The desert wind howled like a dying beast across the training grounds of Blackstone Military Facility, far from London and even farther from mercy. The sun beat down mercilessly on the rows of soldiers performing synchronized drills, but Arno Wolf barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere — where it always was.
In the shadows.
On the Monarchs.
They weren't just a gang to him. They were a virus, spreading rot through cities and systems, infecting people like a whisper in the dark. And he would tear them out, root by root. That was his vow.
Arno's uniform clung to his skin, the sand sticking to his boots like blood that wouldn't wash off. He stared at the board in his barrack — maps, names, timelines, patterns. Dozens of red strings connected them all. And at the center, circled in black ink, was one word:
MONARCHS.
He didn't hear the footsteps behind him. Didn't react when the door creaked. Only when a sharp voice pierced the silence did he flinch slightly.
"Lieutenant Wolf. The Commander wants to see you. Now."
Arno turned. His gray eyes were wild with focus. "Did he say why?"
The messenger just stared at him. "He never does."
Arno ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair and gave one final look at the board. Then he grabbed his jacket and followed the soldier out.
The Commander's quarters were a world away from the dust and metal of the outside — sterile, cold, and far too clean. The man behind the desk was not someone who made requests. He made demands. His eyes were hard, his hands steepled.
"Lieutenant Wolf," the Commander said without looking up. "I hear you've been hunting ghosts again."
Arno stood straight. "They're not ghosts, sir. They're real. And they're still moving pieces."
The Commander raised an eyebrow. "The Monarchs. Always the Monarchs."
A beat of silence. Then:
"Good. Because we have a lead."
Arno blinked, something electric igniting behind his eyes. "Where?"
The Commander handed him a sealed folder. "London. Underground. Word is, they're regrouping. And this time, they're not hiding."
Arno opened the folder. A photo fell out.
A man in a black coat. Face blurred. But the mask — gold, cracked down the side like a crooked smile — said enough.
"You'll leave tonight," the Commander said, voice low. "But be warned, Wolf. You're not the only one hunting monsters in that city."
Arno's fingers gripped the folder tighter.
"Then I'll be the one to cage them first."
The car rolled quietly through the narrow, rain-slicked streets of East London. Buildings loomed like broken teeth against the night sky, their windows dark and lifeless. Cedric kept one hand tightly on the steering wheel, the other resting on the gear shift as the windshield wipers kept rhythm with his thoughts.
Beside him, Marcus worked silently on his laptop, fingers tapping away with practiced precision. The screen's glow illuminated his focused expression, sharp and calculating.
"We're close," Marcus muttered without looking up. "Half a mile."
Cedric nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. "This better not be another one of his dead ends."
"It's not," Marcus said firmly. "He wanted you to find this place."
Cedric didn't answer. His jaw clenched. There was always a pattern, always a string. And lately, those strings were tightening around his throat.
After a few more moments of silence, Marcus closed the laptop and sat back. "There's something you should know."
Cedric glanced at him. "That sounds like bad news."
Marcus hesitated, then said it. "The Monarchs are working with him."
Cedric braked slightly, his foot twitching. "What?"
"I found links. Encrypted files, location tags, transaction shadows. It's not just a theory anymore. The Puppeteer and the Monarchs… they've joined forces."
Cedric exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing as he turned down a back alley. "Explain."
"The Monarchs aren't just some criminal ring. They're a network. Ex-military, political donors, corrupted intellectuals—everyone who wants the old world to burn so a new one can be built from the ashes. And the Puppeteer? He's their artist. Their spectacle."
Cedric gave a humorless chuckle. "Of course they'd love him. Nothing says rebirth like blood on velvet curtains."
They pulled up outside a collapsed warehouse tucked between two forgotten buildings. The structure looked like it was breathing its last breath—rusted beams, collapsed roof sections, moss creeping up the concrete.
"This is it," Marcus said quietly.
Inside, the air was stale, heavy with dust and the faint smell of varnish and rot. The floor creaked under their steps as they moved toward the center of the room, where a long table stood, covered in marionettes.
Cedric paused, eyes scanning the figures. Each puppet was hand-carved, disturbingly lifelike, with painted eyes and crooked smiles. Some had masks. Others had none at all. But all of them had small slips of paper tied to their strings.
Marcus picked one up, frowning. "Looks like nonsense."
Cedric took another and studied it. At first glance, it was just numbers—seemingly random. But something about the sequence tugged at his memory. A familiar format. A code he'd seen before.
"They're not nonsense," he said slowly. "They're coordinates."
Marcus blinked. "Seriously?"
Cedric grabbed more notes, spreading them across the table. His eyes moved fast, connecting dots, rearranging the slips until the larger picture formed. A trail. A map.
"It's a route," he muttered. "He wants us to follow it."
Marcus looked over his shoulder, voice low. "And what's at the end?"
Cedric's jaw tensed. He pocketed the notes and turned back toward the door.
"Let's find out."
The room was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the overhead monitor. Maps flickered on-screen—schematics of old buildings, abandoned rail yards, disused theaters. Jonathan Harrington stood at the center, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed. Behind him, a dozen trusted officers listened, each bearing the same exhausted determination.
"He'll come," Harrington said, voice low but firm. "If we take the bait far enough, make it tempting enough… he'll show his hand."
The plan was simple in theory, impossible in execution: fabricate a clandestine gathering of surviving Fanatics—members of the Puppeteer's cult—spread whispers through intercepted channels, fake the right names, mimic their cryptic codes. The goal: draw the Puppeteer out. Or at least get close enough to snip the strings.
