The rain hadn't stopped for two days.
It ran down the windows of the pub in endless streaks, blurring the neon lights outside into soft shapes that bled into one another—red, green, pale blue. Inside, the world was quieter. A low hum of voices, the clinking of glasses, and the gentle rumble of music that wasn't loud enough to follow, but just enough to feel.
Marcus sat alone at the far end of the bar, hunched over a half-empty glass of whisky. His laptop bag rested at his feet, but for once, the screen wasn't open. His phone was dark. The news reports, the court hearings, the betrayals—it was all too loud lately. He needed silence. And maybe, just for one night, the illusion of control.
Cedric was gone.
Locked away in a cell for crimes he hadn't committed, staring at walls that couldn't talk back. Marcus had watched it happen—helpless, a silent witness to the unraveling of everything they'd worked for. And now, it was on him.
The realization had landed heavy on his shoulders the night before. He had replayed every choice, every moment, over and over in his head until the only thing left was a single, stubborn conclusion:
He had to take over. Not for glory. Not for Cedric. But because no one else could.
He finished his drink, signaled for another, and leaned back on the stool. His reflection in the mirrored back wall looked older, sharper, worn down by weeks of tension and guilt. But beneath it, a glint of something new—resolve. The kind Cedric always carried. The kind Marcus had always tried to avoid.
"You look like someone who just lost a war," a voice slurred beside him.
Marcus blinked. A man had taken the stool to his right, barely steady. Tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed like someone who hadn't cared about their appearance in days. His hair was tousled, a few strands falling over his tired eyes. The stubble on his jaw was more of a statement than an accident.
Marcus gave a tired chuckle. "Maybe I did."
The stranger didn't laugh. He signaled for a drink of his own—something amber, something that hit hard—and downed half of it before even setting it on the counter.
"London's full of wars," the man muttered. "Just depends which one you're fighting."
Marcus turned toward him slightly, curious despite himself. "And which one are you fighting?"
The man didn't answer right away. He stared into his glass as if the answer might rise from the bottom. Then, finally, he looked at Marcus and shrugged.
"The kind that doesn't end, even when you win."
Marcus nodded slowly. "That's the worst kind."
A pause. The bar's soft music continued in the background, muffled voices in the haze of alcohol and silence.
"I'm Marcus," he offered.
The man looked at him again, and this time, his expression shifted. Less guarded. More human. "Arno," he replied. "Arno Wolf."
They shook hands—two strangers, brought together by rain, by failure, by ghosts they hadn't named yet.
For a few minutes, they talked like normal people. Weather, politics, how the beer in this place was too warm and the chairs too hard. Marcus didn't mention the Puppeteer. Arno didn't mention the Monarchs. It was almost peaceful.
Almost.
Because in the corner of both their minds, a storm was waiting. And it was getting closer.
Marcus sipped his drink, eyes drifting to the condensation forming on the side of his glass. The silence between him and Arno had stretched just long enough to become comfortable. But there was still something about Arno's presence—something rigid under the slouch and slurred words. A tension that didn't belong to a man simply drinking away a bad day.
"So," Arno finally said, voice quieter now, "you said you're… what? A tech guy?"
"Hacker," Marcus replied, almost offhand. "But not the kind that steals credit cards or crashes stock markets. More the… uncover-deep-conspiracies-and-unravel-shadowy-criminal-networks kind."
Arno raised an eyebrow, setting down his empty glass. "You say that like it's casual."
Marcus gave him a sideways glance. "It's been a casual week."
That made Arno chuckle, though the sound was dry. "You ever hear of a group called the Monarchs?"
The name hit Marcus like a knife to the ribs. He stiffened—just enough for Arno to notice.
"I'll take that as a yes," Arno said, leaning forward now, just a little more sober. "I've been tracking them for years. Not officially, not with any kind of support. But I've seen what they do. What they cover up. What they fund."
Marcus didn't answer at first. Instead, he looked Arno directly in the eyes. "They're not working alone."
Arno blinked. "Go on."
