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London Heathrow Airport
1:17 PM Local Time
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The arrival lounge shimmered with the polished gleam of luxury and the chaos of mid-summer travelers. Neon signs blinked. Voices collided. The city felt louder than he remembered.
Roux, freshly arrived from Paris, adjusted his scarf—not for warmth, but for flair. The silk caught the light just right. A porter reached for his bag. Roux waved him off with a smile.
> "I travel light," he said. Though the luggage tag alone was worth more than the suitcase.
He moved through the terminal with elegance, every step effortless, every glance precise. His boots made no sound, but people seemed to step aside all the same.
His destination? A 5-star hotel just beside the terminal—The Ashbourne Grand. One of the most exclusive airport hotels in Europe. The kind of place where CEOs spent layovers and oil princes asked for "privacy floors."
Roux arrived at the front desk, sunglasses still on.
> "Bonjour," he said smoothly. "I need a suite. The best one. Top floor. View. Privacy. Champagne optional."
The receptionist—young, polished, and already regretting her job—smiled apologetically.
> "I'm terribly sorry, sir. We're fully booked for the next few days. There's a major tech conference in town, and the royal fleet just—"
> "—No rooms?" Roux interrupted gently.
> "None at all, sir. I'm very sorry."
Roux didn't sigh. He didn't frown. He simply looked to his left. Standing beside him was a portly man in an expensive-but-too-loud blazer, clearly overhearing.
> "You're trying to get a top room?" the man asked smugly. "Good luck. I reserved the best suite weeks ago."
Roux turned.
> "Did you? Then let's negotiate."
The man blinked. "Excuse me?"
> "Name your price. I want your room."
> "Pfft. I doubt you can afford it."
> "Try me."
> "Fine. Let's say… twenty thousand pounds."
> "Done."
The man squinted. "...Thirty-five?"
> "Done."
A bead of sweat appeared on the man's brow. "...Fifty?"
> "Done."
"...Eighty."
Roux stepped slightly closer, eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses.
> "Would you like to keep playing this game?"
The man hesitated, uncertain if he was bluffing.
Roux slowly pulled a blank cheque from inside his coat and handed it forward with precise grace.
> "Write the number. Add zeros. Add guilt. I'm not here to argue."
The man stared, swallowing hard.
> "I-I was joking... I didn't think—"
> "People often don't."
Roux didn't even look as he slid the cheque toward him. "Take it. Or don't. I will have that room either way."
He turned to the receptionist.
> "Now, about that suite?"
The receptionist, wide-eyed, nodded rapidly.
> "Yes, sir. Of course. We'll prepare it immediately."
---
As the man stood frozen with the cheque in hand, Roux swept past him, walking toward the elevator with casual, immortal elegance.
> "Be grateful," he said over his shoulder. "Most people I've removed from rooms didn't walk away with compensation."
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And with that, he disappeared into the lift—composed, undefeated, and with the most expensive view in the building.
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London Heathrow Airport – 7:03 AM (Local Time)
The Next Morning
A soft mist curled above the runway, catching the early sun like it was being painted in real time. Morning light broke across the horizon, not yet gold but no longer gray.
A sleek, pearl-white jet descended through the clouds like a falling petal. No call sign. No emblem. No sound but a whisper as it touched down with a grace that felt... reverent.
The door hissed open before the wheels even stopped.
She stepped out.
Akari.
A long black coat draped her form like the night sky, her hair flowing freely over her shoulders like ink spilled across silk. In her hand was the folded fan—not decorative, but ceremonial. Her gaze didn't scan the runway. It searched through it, like she was expecting the air itself to speak.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
> "Koko mo... mezameru ka."
(So... this place stirs too.)
Two black-clad chauffeurs stood ready beside a sleek Rolls-Royce Phantom, parked precisely where it needed to be. One bowed deeply.
> "Welcome to London, Miss Akari."
