Location: A Black Site (off grid) [Co-ordinates provided by Rake]
The door creaked as Six pushed it open. Room 9B wasn't listed on any blueprint. Not on the wall map. Not in the system. Hidden behind a wall of collapsed concrete and rusted piping.
The stench of mold and machine oil lingered. A single file sat untouched at the center of a rusted table beneath a hanging lightbulb that flickered weakly — powered by a backup generator humming from somewhere deep below.
No dust. No decay. The folder was old — but not forgotten.
Stamped in bold:
"PROJECT: MIRRORFALL"CLEARANCE: EYES ONLY – LEVEL NULLDATE: 16.02.20XX
Six opened it slowly. The paper was yellowed, the ink slightly smudged. The tone of the file was clinical — almost surgical in its lack of emotion. He read:
PHASE DESIGNATION: VEIL PROTOCOLOBJECTIVE: Preventative Destabilization of Supra-Diplomatic Alliances
"In the event of recurring transnational convergence under the guise of 'peacekeeping' summits, Protocol VEIL is to be activated. The epicenter must represent a false symbol of neutrality. Precision over scale. Symbol over blood."
"Key prerequisites:
Global media saturation (achieved via prior phase leaks)
Presence of four or more non-aligned intelligence blocs
Host city must be perceived as incorruptible"
Beneath that, coordinates. Subtly scratched over, but readable when Six tilted the paper into the light.
46.2044° N, 6.1432° E
He didn't need a map.That was Geneva.
Another page was titled:
PREDICTED CASCADE OUTCOMES:
Collapse of diplomatic credibility
Activation of dormant global response cells
Justification for retaliatory surveillance reforms
"Stage clean-up" under Operation HORIZON
And finally, at the bottom:
"Let the world believe its heart stopped beating on its own."
Six's hands tightened on the edges of the folder.
No names. No orders. No signatures.
Just a ghost plan, written by someone who believed peace was the greatest illusion of all.
And Geneva… was the stage.
Six placed the Mirrorfall file aside, heart still pounding. But just as he turned to leave, something on the bottom shelf of the table caught his eye — a thin compartment, barely visible. He ran his gloved fingers under the edge and felt a click.
A false bottom.
Inside: two black binders. No markings. No dust. Clean — too clean.
He pulled them out.
One was titled:
"C.A.N.D.L.E. - STRUCTURE REPORT, CLASSIFIED SYSTEMS DIVISION"
The second:
"DEEP AGENT POSITIONING - ACTIVE CELLS (CYCLE: YEAR 07-17)"
He opened the first.
CONFIDENTIAL – INTERNAL USE ONLY
Compiled: Year 07, Quarter 2
"Phase CANDLE (Control And Neutralization through Data-Led Engineering) has continued unhindered since Inception Year 00. Agent assimilation into foreign intelligence bodies has reached optimal ratios. Psychological conditioning methods have been improved by 43%."
"As of report date: 61 operatives embedded in 14 national agencies. Key sectors include: Central Command (US), Defense Logistics, Surveillance Integration, and Media Psy-Ops Units."
"Host nations remain unaware of asset placements."
He flipped to the back. A page titled:
NOTES ON FEDERAL MANIPULATION — CONTINENTAL STRATEGY (US)
"Departmental hires aligned with echo conditioning protocols."
"Key voting bills influenced via direct insertion (see: MARBLE-FIST)."
"Redacted files planted in oversight channels to ensure 'shadow compliance.'"
"Government not owned. It is... worn."
And finally, the chilling line written by hand on a sticky note, barely hanging on the edge:
"They never needed to take the White House. They built the doors to it."
Six's jaw clenched.
The second binder confirmed it.
Timelines. Maps. Recruitment blueprints. Unnamed case studies of agents who were "moved into optimal positions."
One of them had a picture clipped to the back.
A blurred surveillance image from eight years ago.A man shaking hands in a smoky briefing room. The photo was unlabelled, but Six recognized the room. He'd been there once.
And the handshake…
His eyes widened.
They'd been planning this longer than anyone realized.
A decade of pieces moving. A silent takeover. And now, Geneva — the final curtain.
Six brushed off another layer of broken concrete from a rusted file cabinet pushed to the side of the room.
Behind it, something odd caught his eye—A steel hatch was carved into the wall. Locked. Coded. Forgotten.
No labels. Just a faded symbol etched on the corner.
A stylized E.
Six narrowed his eyes.Echelon.