"You ever hear of the Puppeteer?"
Now it was Arno's turn to go quiet. He exhaled through his nose, jaw tensing.
"I have," he said eventually. "Never seen him, never talked to him. But his name's come up. In files. In conversations that were never meant to be recorded. The Monarchs revere him—like he's some prophet of chaos."
Marcus nodded slowly. "He's more than that. He's… brilliant. Cruel. Every move he makes is calculated, symbolic. He's been tearing London apart from the inside, and now he's doing it with the Monarchs at his back."
"So you've met him?" Arno asked.
"No," Marcus replied. "But someone I know has. Cedric Ashwell. He's been chasing the Puppeteer for years. It destroyed his life. And now… he's in prison. Wrongfully. Because the Puppeteer set him up."
Arno rubbed a hand over his face, as if trying to sober up by force. "That's how deep this goes."
"Deeper," Marcus said. "There's no backup. No safehouses. No cavalry coming. It's just people like you and me. And maybe that's why we'll win."
Arno was silent for a long time, looking down into the remnants of his drink. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out a worn leather notebook, sliding it across the bar.
Inside were hand-drawn maps. Names. Schedules. Photographs taken from a distance. Strings of addresses and surveillance notes. Every page filled with obsession.
"I've been working alone for years," he said. "No team. No leads. Only hate."
Marcus looked through the notebook, nodding slowly. "Then maybe it's time you stopped working alone."
Arno looked at him. "You offering a partnership?"
Marcus smirked faintly. "I'm offering an alliance. You want to take down the Monarchs. I want to take down the Puppeteer. Turns out, those things are the same now."
Arno raised his glass, then realized it was empty. "We'll need more than whisky."
"We'll need everything we've got," Marcus said. "Starting tonight."
They didn't smile. Didn't shake on it. Just sat there in the dim barlight, two men with different demons and the same enemy.
The next day started early and blurry. Marcus hadn't slept. Arno… claimed he had, but he still wore the same jacket from the night before and kept yawning every seven minutes.
They were crouched in front of a dusty corkboard wall in Cedric's cluttered old hideout — now Marcus' temporary HQ. Strings, pins, scattered photos. One half of the room looked like the lair of a genius. The other half looked like the aftermath of a very caffeinated tornado.
"So what are we looking for again?" Arno asked, eyes squinted. "A secret button? Hidden compartment? A passageway behind this extremely suspicious coat rack?"
Marcus sighed. "We're looking for anything the Puppeteer missed."
"Bold of you to assume he missed anything."
"Fair," Marcus muttered, rubbing his temples.
They had spent the last few hours combing through old data, rechecking evidence Cedric had pinned to the wall, and retracing maps of recent activity tied to the Monarchs and the Puppeteer. Arno cracked jokes, kept the energy high, and somehow managed to stay dead serious at the same time. He was surprisingly upbeat for someone obsessed with dismantling an underground death cult.
Marcus had to admit — it helped. Just a bit.
But eventually, the clues stopped coming. They ended up standing in front of a solid concrete wall in Cedric's cellar. No doors. No markings. No map.
"Okay," Arno said, tapping the wall like he was knocking on a watermelon. "I know this is dumb, but you ever see those movies where people say some Latin word and the wall opens up?"
"This isn't Hogwarts."
"I'm just saying, maybe we're not thinking dramatically enough."
Marcus didn't answer right away. He stared at the wall, eyes narrowing. Something about this moment — the frustration, the dead end, the silence — felt familiar. Like one of Cedric's puzzles. Or maybe... a moment before a realization.
They weren't missing a clue. They were missing someone.
"Eliza," Marcus whispered.
Arno tilted his head. "Who?"
"Eliza Cole. She was Cedric's partner. And mine, kind of. She knows the Puppeteer like no one else does. If anyone can see what we're missing, it's her."
"And... she's gonna answer your call just like that?"
"Let's find out."
Marcus pulled out his phone, scrolled to a number he hadn't touched in weeks, and hit the call button.