The team nodded, moving into action. Eliza lingered.
"You sure about this?" she asked quietly.
Harrington didn't look at her. "No. But I'm not waiting for another curtain call."
The warehouse on the city's edge was their stage. It looked perfect: secluded, derelict, riddled with shadows. As night fell, shapes emerged from the dark—figures cloaked in coats and masks, their eyes sharp, their movements wary.
The sting operation worked. One by one, the Fanatics were surrounded, outnumbered, and taken down silently by Harrington's team. No gunfire. No alarms. Just clean, surgical precision.
But one slipped through.
A masked man darted into the rafters as the others fell. Harrington pursued without backup, adrenaline pulsing through him. The chase led him into the bowels of the building—narrow corridors, dripping pipes, and the echo of footsteps.
He cornered the figure at last, weapon raised.
"End of the line," Harrington growled.
The figure turned slowly, pulled off the mask.
And Harrington's breath caught.
"…Dominic?"
The man smirked. "Still good with names, Jon."
He didn't even have time to react before Dominic lunged. They struggled—fists, elbows, knees. Harrington, older and heavier, was outmatched. A blow to his left arm sent searing pain up his shoulder. Something cracked.
He dropped to one knee.
Dominic stood over him, breathing heavily. "You really think you're the hero here?"
"Go to hell," Harrington spat.
A shot cracked through the air. Dominic froze—then dropped, a clean hole in his forehead.
Behind him, Eliza lowered her gun.
Harrington leaned back against the wall, clutching his injured arm. His breathing was shallow, broken.
Eliza crouched beside him, checking the wound. "You're lucky it's just the arm."
Harrington didn't answer right away. His eyes were glassy, distant.
"I trusted him," he whispered. "We built this department together. We shared drinks, stories, funerals."
Eliza looked away.
"I've got no one left," he said. "No one I can trust."
"That's not true," she said softly.
He turned to her then, his voice low, intense. "We end this. No more waiting. No more responding. We pull him to us."
She frowned. "How?"
"I know a place. Isolated. Symbolic. He won't resist the invitation."
She nodded slowly, watching him closely. "You okay to lead this?"
He stood, wincing, but steadied himself.
"No," Harrington said. "But I'll do it anyway."
As she left the room to brief the others, Harrington remained behind, standing in the cold quiet. His injured arm hung limp at his side.
A grin spread across his face—not joyful. Almost manic.
"I'll be faster than you," he murmured, voice barely audible.
"To hell with your strings."
The coordinates led them to the edge of the city, where mist clung to the earth like cobwebs, and even the air felt orchestrated. Cedric stared out the passenger window of the van as Marcus parked beneath a line of overgrown trees.
"This is it," Marcus said, checking the drone feed on his tablet. "You sure you wanna go in alone?"
Cedric gave a curt nod, pulling his coat tighter. "Keep the drone in the air. If something goes wrong, you're my eyes."
Marcus hesitated. "Be careful, alright? This feels... off."
Cedric offered a grim smile. "When does it not?"
He stepped out into the cold air, boots crunching on broken gravel, and approached the crumbling structure. It looked abandoned—concrete walls wrapped in ivy and fog—but every step closer felt choreographed.
As he reached the main doors, the silence fractured.
Floodlights erupted.
The entire perimeter exploded in white, blinding light. Cedric threw his arm up instinctively. Behind the glare, he heard the shouts. Armed officers. Dozens. Guns raised. Barked orders.
And two silhouettes at the center of it all: Eliza Cole and Jonathan Harrington.
Eliza's eyes widened in disbelief.
Harrington's narrowed like daggers.
"Hands in the air!" barked a voice over a megaphone.
Cedric stood frozen for a second. Then it hit him—the coordinates. They weren't a clue. They weren't meant for him.
They were the trap.
The same coordinates Eliza and Harrington had spread across encrypted channels as bait for the Puppeteer. Coordinates Cedric had followed unknowingly, guided by the Puppeteer himself.
He cursed under his breath. "He played us all."
From above, Marcus watched the whole scene unfold on the drone feed. "No, no, no," he muttered, switching camera angles in a panic. "This wasn't supposed to happen..."
Marcus reached for his radio, desperate. "Cedric! It's a setup! Get out!"
But it was too late.
Cedric didn't run. He knew how that would look. The officers rushed in, tackled him to the ground. His cheek pressed against the cold cement. Someone screamed orders. Metal cuffs locked around his wrists.
Eliza ran toward them. "Wait! Stop! He's not—"
But Harrington cut her off, voice like iron. "He came to the scene we staged. Alone. Without backup. And look—he didn't even flinch. He knew."
"He didn't know anything," Eliza insisted. "Jonathan, this doesn't make sense!"
"It makes perfect sense," Harrington snapped. "We've been chasing shadows. He's been there every time. Maybe it wasn't manipulation. Maybe it was control."
"He's not the Puppeteer," she hissed. "You know him."
"No," Harrington growled. "I thought I did. And now? He's getting life. No parole."
Cedric, on his knees, turned his head slowly toward Eliza. Their eyes met. Hurt. Disbelief. Silence.
Then they dragged him away.
Alone in the van, Marcus stared blankly at the now-empty drone feed. His hands shook slightly.
"They took him."
He looked around the tablet, the files, the leads—the walls were closing in. For the first time, he realized...
He was on his own.