than explaining why a grown man was loitering in the kid's section with a steel gaze and silk wallet.
The stranger hesitated — until I softly mentioned her name, then her deepest secret: pushing someone off a balcony, "as a prank."
Murderers in daylight are no novelty in my profession. They wear habits and crosses too.
"Thank you, miss alarm clock. You're the only one who gets my name right. Well… 'thing', to be exact," I muttered, groaning as I swatted the noisy machine off.
Two cases sat heavy on my desk:
One from the shadows — a Vexley-Ashbourne Syndicate emissary, held in a small Japanese station like a rabid dog in a cage.
The other, much noisier — a teenager named Robert Ross, accused of fleeing a murder scene.
Classy name, isn't it? Robert Ross. Sounds like the heir to some old-money empire. In reality, he's a living contradiction: penniless, drug-sodden, twitching every ten seconds as though someone's rewiring his nerves with jumper cables.
He's currently lounging on my couch, staring around like a tourist in a crime lord's den — probably choosing what item to steal first. I'm flattered. Clearly, my decor is criminal-worthy.
His parents had suggested I visit their home to "talk things over." I declined. Never take a confession where guilt can hide behind family smiles. My office — my turf — breaks that illusion.
"Mr. Xavier, you know I didn't kill anyone! I was framed by a hater!" Ross pleaded, clutching at my wrist like a dying puppy.
"Keep your drug-laced hands off me, Ross," I said coldly. "You expect me to believe baseless claims? You think I walk into courtrooms quoting vibes?"
I dropped his criminal file on the table. The boy winced as I flipped through page after page. A long résumé of petty theft, drug abuse, classroom violence.
Amel entered with her usual grace — tray in hand, cups of green tea perfectly balanced. She served without a word and bowed. I studied her. Polite, poised, perfectly masked. Almost too perfect.
As Ross droned on about his innocence, I read something else in his eyes — deeper, darker. The kind of horror even addicts try to forget.
His secret was simple: he was a serial killer. A seasoned one. Obsessed with thighs. Female, usually. This time the victim was a man.
Had he... switched sides? Or was there another personality altogether?
I cringed, drained my tea, and dismissed him before I vomited truth into his face. If he ends up behind bars, I won't lose sleep.
And then came the letter. The one I had ignored last night.
The president's letter.
The Austrian president's handwriting looked as though it had been etched by a trembling monarch. He confessed to never intending to sign the treaty with Japan or any other nation. He suspected what I already feared — the Vexley-Ashbourne Syndicate had assassinated his predecessor.
Austria's titanium deposits were no secret. But what most didn't know — and what he wrote in ink darker than death — was that the Syndicate had found a way to convert the ore into a liquid inhalant that killed in seconds.
And Austria lacked the tech to mine it.
If he signed the treaty, he'd be selling Austria's soul. That, the Syndicate couldn't allow. So they sent a bullet instead.
He invited me to an exclusive gala next week to "celebrate his rule" — a diplomatic masquerade of champagne and veiled threats. I was to bring the documents we discussed. He didn't trust the internet. He barely trusted paper.
Then came the final paragraph, scrawled like a warning meant for a different reader:
"If Amel shows any sign of contacting her family, or displays dissatisfaction, she must go. Immediately."
I read it aloud, deliberately.
Amel, nearby with a broom in hand, froze. Just for a moment.
Then continued sweeping, twice as fast.
Good. Fear is a leash. And mine was velvet-lined.
The president's demand was selfish, yes. But I'd do the same if I wore his shoes. The only way to lead is with eyes behind your head and a knife in each boot.
But the contents of this letter could start a war.
Amel's curiosity would be fatal.
I locked the study room before heading out.
As I slipped on my coat, Amel escorted me to the door like always—face composed, movements smooth. But the moment I turned my back, I felt it:
Her eyes on the door to the study.
She would try to open it.
Of that, I was certain.
Part 2
Haramihama District – June 5, 2030
The train ride into Haramihama was as cold as the welcome I anticipated.
Fog licked the edges of the platform like a slinking beast, swallowing the neon kanji signs in a slow fade. A bullet-train departure behind me roared like an omen. I stepped onto the quiet streets with a trench coat, sunglasses, and the kind of suitcase that screams lawyer and liability insurance.