It rang. Once. Twice.
Then: "Marcus?"
Her voice was sharp. Alert.
"I need your help," Marcus said. "Cedric's gone. I'm alone. But I think I found something. Something big."
A pause. He could almost hear her heartbeat through the phone.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Cedric's place."
"I'm on my way."
She hung up.
Arno raised an eyebrow. "Well that was fast."
Marcus turned toward the desk, already pulling out notes to review. "We've got maybe twenty minutes. Try not to knock over anything important."
"No promises," Arno said cheerfully. "But hey — glad to see you've got friends in high places."
Later that evening, Eliza pushed open the door to Cedric's home. She stepped into the room with her usual calm stride, but her eyes betrayed something else: tension, urgency, grief.
She looked around. The same clutter. The same smell of old paper and sleepless nights. Only this time, no Cedric.
Marcus stood. Arno gave her a polite nod and an awkward wave.
"Eliza," Marcus said quietly.
She looked at him — not coldly, but not warmly either.
"You brought backup," she noted, glancing toward Arno.
"He's good," Marcus replied.
"Hope so." She set her bag down and walked straight to the wall. "Alright. Let's see what Cedric wanted us to find."
For the first time in days, Marcus felt it again — not just the chase, but the partnership.
Unchained was back. And this time, the game had only just begun.
The hours passed slowly, filled with rustling papers, half-finished coffee cups, and the glow of monitors illuminating tired eyes.
Eliza sat hunched over a thick file, its corners dog-eared and fraying. She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper — brittle, yellowed, and lined with symbols and mirrored letters. "This," she said, placing it on the desk, "is a message the police have been trying to crack for days. It was found carved into a marionette's back, left in the middle of Trafalgar Square. We thought it was a taunt."
Marcus leaned in, his expression sharpening. "Looks like a palindromic sequence."
"We thought so too," Eliza admitted, "but we couldn't break it."
"I can try," Marcus said.
And then he did. For hours.
The room faded into silence, broken only by the gentle tapping of his fingers and the occasional groan of Arno as he failed to nap comfortably in a wooden chair.
It took three hours.
Three hours, and then Marcus leaned back, blinking at the monitor. "I got it."
Eliza looked up, startled. "What?"
"It's a double palindrome," Marcus explained. "One half forms coordinates to an old bridge. Southwark Bridge. The other half forms a reference — not just text, but an anagram that spells out La Belle Nuit. The theater."
Eliza stared at the message, then at Marcus. Slowly, her expression changed — from tension to something almost like awe. "Marcus… do you realize what you just did?"
"I solved a riddle," he said, though his tone betrayed more weight than pride.
"No," she replied softly. "You did in hours what an entire division couldn't do in days."
There was a long pause between them. Then Eliza exhaled and looked away. "I misjudged you," she said. "You and Cedric. I spent too long seeing you both as reckless... emotional. But you're not. You're brilliant. And you've been right more times than I care to admit."
Marcus blinked. He didn't know what to say.
Eliza continued. "This isn't just a clue. This is deliberate. He wants us to find these things. The Puppeteer could disappear, vanish completely, if he wanted to. But he doesn't. Every message, every trace, every marionette—it's all intentional. He's staging this. For us. For everyone."
Marcus finally spoke. "He needs an audience."
"Exactly," she murmured.
They stood there for a moment, the weight of the realization hanging heavy.
Then Eliza took a step back and looked at the message again. "We need to move. Two places. Two paths."
Marcus nodded. "I'll take the bridge. Could be surveillance, another lead... maybe a trap."
"And the theater," Eliza said, eyes narrowing. "La Belle Nuit is where everything began. If the Puppeteer is planning anything major, it'll be there."
Arno perked up. "Guess I'm going with you?"
She gave him a brief glance. "Try not to slow me down."
He grinned. "No promises."
Marcus grabbed his coat and laptop, already heading for the door. "You two be careful."
"You too," Eliza said. "We'll meet back here after. No matter what we find."
They nodded to each other, and then the team that wasn't supposed to be a team anymore split once again.