She didn't respond. Not yet. She tilted her head, listening—not to him, but to the echo that still lingered beneath the city. The aftershock of the broken seal in Egypt had reached even here. Subtly. Quietly. Like a heartbeat under the pavement.
> "Did the sky tremble here?" she asked softly, her voice barely rising above the wind.
The chauffeur blinked. "...Pardon, ma'am?"
She turned her head slowly.
> "No matter. Take me to him."
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The Ashbourne Grand Hotel – Presidential Floor
7:46 AM
The elevator chimed softly as the doors parted with a hiss.
The concierge standing outside the suite took one look at her and stepped aside without a word.
She walked down the corridor in silence. Her presence bent the space around her—not with force, but with stillness. Like the air bowed, unsure whether to continue moving.
She reached the suite. The door opened without a knock.
Inside, Roux stood near the window in a bathrobe, swirling something amber and expensive in a crystal glass. He turned just as she stepped in.
He smiled faintly. "You're early."
> "No," she said, her fan unfolding with a gentle snap. "The world is late."
A silence passed between them.
She studied him. Still dramatic. Still impossible. Still Roux.
He studied her. Still quiet. Still precise. Still dangerous.
> "Did you feel it here?" she asked.
> "I felt you halfway through the jet stream," Roux replied.
She walked to the far end of the room, stopped by the glass wall, and placed her hand against it. Below, London yawned into another indifferent day.
Pigeons squabbled over crumbs. Taxis honked with the usual impatience. A light drizzle began that no one bothered to acknowledge. To the city, nothing had changed.
But to them, the world was vibrating.
Not loudly. Not with thunder or flame.
But with recognition.
The kind of shift only felt in those who had outlived the names of kingdoms, and forgotten what it meant to live without silence trailing behind their every footstep.
---
Akari stood still by the glass wall, eyes fixed on the sprawl of rooftops and steeples below.
> "There are five of us left," she said quietly. "Four, if one of the pulses we felt was… not who we hope."
Roux didn't move.
> "He won't come easily."
She said.
> "He never does."
She turned now, facing Roux. No more veiled tones. Just clarity.
> "He won't trust us. Not after last time."
> "Would you?"
Akari didn't answer.
---
They didn't call themselves immortals. That word had lost its weight long ago. Names were always too small.
They had gone by many.
Myths. Spirits. Demons. Saints.
But now, they were simply… returning.
Not because they wanted to.
Because the world had called them back.
And it was breaking.
---
Roux finally set his glass down on the marble counter.
> "So… we begin here?"
> "Yes."
> "With him?"
Akari nodded.
> "Tomorrow. At sunrise."
> "And the others?"
She closed her fan with a soft snap.
> "One is in Nigeria. She has always been harder to approach—"Her power has softened… but it runs deeper now." She never liked crowded places. We'll go to her next."
> "And the last two?"
Akari's gaze darkened.
> "We don't know."
Roux raised an eyebrow.
> "Still off-grid?"
> "Or dead," she said, almost too casually.
But even Roux knew better. Death had never been very good at keeping them.
---
> "And when we find them all?" Roux asked. "What then?"
> "We don't decide that here," Akari said. "Not now. We find the ones who remain… and only then do we choose whether we take back our powers—or let him burn the world down with it."
She stepped away from the window, her silhouette framed by soft morning gold.
> "He'll probably feel us by tonight," she added. "But he'll just pretend not to."
> "And if he resists?"
"Then we remind him of who we are."
---
The city moved on. Trains clattered. Smoke coiled from old chimneys. Somewhere down the street, a street vendor opened his cart with a yawn and a muttered complaint about the weather.
But above it all—high in the suite cloaked with too much money and too many memories—two ancient beings stood in quiet preparation.
The last of the day slipped by with barely a whisper.
And when tomorrow came—
they would go knock on the door of the one who had spent centuries hiding in plain sight, in a city too loud to hear the tremble of gods returning.
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