Chapter 17

  Earth. Central Office of the Security Service.

  The holographic sky above the panoramic walls shimmers slowly in shades of ultramarine, as if searching for a lost peace. Clouds drift lazily across the clear azure, creating the illusion of tranquility that does not exist. Inside the office — silence, stretched taut like a string ready to snap at the slightest movement. The spaciousness and light only highlight the hidden threat, and the air is filled not only with calm but also with tension — as if every corner hides unseen dangers.

  Camilla sits in a high-backed chair, straight as a rod, her figure filling the space not only with physical presence but also with invisible power. Her finger slowly scrolls through a translucent tablet, her thoughts wandering far between the lines of the report, searching for answers hidden within. Her mind is sharper than any instrument, but she does not rush. This is no place for hasty decisions.

  A voice from the internal comms disrupts the silence: — "Director, Head of Intelligence Nicolas has arrived."

  Camilla silently touches the armrest. The holographic sky fades away with a soft rustle, like a light being switched off. The space contracts. Her gaze remains impassive, but readiness flashes within it.

  The door slides open. Nicolas enters. His uniform is perfectly pressed, the gleam of his badge emphasizes his impeccable appearance. In his hands — a tablet; in his eyes — sharp focus. He wastes no time, getting straight to the point.

  — "Director," his voice is strict and sharp, "we have captured the mercenary. He is at the base. Interrogation has begun."

  Camilla rises. Her movement is smooth, like that of a hunting cat before a leap. Not a word wasted. Her silhouette glides toward Nicolas.

  — "Lead the way," she commands, her voice betraying no emotion.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  **

  The corridors are empty, sterile. Soft light streams from the ceiling lamps, flowing like an artificial dawn that never fully arrives. Their footsteps echo dully, like in an operating room. Every movement feels like a scene shift. A pause. The next turn.

  They enter the observation room. Dim light glides along the walls, pulling back a veil. A panoramic armored window separates their world from the world of the interrogation room — transparent, yet unbreakable. Beyond it — a sterile space where time holds no meaning.

  At the center of the room: a chair. Hard metal fused into the floor. A monument that will never be forgotten. The mercenary — gaunt, sharp-featured, dressed in dark clothing — is shackled by magnetic restraints. He sits motionless, his eyes alive with dark thoughts.

  An interrogator sits across from him, his voice even, almost emotionless. Each question he asks strikes like a precise, penetrating blow. His words are recorded in real time on a flickering holographic display.

  Camilla watches closely. Her gaze is sharp, as if she sees not just the surface, but the hidden layers beneath, invisible to others. Like a surgeon before the first cut. Her voice breaks the silence, quiet, restrained.

  — "What was he trying to do?"

  — "He infiltrated the diplomatic service posing as a technician," Nicolas reports briskly, his voice halting for a moment, as if still assessing the situation. "He accessed the session hall networks. Planted a thermite charge in the climate-control system. It almost worked. If not for our men..."

  — "The Mars scenario would have succeeded," Camilla finishes coldly.

  — "Who is he?"

  — "A rookie," Nicolas answers with a trace of doubt. "Bold because he's a fool. Didn't even try to cover his tracks. We caught him at the entrance. Cameras, traffic logs, even his breathing."

  Camilla slowly turns to him. Her eyes turn icy.

  — "Too easy. Too clean. This is a decoy. They planted him on us. And you... took the bait. This was a distraction. The real agent is either nearby or already inside."

  Nicolas stiffens. Only silence follows. But this silence says more than a thousand words.

  — "Any other leads?" she demands sharply.

  — "None. Only him."

  She steps forward, unhurried. Her gaze fixes on the mercenary. Somehow, through the glass, he feels her stare. He raises his head. Their eyes lock. Camilla’s consciousness seems to penetrate his, searching for weakness — and she understands everything.

  — "Let it go. Lock him up. Let him rot," she says, her words like a sentence. "Now he’s useless. Work the lists again. Focus especially on the technical staff from the Mercury delegation. That’s where the thread is. That’s the weak point."

  — "Understood," Nicolas cuts off, not meeting her eyes. He turns and disappears into the shadows of the corridor.

  Camilla remains alone. Her reflection stares back at her from the glass — unnaturally calm, as if she has lost a part of herself.