One to the bridge.
Two to the theater.
Unchained — scattered but never broken. And just like the Puppeteer wanted: the stage was set.
Eliza was walking with purpose — straight spine, long strides, eyes scanning the streets like every shadow might hold a knife.
Arno, on the other hand, was stopping every five seconds.
"Wait, wait, hold on," he said, his face lit up as he pressed against the window of a tiny bakery. "Is that… is that real custard pie? You people just have that lying around here?!"
"We're on a mission," Eliza muttered, grabbing his arm and pulling him along.
"But it's got powdered sugar on top! That's like... crime-dessert elegance."
"Move, Arno."
They made it half a block.
"Wait—wait—this corner shop has like, fifteen different flavors of gum! And what's a 'Marmite'? Is that illegal or just morally questionable?"
Eliza sighed. "Do you want the fast version or the emotionally scarring one?"
He squinted. "...Both."
She ignored him.
Another ten seconds. Arno skidded to a halt again in front of a souvenir stand. "Bro, look at this tiny red phone booth magnet! This is a cultural treasure."
"Arno," she said through gritted teeth, "I will leave you in the middle of Soho."
He held up the magnet. "But he's got a hat."
"No."
Still, he kept walking, now with a ridiculous little Union Jack mug clutched in one hand like a prize. After a few moments of semi-silence, he glanced sideways at her.
"So… are you single?"
Eliza nearly tripped over her own foot.
"What?"
"I mean, just asking. Not in a creepy way. Like—statistically. For tactical morale-building. Standard military protocol."
Eliza didn't answer. Her face, however, turned a very distinct shade of red.
"I will shoot you," she muttered.
"Oooh. Feisty."
"I mean it."
They reached the theater just in time to stop Arno from commenting further.
La Belle Nuit stood before them, abandoned and weathered, its façade cracked like the mask of a forgotten performer. Faded posters still clung to the outside walls, worn by rain and time.
Eliza stepped up to the doors. "This is it."
Arno looked up at the old building. He tried to read the sign… unsuccessfully: "Uhh... Ladle Nut? … Lobble Newt? … Label Night? … whatever, spooky French place."
Inside, the air was musty and still. They made their way slowly down the central aisle of the main hall, their footsteps echoing off the velvet-draped walls.
Then Eliza spotted it — right at the center of the stage.
A cassette.
A small, black cassette tape, neatly placed atop a dusty cassette recorder.
Eliza walked up, crouched, and picked it up.
There were no words on it — just a small red dot drawn in the center.
Arno squinted. "Okay, that's either a mixtape... or a death threat. Or a mixtape with a death threat. Whatever, let's just hear what he has to say and then leave that Labernudel place!"
Eliza pressed her lips into a thin line. "Only one way to find out."
The old cassette clicked into place, and with a soft whir, the tape began to play. A second of static. Then—
Cedric's voice.
At least… it sounded like him.
"Eliza, if you're hearing this… it's already too late. You never listened. You never trusted me. But it's okay. I've been working with him the whole time. With the Puppeteer."
Eliza froze. Her face drained of color.
"You always thought you were so clever. But in the end, you were just another audience member in my little show."
Arno blinked, confused. "Wait, what—?"
"I gave you clues. I gave you everything. But you still didn't see it. Because I never wanted you to."
A long pause.
"Don't worry. Marcus will be joining me soon. He's already on his way."
Eliza immediately stopped the tape. Her hands trembled slightly.
"He manipulated it," she whispered. "That's not Cedric. That's his voice, but—he's stitched it together. He's showing us what he could do. He could ruin Cedric. He could ruin us."
Before she could say more, Arno's fist slammed into the wall beside the doorframe.
"Marcus?! You're telling me the dude just got grabbed while we were listening to this?!"
Eliza nodded grimly. "That's what he wants us to believe. But if there's even a chance it's true—"
Arno was already moving toward the door. "Scheiße! No. No way. I'm not letting some freak-puppeteer-horror-goblin take my new partner. I just got a cool sidekick. I knew it… Entering this Lachs Beule place WAS a mistake!"