He didn't hesitate.
He knelt, took a knife from his boot, jammed it into the old pad, and shorted the lock's power grid with exposed wiring from the panel beside.
Click.
It swung open.Inside were three black folders — leather-bound, sealed in vacuum casing.
One word on the cover of each:
SHADOWSEXCALIBUR SHELLSPROJECT REMORA
Six opened SHADOWS first.
His eyes darted across the pages. His fingers trembled.
[CLASSIFIED DOSSIER – SHADOWS]Year Initiated: 2012Oversight Terminated: [REDACTED]Objective:
Creation of untraceable offshore accounts through shell conglomerates.
Diversion of black funds from global defense and aid organizations.
Funding of unsanctioned operations globally.
Known Financial Nodes:
Geneva (Primary Node – Vault 7)
Cayman Islands – Shadow Bank Consortium
Dubai – Golden Bridge Trade Corporation
Cyprus – Red Veil Imports (Now Liquidated)
Ukraine – Cinder Transfer Base
Six flipped a few pages.
Names. Transaction IDs. Hundreds of millions siphoned through art auctions, fake charities, and mineral trades.
Then—
Operative Name: C.M.Codename: The VultureAlias: Cyrus Marlowe
"The handler of the Shadows sequence. Operates with impunity. Has access to all black accounts created since the inception of OPERATION ASHFRAME."
"Reports suggest he answers only to the Executive Chain — unidentified board referenced in earlier Echelon memos as 'The Room'."
"Final stage funds rerouted to Vault 7. Estimated: $970 million."
Purpose: Unknown.
Another number was written below that:
B-TR 9485
Six clenched his jaw. He opened the second file — EXCALIBUR SHELLS.
[PROJECT EXCALIBUR SHELLS – TOP SECRET]Description:Weapon-grade missiles distributed through 'lost' NATO shipments in Northern Europe.Laundered via decommissioned armories. Destination: [REDACTED].
But then…A note at the bottom.
"Target Zone Priority: Geneva. Vault must be cleared before 15th."
"Strike authorized via ghost authorization passed from an internal source at NID. Operation to be burned post-strike."
"E-confirmation received from: E. Syndicate Cell 3."
Six whispered under his breath.
"They're going to hit Geneva to erase the vaults…"
The funding, the missiles, the strike — all connected.All hiding under a single name buried in the paperwork…
The Echelon Syndicate.
He opened the final file — PROJECT G-STRIKE.
It wasn't about money.It was about people.
Remora – the placement of deep cover agents inside U.S. government offices, international courts, and economic boards.
Each agent recruited, placed, and controlled over the past 10 years.
Most were unaware they even worked for Echelon.Some were just pawns.Others… monsters.
At the bottom was a quote typed on an old page:
"Every empire must be built in shadows.
We do not control governments.
We build them.
And when needed—
We erase them."
Six closed the files slowly.
Everything was here.
The truth. The dirt. The rot under every system.
And a clock ticking toward Geneva.
He kept all the files in his backup.
The war had begun.And Six had just pulled the pin.
The room was dead silent.
Six flipped another page from the old file. The paper felt damp, brittle from time. Then his phone vibrated violently.
[INCOMING THREAT DETECTED] Missile Impact: 00:43Location: BLACK SITE S13 — ROOM 9B
His pulse froze. Then—
Sirens — sharp and sudden. Lights above flickered.
Then silence again.
Six's head snapped to the door.
He could hear it. A soft humming in the distance. Something mechanical. Getting closer.
"Shit," he muttered, already stuffing the classified files into his pack.
Then—BOOM.A thunderclap in the distance. The earth trembled.It was coming.
T – 00:29
He dashed to the wall — checking corners — no vents. The place was a sealed tomb.
Then—
"He's here!"
"Cyrus wants the room flattened—NOW."
"Wait for the hit. No survivors."
Voices outside. Fast. Trained.
He grabbed a broken filing cabinet and slid it in front of the door. Not much. But better than nothing.
T – 00:18
From his belt, he pulled a grenade.
No time to fight. Just survive.
He turned to the corner wall — cracked from age.
He pulled the pin, shoved the grenade deep in the crack—
BOOM. The wall caved in.
Behind it — a rusted, dust-choked utility shaft.
Six climbed in and slid downward, scraping metal and concrete as he fell.
T – 00:05
His phone screamed. [IMPACT INCOMING – BRACE]
Then came the light. And fire.
