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H argen

The Syndicate stronghold rises from the mountainside—concrete fangs and steel claws wrapped in enough firepower to flatten a city block.

Guard towers pierce the sky at calculated intervals.

Razor wire glints in the afternoon sun. Familiar, and yet not.

I spent decades operating inside this facility, but never as a target.

Never as bait, walking willingly into a trap.

The transport convoy winds through three security checkpoints, each bristling with detection equipment and armed personnel who look like they’d shoot their own mothers if the order came down.

By the time we reach the main entrance, I’ve counted a dozen different ways they could kill me before I took a second breath.

Professional habit. Occupational hazard of spending years in this business.

At the main entrance, a tall woman in Syndicate black waits with a clipboard and the kind of smile that never reaches the eyes. Security Chief Morrison—I remember her from briefings years ago. Still projecting the same ruthless efficiency.

“Hargen Cole.” She doesn’t extend a hand. “Welcome back to the fold. Assuming you’re actually back.”

“That’s what we’re here to determine, isn’t it?”

“Of course.” She gestures to the guards flanking me. “Gentlemen, escort Mr. Cole to Processing Bay Three. Full spectrum analysis.”

They lead me through sterile corridors I once walked freely, past security checkpoints that now feel like prison gates. Processing Bay Three sits in the facility’s medical wing—a place I’d visited for routine health assessments, now repurposed for something far more invasive.

The processing feels like getting dissected by machines that happen to have human operators.

Strip search conducted with clinical efficiency that strips away dignity along with clothing.

Medical examination that maps every scar, every old break, every reminder of violence survived.

Blood drawn for analysis that will tell them more about my magical signatures than I might want them to know.

Through it all, I maintain the story Viktor and I constructed—former asset handler, recently freed from magical manipulation, desperate to redeem myself through service.

Let them see exhaustion. Let them see frustration.

Let them see exactly what they expect from someone who’s spent time under hostile magical influence.

After two hours of physical examination and sample collection, they escort me to the medical analysis wing. Dr. Emerson waits in her sterile laboratory, surrounded by instruments that hum with both technology and magic.

“Handler Cole,” she says, eyeing me curiously. “I never expected to have you under my scrutiny.”

“I’m sure we’ll be putting all of this behind us soon,” I say, feigning confidence.

“We’ll see about that,” she says, turning to examine my test results. “Fascinating,” she murmurs, her hatchet face reflecting pale light from her screen. She’s always looked at test subjects like specimens in a jar. She still does.

“The magical residue patterns are unmistakable. Rossewyn bloodline manipulation, sophisticated and extensive.”

I inject just the right note of shame into my voice. “How extensive?”

“Long-term conditioning. Weeks, possibly months of gradual influence building to complete psychological override.” She taps notes into her tablet. “The neural pathway disruption shows classic signs of magical coercion. It’s remarkable you retained enough independent thought to break free.”

Because there was nothing to break free from.

The “residue” her instruments detect is carefully constructed magical sleight of hand, applied by Aurora specialists to create exactly the signature she’s describing. But Emerson doesn’t need to know that her instruments are reading an elaborate forgery.

“Will there be permanent effects?”

“Possible memory gaps. Emotional triggers tied to the manipulation period. Some difficulty distinguishing between genuine thoughts and implanted impulses.” She seals blood samples for additional testing.

“Nothing that should impair your operational capabilities, assuming psychological evaluation confirms cognitive stability.”

Standard procedure. Standard lies wrapped in medical terminology.

“When can I return to active duty?”

“That determination sits above my clearance level.” Her tone dismisses the question entirely. “Command will review all analysis results before making personnel decisions.”

The debriefing comes next—three hours in a windowless chamber that reeks of industrial cleaning supplies and old fear.

Two interrogators who’ve probably broken stronger minds than mine.

Agent Marsh, whose smile looks pasted on.

Agent Torres, who asks the same questions countless different ways and watches for microsecond variations in response.

They probe every aspect of the story Viktor helped me construct. When did the magical influence begin? How did it manifest? What specific compulsions overrode my judgment? How did I finally break free?

I stick to the rehearsed outline, letting controlled exhaustion bleed through professional answers.

“The witch was subtle about it,” I explain for what feels like the dozenth time. “The compulsions felt like natural thoughts. Like protective instincts that developed over years of handler protocols.”

“But you maintained awareness of operational requirements?” Marsh leans forward, his attention fixed like a laser. “Standard reporting. Intelligence gathering. Assessment procedures.”

“My memory remained intact. The magical influence affected judgment, not recall.” I meet his stare directly. “That’s why I can provide detailed intelligence on Aurora operations. The compulsion prevented me from acting on what I learned, but didn’t stop me from learning it.”

Torres consults her notes. “And you broke free how, exactly?”

“Distance. Physical separation from the witch weakened the magical bindings.” I let frustration color my tone. “Once I was away from her immediate presence, I could think clearly enough to recognize what had been done to me. To remember my actual loyalties.”