"Eliza," he turned to her, eyes flaring with intensity, "you get your boss. Call every damn unit you've got. Burn every resource. Pull satellites out of the sky if you have to. I'll do what I do best—hunt. I'll find out where they're hiding and how many of them are left."
Eliza nodded, already pulling out her phone. "Go. Be careful."
They split at the mouth of the alley, her silhouette fading behind flickering lamplight, while Arno disappeared into the maze of London's underworld, rage and worry burning in his chest.
Sir Jonathan Harrington sat alone in his office, the only light coming from the soft blue glow of his monitor. The rain outside tapped steadily against the window, as if echoing the quiet storm behind his eyes. His left arm, still healing from the betrayal weeks ago, throbbed with every movement—but that pain was nothing compared to the weight pressing on his conscience.
Another message had arrived.
It was the third this week. Anonymous. Encrypted. Buried deep beneath firewalls even his best analysts couldn't crack. But Jonathan didn't need confirmation anymore. He had begun to trust the source—not because he believed it, but because he wanted to.
The screen lit up with a new line of text:
"You're running out of time. They're already inside. You know who they are."
He clenched his jaw, fingers trembling above the keyboard.
"The system is compromised. The only way to win is to burn it down first."
His eyes moved to the bottom of the message. A name—coded, disguised—but always there.
Insider: Operative Theta
This so-called Insider claimed to be a high-ranking officer still embedded within the Fanatics. They had fed him partial lists of members, whispers of locations, even warnings before attacks. Enough to be credible. Enough to make Jonathan wonder:
Was this really the enemy?
Or… was it the only person telling the truth?
The next message sealed it:
"You tried trust. You tried law. Where did it get you? Your men died. Your legacy crumbled. Cedric is gone. Eliza is blind. It's time to act."
Jonathan closed the laptop slowly.
He stared at his reflection in the window. He barely recognized the man looking back.
"Radical measures," he muttered. "If that's what it takes…"
He stood, slipping the phone into his pocket. His eyes were cold now—measured. The guilt was still there, buried deep—but above it sat something else:
Resolve.
Twisted. Dangerous. Absolute.
The rain had stopped, but the air still carried its weight — heavy, damp, expectant.
Sir Jonathan Harrington stood in the center of what was supposed to be a hidden den of the Fanatics. The warehouse was cold, lifeless. His team fanned out around him, tactical gear creaking, weapons raised, eyes scanning.
He had followed the trail.
He had acted.
They had stormed the place at dawn. No warning. No negotiation. The source had been clear — this was the nest. This was where the rot began.
But all they found were civilians.
Terrified, screaming civilians.
Mothers. Shopkeepers. A child who couldn't stop crying.
The supposed "evidence" of radical propaganda turned out to be forged — posters with mismatched fonts, documents printed on the wrong kind of paper. Photos staged. So clumsy it had to be intentional.
Jonathan stared at the scene, breath shallow, heart hammering.
"This... this can't be," he muttered, taking a shaky step back as his officers lowered their weapons, exchanging confused, horrified looks. One of them picked up a fake manifesto and handed it to him.
On the back, written in blood-red ink, was a single phrase:
"The curtain falls when the audience starts to scream."
The Puppeteer.
It had never been a real lead.
He had been played.
Jonathan's knees buckled, and he sank against a stack of empty crates. Outside, the crowd was already gathering — journalists, onlookers, protestors. Word was spreading fast.
Another botched raid.
Another stain on the badge.
And this time, they couldn't hide it.
He heard the voices already, echoing in his mind:
"They're killing innocents."
"The police have become the villains."
"Who's really pulling the strings?"
The public opinion shattered — no more trust, no more second chances. The force was fractured, bleeding from within. The Puppeteer had done it. With just a few whispers and planted clues, he had turned the law into a weapon against itself.
And Jonathan — proud, unyielding Jonathan — had held the blade.
