We walked in silence, our footsteps echoing against the cold tiles of the corridor like clock ticks before an execution. The light grew brighter as we approached the heavy metal doors at the end of the passage.
Claremont, impassive, pushed the doors open without slowing down.
And there… the world changed.
I found myself facing an amphitheater of raw power. An immense oval room, drowned in white light that seemed filtered through smoked glass. A modern chandelier resembling a suspended spider loomed above the room, casting angular shadows on the faces.
A large central table shaped like a ring occupied the space. And around it… thrones disguised as conference chairs. At each seat sat a living monster.
The faces of global crime.
To my right, the Yakuza. Three men in identical black suits, their chests probably covered with sacred tattoos. Their faces were scarred, their fingers silently mutilated. At the center of their trio, an old man with shark-like eyes was already staring at me. They embodied brutal and ancient order.
Opposite them, louder, flashier: the representatives of the Mexican cartel. They laughed, already drinking. One of them absentmindedly bit into a cigar, his revolver resting on the table like a cup. Gold chains worth more than an apartment hung around their necks.
To their left, the Eastern mafias. Russian or Balkan, I didn't know. Their faces were closed, stony. They didn't smile. Not even when watching someone die, I would bet. I recognized a badge, that of the Skurovitch family, sadly famous for having beheaded a senator live on social media two years ago.
And then I saw them.
Jeanne, Jonas, Malik, and Torres, standing near Claremont's empty seat. They guarded his place. Like a ritual. Jeanne crossed her arms, looking focused. Jonas swayed slightly on his heels, ready to draw. Malik stood straight as a rifle. Torres, arms crossed, stared at a cartel guy without blinking.
Jeanne glanced at me when I entered. A nod. Not a word.
Claremont stepped forward slowly, without greeting anyone, but everyone had seen him. Eyes fixed on him like fangs hesitating to bite.
He pulled out his chair, sat down, and folded his hands in front of him.
— I suppose we can begin.
A suspended silence. Then… the calm, steady sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor behind.
All eyes turned as one. Conversations died. Hands froze.
A man entered.
Slowly. Straight. Without artifice.
Red hair tied back, long and glossy. A perfectly tailored jet-black suit. Dark gloves, a discreet but deep tattoo curling from his collar, wrapping around his throat like a curse.
It was him.
Ilya Roskarov.
The silent king. The wolf at the heart of the circle.
And to his right… a girl.
She wore a long emerald green coat that rippled behind her like a trail of poison. Her soot-black hair slid over her shoulders, but it was her eyes that froze me.
Red.
Like two bloody moons.
She said nothing. Looked at no one. But her aura distorted the air around her.
They walked together, silent, not even imposing their presence. And yet… everyone stepped aside as if death itself had just brushed the room.
Ilya greeted no one. He simply placed his too-human, too-humane eyes on the room… then sat down without a word.
And the girl remained standing. Silent. Keeper of a secret.
I stared at her. Again.
My breath stuck in my throat.
I know her. I know it. But from where? And why this shiver down my spine?
The door closed behind them.
The meeting was finally about to begin.
The entire room had fallen silent when Roskarov took his seat.
Not a breath. Not a rustle of jacket. Even the worst killers of the Mexican cartel or the elder statesmen of the Kōryūkai seemed to have turned back into statues, just for the time the king without a crown deigned to sit.
Beside him, the girl with red eyes remained standing. She looked at no one. She observed. Calmly. And yet, in her eyes… something pricked my memory.
But the silence was broken.
— So that's it? asked a hoarse voice. Claremont walks in with his little suit, sits across from Ilya Roskarov… and thinks we've forgotten the humiliation?
The man spoke with the slowness of someone who knows no one will dare interrupt him. A Bulgarian mafia bigwig, if I recognized his tattoos well. He leaned over the table, fingers interlaced.
— You don't remember, Claremont?
They were Roskarov nephews. They came to Veltrazia to deal with you.
And your… watchdog, that masked mercenary, made them crawl in front of everyone.
In front of the cameras.
In front of the press.
In front of your own.
A cold murmur ran through the room.
I felt Jeanne slowly shift her eyes toward Claremont, as if to see if he had an out.
To be honest, it looked like they had exaggerated things; we hadn't done all that. But whatever, let's see Claremont's reaction.
But Claremont was not nervous. Not a drop of sweat, not a twitch. He folded his fingers in front of him. And, as if telling a childhood anecdote:
— Yes… that's true.