The Syndicate's emissary was supposed to be here. That was the deal. The Haramihama District Police Station—small, fortified, and infamous for its zero-leak policy. Getting information out of them was like trying to squeeze water from frozen titanium.
The receptionist looked up with bleary, suspicious eyes as I flashed my ID.
"Saviour Gramwell, international legal counsel. I'm here for a client you're holding in custody. Foreign national."
She blinked. "Name?"
"Alias was Hiroto Shinomiya. Real name: Lynox Faraday. British national."
She clicked through a database slowly. Her brows creased, then lifted.
"He's been transferred."
My blood cooled. "Where?"
"Location sealed. Internal security reasons. That's all I can disclose."
Something was wrong. The Syndicate never let their operatives move without notice. I glanced behind me toward the frosted glass entrance.
Someone had followed me here.
They were good. Careful not to be obvious.
But the same trench coat had appeared in three reflections: the bookstore window, the train mirror, and now behind a parked sedan across the street.
I pressed my palm against the counter and leaned forward.
"Who approved the transfer?"
The receptionist stiffened. Before she could answer, a door slammed open behind her. The sound of crisp heels filled the silence.
Aurelia.
Of course it was her.
Clad in a new uniform—navy with silver badges that gleamed like daggers—she stepped into view with that same trademark scowl.
"Gramwell," she said flatly. "Why am I not surprised?"
"Well, Aurelia," I smiled with mock warmth. "I thought you only stalked me during night patrols. Should I file for a restraining order or just be flattered?"
"I'm leading the investigation. This is my district now."
Of course it was.
She took a file from the receptionist and flicked through it with a surgeon's precision. "You've been asking questions about a foreign agent in custody. That man is no longer our concern. He was declared a diplomatic liability and handed over to private security detail."
My eyes narrowed. "Private? You mean Syndicate-recruited mercs?"
Her expression didn't budge, but her silence was confirmation enough.
I turned to leave—but paused. A thick weight pressed into my mind like a foghorn underwater.
It had come without warning—
The Gift.
Usually, it works cleanly. Real name. One dark secret. Instant download.
But now… now there were too many people in the room. The front desk, the hallway, three detectives sipping coffee, a janitor pushing his cart. Each with their own name, their own secret. And for some reason—
They all came at once.
Akira Yamoto – Beat his wife until she miscarried.
Misaki Watanabe – Set her last precinct on fire.
Takashi – Real name: "Takashi"… and also "Yakov Morozov"? Two real names?
Aurelia Kaede – Wants to burn something precious to me.
I staggered back slightly. Sweat ran down my spine. My pupils shrank.
The janitor paused his cart, looked at me strangely. My fingers curled around the edge of the reception desk.
Something was wrong.
I could usually filter it—one name, one crime. But this... this was a stampede. And buried beneath it, something darker buzzed like a rot in the code.
One name surfaced last.
Me.
Saviour Gramwell – Will betray a friend. Soon.
I dropped the pen in my pocket.
No one noticed. Or pretended not to.
"Is this how you operate now, Xavier?" Aurelia's voice was distant, blurred. "You show up to interfere with a criminal case in a country not your own and expect access just because your ego gets off on it?"
I didn't respond. My mind was still echoing with the vision of Takashi/Yakov, and the fact that someone in this room—maybe more than one—wasn't who they claimed to be.
I had to leave.
But before I turned, I said softly, "Let me guess. You don't believe in the Syndicate, do you?"
Aurelia's lip twitched. "They're a myth. A ghost story for rich cowards who can't sleep at night."
I chuckled. "Ghost stories don't send embossed black cards."
As I walked out of Haramihama Station, I already knew two things:
1. The Syndicate emissary was moved, but not far. They'd keep him close until trial—or until someone silenced him.
2. I was not the only hunter in Haramihama. Someone was playing their own game—possibly against me.
Outside, the man tailing me crossed the street slowly. Too slow. I turned into an alley without breaking pace and waited just beyond the dumpster.
He followed.
Mistake.
When his shoulder crossed the corner, I grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.
"Real name," I whispered. "Say it. Now."
His eyes went wide. Too wide.
"…Robert. Robert Ross."
My blood froze.
"Impossible. You're—"
"Not the one at your apartment," he grinned. "You've met the twin."