He slammed his fist against the wall, breath ragged. The warehouse spun. His voice cracked.
"No, no, no—this wasn't supposed to—this wasn't—" he gasped, then let out a roar that echoed through the hollow space.
He grabbed the manifestos, the papers, tore them apart, scattering the ashes of his mistake around him.
"THERE'S NOTHING LEFT!" he screamed into the void. "HE USED ME!"
His men stood frozen. No one knew what to say. No one knew who to trust anymore.
Jonathan stared at the fragments in his hand, and for the first time, he realized the truth he had fought so long to deny:
The Puppeteer hadn't just targeted individuals. He had orchestrated the slow, elegant collapse of an entire institution. And now — now, London stood on the edge of civil war.
Sir Jonathan Harrington, the unshakable pillar of order, wept in silence.
The hall outside Harrington's office was unnervingly quiet — like the calm before a storm that had already started to burn everything to the ground.
Eliza stood at the threshold, her knuckles tight against the polished wood of the open door. Inside, Harrington paced like a caged animal, mumbling to himself in fragmented bursts, his face pale, his hair disheveled, a far cry from the man she once respected.
"Jonathan," she said carefully, stepping inside. "We need to talk."
He didn't look at her. "No. We don't."
"You're spiraling," she said bluntly. "The raid was a disaster. You almost executed civilians, and we both know who planted that trail."
"Do we, Eliza?" His head jerked in her direction, eyes bloodshot and wild. "Do we know anything anymore? Or are you just another voice feeding me lies?"
She flinched. "You're paranoid."
He stepped closer. Too close. "You think I'm paranoid because I won't listen to you? Because I've stopped letting your little moral compass dictate how I wage this war?"
"Because you've lost control!" she snapped, louder than intended. "You're letting the Puppeteer win, Jonathan. He wants you isolated. He wants you to turn on the people who care."
And then… he slapped her.
"I don't need anyone who cares," Harrington growled. "I need soldiers. Killers. People with resolve. Not little girls playing detective."
She opened her mouth, but he cut her off with a furious motion of his hand.
"You're weak, Eliza. Always were. You never understood what it takes to stop a monster. You think this is about evidence and ethics?" His voice cracked, sliding into something manic. "This is theater. This is war. And I won't have cowards backstage when the curtain rises."
There was a beat of silence. His next words fell like a hammer.
"You're fired."
Eliza blinked. "What?"
"Gone. Out. Finished." His tone was suddenly mocking, sing-song. "I don't trust you. You've been compromised. Too close to him. To them. Get out."
His expression twisted, half sneer, half broken grin. "You know what happens to the weak in this story, Eliza? They get written out."
She stood frozen. Not out of fear, but grief. Grief for the man in front of her, who had once stood for everything she believed in.
"I'm not the one who's lost," she whispered. "You are."
He laughed — a fractured, ugly sound. "You'll see. When it all burns down, you'll beg to come back. But the story doesn't need you anymore."
Without another word, she turned and left, the door slamming shut behind her.
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
Because as she walked out into the cold, chaotic night, Eliza Cole knew exactly where she belonged — with Cedric and Marcus.
That… was still home.
While all that happened, Cedric sat alone on the edge of his bed, staring at nothing in particular, when the memory returned — uninvited, unmerciful.
The hallways of the psychiatric clinic had always felt too white. Too sterile. It smelled like bleach and something deeper, something sad. Cedric, fresh out of university, walked with a clipboard tucked under his arm, rehearsing the patient's name over and over in his head.
"Elias Ward."
Room 32B.
He was just sixteen. Small, thin. Big eyes that never blinked when they should've. Hair like raven feathers. And hands that constantly moved — miming threads in the air that no one else could see.
When Cedric first walked in, Elias was crouched in the corner, whispering something to a sock puppet he'd made from a hospital sock and bits of yarn.
Cedric forced a smile. "Hey there, Elias. I'm Cedric. I'll be—"
"You're late," Elias said flatly, not looking at him. "She already told me."
"…She?"
