SPECTRE – Prologue
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The Patek Philippe on the nightstand—gifted by his father on his thirteenth birthday—continued its flawless Swiss choreography. Three months, two weeks, four days since the operation went so spectacularly wrong. Lelouch and Nunnally became pawns in Japan's elaborate game of international chess. Since the night a promising heir was transformed into something far more... interesting.
He had always possessed an analytical mind. Now, wrapped in surgical gauze like a priceless Egyptian relic, that mind had been honed to a razor's edge.
Most illuminating.
The memory returned with surgical clarity—not the chaotic haze of trauma, but the crystalline precision of tactical review. The terrorist cell had been... adequate. Their infiltration: textbook. Their execution: regrettably amateur. The stray bullet that shattered the Baccarat crystal lamp was a fluke. But now he understood: accidents were merely opportunities in disguise.
His breathing apparatus—a custom-fitted Italian design, transforming necessity into elegance—released a measured hiss with each inhale. The fire damage to his lungs had been... educational. Pain, he discovered, was data. Weakness is a transient condition. The lessons learned through agony? Eternal.
The medical suite, dressed in Swiss opulence and German precision, did not feel like a prison. It was his first command center. His siblings visited—out of obligation, mostly. His mother would have remained at his side, but she had fallen victim to an earlier lesson in the fragility of traditional security.
Their whispered conversations in the hallway amused him. Pity laced with relief. Guilt tempered by gratitude. Such pedestrian emotions.
Carrara marble lined the floors of his private wing—nothing but the finest for royal convalescence. Bare feet made no sound as he glided toward the bathroom, IV standing trailing behind like a loyal adjutant. Each step was measured, and intentional.
The mirror reflected not a victim, but a project in progress. Bandages wrapped with surgical precision created a sculpted effect—mysterious, untouchable. Only his eyes were visible. Once filled with the curiosity of youth, they now gleamed with something far more... refined.
Father. A monarch who ruled through inherited authority, not earned dominance. Always reacting to crises rather than... neutralizing them beforehand.
The Kingdom. Ornate, is inefficient. A relic burdened by tradition and riddled with variables. Too many... loose ends.
He studied his reflection with clinical detachment.
Then, a quiet decision.
His fist shattered the Italian glass.
Crash.
Murano crystal scattered across Belgian marble—a small fortune in ruins. It felt... satisfying. Blood seeped through gauze, but pain was now just another form of information. A useful data point in a rapidly evolving algorithm.
Back in bed—Egyptian cotton, naturally—his eyes fell on the leather-bound volume his private physician had left. Not medical literature this time, but something far more... stimulating. Treatises on power structures. Studies in psychological manipulation. The architecture of control.
One passage arrested him mid-breath:
"SPECTRE—the Special Executive for Counter-intelligence, Terrorism, Revenge, and Extortion—represents the apex of criminal evolution. Founded on ruthless efficiency and helmed by the enigmatic Ernst Stavro Blofeld, SPECTRE operates with elegant simplicity: identify weakness, exploit an opportunity, and eliminate uncertainty. Blofeld himself is a legend—brilliant, patient, and utterly ruthless in his pursuit of perfect order through calculated chaos…"
Ah.
The sound escaped his breathing mask like a reverent whisper. Not the crude violence of common criminals. Not the scrambling of petty ideologues. This was something else entirely.
Something... elegant.
Systematic.
Beautiful.
To be the shadow behind the throne.
The hand that writes history in invisible ink.
The architect of order, born from ruin.
His fingers—long, clean, unmarred by labor—traced the pages with reverence. SPECTRE understood what nations and monarchies refused to do: true power was not about loyalty. It was about making opposition... irrelevant.
Fog bloomed on the mask's inner glass with every controlled exhale, momentary clouds vanishing like the illusions of the old world. Beneath pristine layers of bandages, facial muscles—long dormant—twitched into motion.
A smile.
Cold. Calculated. Perfect.
Patience, my dear boy.
The thought rang with the tone of future briefings, of conversations in war rooms and boardrooms yet to exist. The world was littered with inefficiencies demanding... permanent resolution. Fragile governments. Sentimental dynasties. Heroes mistaking stubbornness for righteousness.
All of them are variables.
And variables... were meant to be balanced.
When that day came—and it would come, as surely as the Swiss measured time—the world would know peace. Not the brittle harmony of treaties.
But the eternal silence of perfect order.
And if some called it tyranny?
Well. Tyranny was such an ugly word.
He preferred to call it... management.