The Brussels headquarters was quiet in the hours before dawn, the only sound the soft hum of the monitors and the distant whisper of wind through the city's streets. Rook sat at the conference table, his eyes fixed on the reports spread out before him, the weight of the last week pressing down on him like something that had finally found its place.
The network with Mikhail was operational, but it was fragile—a patchwork of alliances that could fracture at any moment. Petrov was still out there, building his own network, his own vision. Kruger was still part of the equation, his influence still felt in the shadows. And somewhere in the background, the old guard—the people who'd built the partnership—were still waiting, still watching.
Rook's phone buzzed on the table, and he picked it up