"My puppet." He finally looked up. "She hears things."
It unnerved Cedric, but he kept his voice steady. "You made that yourself?"
Elias nodded. "I used to make real ones. Better ones. My hands aren't the same anymore."
Cedric didn't know what to say, so he didn't. He sat in the chair beside him and began jotting notes.
Later, in the staff room, Cedric heard whispers. Staff members jokingly called Elias "the Spider." Said he never slept. Said he watched.
But Cedric never laughed.
He noticed the bruises Elias didn't talk about. The way one doctor, Dr. Cole, always took him into his office for "special evaluations."
And Cedric had seen the look in Elias' eyes when he came back from those sessions. Like something inside him was being erased, bit by bit.
But Cedric said nothing.
He told himself he was just an intern. That he couldn't do anything. That it wasn't his place.
A memory bled into the next.
The night Cedric had found Elias crying in the recreation room, alone, with his puppet torn in half.
"Did someone hurt you?" Cedric had asked, crouching beside him.
But Elias only whispered, "I'm going to make one out of him next time."
Cedric didn't sleep that night.
And then came the funeral. Cold, quiet. No visitors except Cedric.
Elias had hung himself with puppet strings. The autopsy said "suicide." Cedric had stood there as they lowered the coffin, clutching a folded piece of paper he never showed anyone. Just two words, scribbled in frantic handwriting.
"He watched."
Cedric never forgave himself.
Because he knew.
He knew.
Back in the present, Cedric blinked and looked down at his trembling hands.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice breaking. "I should've done something. I should've done something."
Outside, the rain fell harder — not like a reminder.
But like judgment.
The hum of fluorescent lights above was a constant reminder of time not passing.
Cedric sat alone on the small bench inside the cell, his posture slouched, eyes fixed on the floor as though it had answers he couldn't find. The grey of the walls matched the heaviness in his chest. Everything felt slower here. Colder.
Until the lock clicked.
He didn't look up right away — not until he heard boots. Familiar, determined steps. Then a quiet voice:
"Cedric."
His head snapped up.
Eliza stood there.
The light above her flickered slightly, casting her in a strange halo. Her expression was unreadable at first — torn between guilt and resolve. But her eyes... they were soft. Softer than he remembered.
He stood slowly. "You came back."
"I should've done it sooner," she said, stepping closer to the bars. Her fingers gripped the cold metal. "You were right. About everything."
He scoffed bitterly. "That's new."
"I know I didn't believe you," she continued. "And I let... I let everything get between us. Harrington. The case. My pride."
Cedric stared at her. "You fired me from my own mission. Then watched me get arrested. It's a hell of a gap to bridge."
Eliza swallowed hard. "I'm not here to make excuses."
There was silence. Then Cedric exhaled slowly.
"…Why are you here?"
She hesitated. Then finally: "To say I'm sorry. And to tell you I'm not done fighting — not for this city, and not for you."
Cedric stepped closer to the bars, their faces now only inches apart.
"I missed you, Eliza." His voice cracked slightly. "Even when I hated you. I missed you."
She closed her eyes, trying to blink the burn away. "I missed you too."
A long pause.
"Jonathan's losing it," she whispered. "Worse than we thought. He's convinced he can still fix this on his own. He doesn't see how far gone he is."
"I warned you," Cedric muttered. "You didn't listen."
"I'm listening now."
She reached through the bars, her fingers brushing against his. He didn't pull away.
"I'll get you out," she said. "I just need to stabilize the situation first. If I move too soon, I'll lose access. Lose the badge. Lose everything."
Cedric nodded. "Just don't die before you do."
She gave a weak smile. "Deal."
They stood like that for a moment — two battle-worn soldiers on opposite sides of steel.
Then Eliza stepped back.
"I promise you, Cedric," she said, voice firmer now. "This time, we're finishing it together."
He watched her turn and walk down the hall, her silhouette slowly swallowed by shadows. But for the first time in what felt like forever, there was warmth in his chest.
She was back.
And this time — she wasn't letting go.