They want to believe me. The alternative—that an operative with my record genuinely turned against the Syndicate—raises uncomfortable questions about their other assets. About security protocols. About fundamental assumptions regarding loyalty and magical resistance training.

Much easier to accept my story of magical manipulation than face the possibility that experienced operatives might develop consciences.

“Your intelligence regarding Aurora Collective operations,” Torres says, shifting topics. “How current is this information?”

I slide back into my practiced narrative.

“Viktor Parlance isn’t building a resistance movement,” I warn them. “He’s constructing something far more sophisticated. A parallel power structure with backing from progressive dragon bloodlines who want integration with human society.”

“Integration how?”

“Public revelation. Complete exposure of dragon society within six months.” I lean forward, projecting genuine concern. “They believe they can force dialogue about coexistence. About accepting dragons as part of human civilization rather than hidden predators.”

Marsh and Torres exchange glances.

“Your recall of these details remained unaffected by the magical manipulation?”

Fuck. I’ve been asked the same damn questions a thousand different ways.

“Yes,” I say calmly instead of snapping impatiently.

“The Rossewyn witch needed me functional as an intelligence asset. The compulsions affected my ability to report or act on information, but not my capacity to gather it.” I pause.

“Which is why I can provide comprehensive details about Aurora’s command structure, operational capabilities, and strategic timeline. ”

All carefully selected to serve Viktor’s purposes.

Finally, after hours of repetitive questioning and cross-verification, they reach a conclusion.

“You’ll be housed in secure quarters pending final evaluation,” Torres informs me. “Depending on those results, you may be cleared for reinstatement to active duty.”

“Final evaluation by whom?”

“Senior command authority. Someone with clearance to make personnel decisions regarding operatives with your background and access level.”

They escort me to quarters that feel more like a comfortable prison cell—bed, desk, basic amenities, no windows, comprehensive surveillance. I’m contained but not mistreated. The Syndicate wants me capable of dealing with whatever comes next.

I settle on the narrow bed, staring at acoustic tiles that probably conceal listening devices.

In hours, I’ll face whatever “senior command authority” they’ve designated for my case.

Someone with the clearance to decide whether I live or die based on their assessment of my claimed magical manipulation.

For a moment, I question what I’m doing here. Because one small slip could get me executed.

They’re going to kill our daughter.

Every time I question my sanity, I circle back to those words. The words that shattered my carefully constructed reality. That led me into the heart of enemy territory, carrying lies wrapped around desperate hope.

Somewhere in this facility or its allied structures, Vanya might be breathing. Might be watching. Might be preparing for a reunion neither of us expected.

Soon, I tell myself. Soon I’ll know if the message was real. If she’s really alive. If our daughter exists.

I close my eyes and try to find sleep, but my mind won’t settle. Too many variables. Too many ways this could end badly for everyone involved.

Hours pass. Maybe three, maybe four. I drift between restless wakefulness and fragmented dreams that feel more like memories.

Then footsteps echo in the corridor outside. Professional boot heels against polished concrete.

The lock disengages with electronic clicks. Two guards enter, their faces studiously neutral.

“Cole. Get up. It’s time.”

I swing my legs off the bed, instantly alert. “What’s the situation?”

“Senior interrogator is ready to see you.”

“Now?”

One of them snorts. “The Shadowhand keeps their own schedule.”

The Shadowhand.

I have to force myself not to do a double-take.

Viktor’s primary intelligence target. The mysterious figure within the Ivory League who advocates for extreme purity measures while potentially protecting mixed bloodlines from behind the scenes.

The most dangerous unknown variable in Syndicate leadership.

And apparently my final examiner.

“Any advice for dealing with them?” I ask as they escort me through corridors lined with security cameras.

“Don’t lie,” the first guard says. “The Shadowhand has ways of knowing.”

“And don’t piss them off,” adds the second. “Last person who tried that is still screaming in Sublevel Five.”

Fucking wonderful.

I’m about to face someone with a reputation for both supernatural detection abilities and creative torture techniques. Someone who could expose my mission with a glance or destroy my mind for entertainment.

Someone who might be the key to everything Viktor sent me here to discover.

We descend through multiple security levels, each progressively more restricted. The final level requires biometric authorization from both guards. The air grows colder as we go deeper, carrying traces of magical energy that make my skin crawl.

Finally, we reach a corridor lined with interrogation chambers. Each door bears a number and a status indicator. Most show green—available. One shows red—occupied.

That’s where we stop.

“Chamber Seven,” the first guard announces.

They unlock the door and step aside, making no move to follow me in. Whatever happens next, I face it alone.

“One piece of advice,” the second guard adds as I reach for the handle. “The Shadowhand doesn’t like wasted time. Answer their questions directly. Don’t try to be clever. Take a seat. They’ll be with you shortly.”

I nod and push open the door.