He looked up at Ilya. Then at the room.
— That man, that guard, crossed the line. I do not condone what he did. And I acknowledge that it was experienced as a humiliation for the Roskarov family.
He breathed softly. He played his role perfectly. The clear-headed man. Honest. Almost fragile.
— I am here to apologize. Not out of cowardice, but because I want to make amends. And propose something more… ambitious.
He bowed slightly, but without stooping.
— Ilya. Roskarov family. Gentlemen representatives…
— I extend my hand. Because I believe there is another path than that of blood.
A silence. He let the tension rise just enough.
— I no longer seek domination. I seek stability. Shared control. I believe we can unite our interests… to make this world a chessboard we control together.
He looked at Ilya, his eyes shining with a gleam that only I—who knew—could read differently.
— I have a dream. A great alliance.
Veltrazia, the political arm.
Roskarov, the invisible arm.
And together… an unprecedented underground empire.
He placed his hands flat on the table.
— But for that, I need your forgiveness. And your trust.
The silence returned. Total. Visceral.
All eyes turned to Ilya Roskarov, and it was as if the entire room held its breath, suspended on the closed eyelids of a man who did not even deign to see us.
He had not moved. He had not answered Claremont.
He was thinking.
And in that waiting, it was not Claremont who was the center of the world.
It was him.
Ilya.
Then, slowly, so slowly, his red eyes opened.
— I accept your apology, Claremont, he said in a calm, measured voice like a blade sheathed.
But for your proposal… I would like to discuss it one-on-one. I accept it partially. But talking face-to-face will allow me to see the core. And… your true intentions.
An underground murmur ran through the assembly. The wave of an almost forced respect.
This calm..., I thought.
This guy has an authority of another kind. It almost seems he's not from the Roskarov. Too composed. Too… clear-sighted.
But that marble mask suits him. He commands more than their usual sneers.
And of course, some idiot had to open his mouth.
— Hey! shouted a cartel member, a scarred man full of coke and confidence.
We want to know what you're going to talk about, Claremont and you! That's the point of this meeting, right?
A murmur of nods followed. Others seemed to agree.
But Ilya didn't even need to raise his voice.
Just to answer.
— The purpose of this meeting is to calm tensions.
Not to reveal our business.
Then he added, with cutting calm:
— However, if everyone here wants to do business… then why not.
His gaze slowly landed on the cartel guy. Red. Cold. Smooth.
— But only…
I'm afraid some here are too greedy.
The man jumped up, veins in his neck ready to explode:
— Who do you think you are?! You dare speak to me like that? Do you know who I am?
He pulled a rifle from under the table —
— BOOM.
The body collapsed. The top of his skull had burst like a ripe grenade.
The silence that followed was no longer political. It was the silence of death.
Even I hadn't caught everything.
I rewound the scene mentally. A blur, a shadow.
Then I understood. Her.
I turned my head toward the girl with red eyes standing beside Ilya.
She hadn't moved.
She breathed softly.
But her foot was still slightly raised… a trace of blood on the heel.
That girl…
She was not human.
Or rather… if she was, it was according to principles no one here understood.
Even Claremont, sitting so close to her, had paled.
And I felt that awkwardness in the air, like a magnetic tension.
I let my thoughts dive into her. My mask filtered emotions, but my mind closed on a name. A single word that, once uttered, silences even monsters.
Mi-Ghumi.
My gaze tightened behind my mask.
Mi-Ghumi...
When I knew her, she was barely five years old.
Her family… massacred.
Her childhood… swallowed.
Taken in by Krehaan, within the NSDR.
She never grew up like a human.
She grew up like a weapon.
Blood.
Screams.
Nights full of ashes.
She had been sent to kill me, once.
She had failed. Not out of weakness.
But because I am the devil himself.
And yet... she is here.
Two years have passed. She must be twenty years old today.
Taller. More stable. More dangerous.
And that demon I grafted onto her, the one I inscribed in her being to make her a living bomb…
I feel it. It has evolved. Exploited. Mastered.
With Asmodeus as a shadow companion, she has surely transcended her limits.
And even if she doesn't recognize me, even if I am just a mask to her today…
I know.
I know that if anyone here could kill Claremont despite my presence, it is her.
And to watch her, no words or gestures will suffice.
Only a fragment of vigilance.
Exactly as she did with that corpse still bleeding on the floor.