T – 00:00
BOOOOM.
The missile ripped the site open. Flames swallowed the upper floors. Smoke rushed into the shaft. The ground above collapsed inward.
Silence.
Then—
The sound of boots. Heavy ones.
Scene: 4 Minutes After Impact
A black VTOL touched down near the crater. Dust billowed in every direction.
From it stepped four men in full tactical gear. No markings. No names.
One of them wore a headset.
"No body recovered yet."
"Then he's alive."
"Sweep the tunnels. Kill anything breathing."
They descended, their boots cracking glass and steel.
Inside the ruined site, Six was buried under ash and concrete dust. He had a deep cut along his ribs, and blood stained his collar. But he was breathing.
Barely.
The metal shaft he'd fallen into was twisted, half-collapsed.
He heard them before he saw them. Coughing. Talking.
"Room 9B's a crater."
"No sign of the target."
"Cyrus said: confirm with eyes. Burn the rest."
One beam of light flashed through the opening above.
Six didn't move. Waited.
As one of them climbed down, Six reached slowly for a shard of rusted rebar. His pistol was gone.
Then—he struck.
The metal shard went straight through the man's throat. No scream. Just gurgling and twitching.
Six rolled, grabbed the fallen man's suppressed SMG.
The second man was already shouting.
"He's alive—!"
RAT-TAT-TAT. Six fired three shots — head, chest, chest. Bodies dropped.
The third agent flanked from behind — kicked Six hard, cracking his jaw — but Six fell with the blow, twisted mid-air, and slammed the agent's face into the wall corner.
CRUNCH. Skull fracture. Dead.
The last one tried to retreat.
"He's loose! He's alive! HE'S—"
Six tackled him from behind and stabbed him with the fallen rebar, over and over and over—until the body stopped moving.
Silence returned.
Six stood there, bleeding, panting.
Ash rained down like snow. The site was burning.
His backpack burned.
And so did the key to Cyrus, the key to Geneva, the key to the fall, Burn.
Location: CIA HQ, Langley, Virginia
The room crackled with tension — thick with rage and the sting of failure. The operations team Cyrus had sent was annihilated. Crushed by Six. The plan was nearing execution, but one thing remained: no one knew where Jack or Six were.
They had vanished. Ghosts. The only two men capable of toppling an empire... or seizing one.
Cyrus had miscalculated. Gravely. Now, he understood — if he were to claim the target, if the vision he dreamed of was to be real...
He would have to act. Himself. Personally.
Location: Uknown Safehouse
The room was dim, lit only by the static flicker of an old television set in the corner. A news anchor's voice crackled faintly beneath the hum of a ceiling fan that groaned with every rotation.
Jack sat on a mattress on the floor, shirtless, wrapped in gauze and soaked bandages. His ribs ached with every breath. A line of stitches glistened along his shoulder, crude but holding. The silence was loud — only broken by the occasional thunder outside and the distant bark of a stray dog.
His hands trembled slightly as he poured whiskey into a chipped glass. Blood still crusted beneath his fingernails. The machete leaned against the wall — cleaned but not forgotten. Nothing was ever clean in this life.
The TV flickered, catching his eye.
"And in world news, global security leaders prepare for the upcoming summit in Geneva — a three-day event bringing together defense ministers, financial regulators, and intelligence officials from over thirty nations. The summit, hosted at an undisclosed location in the Swiss Alps, is expected to focus heavily on international cyber threats and growing concerns about rogue organizations infiltrating government networks..."
Jack's eyes narrowed.
Geneva.
He took a slow sip.
The TV droned on:
"High-value diplomatic targets are already arriving under heavy security. Switzerland has assured full protection and surveillance coverage. Tensions remain high after recent attacks on several Western intelligence officers, raising fears about possible disruptions to the summit…"
Jack exhaled through his nose, the faintest twitch in his jaw. His mind didn't race — it calculated. Geneva. Security. Cyber threats. Timing.
But he didn't know.
Not yet.
Not about the missile.Not about the file.Not about the Syndicate's ghost hand tightening around the throat of the world.
Just a name. A place. A storm cloud, forming.
He picked up a phone. No signal. Burned. The line to Six had gone dead. That silence said more than a hundred reports ever could.
Jack leaned back against the cold wall.
"Tyler..." he whispered to the quiet.
A name. A memory. A reason.
Outside, the wind howled.Inside, the storm hadn't hit yet.
But it was coming.
And he felt it in his bones.