Zurich sparkled like a god's jewel under the cold moonlight — clean, efficient, rich. To the untrained eye, it was civilization perfected. But Damien Voss knew better.
Zurich wasn't a city.
It was a vault.
A fortress of polished glass and quiet murders, where fortunes were laundered, regimes were purchased, and the screams of the poor were muffled by the hum of private elevators.
And now, Damien stood at its rotten heart.
The Global Central Reserve building rose like a monolith of greed above the Limmat River, sheer and silent, guarded not by soldiers but by the invisible machinery of legal systems, false charities, and men who could erase your name with a signature.
Men like Emil Hartmann.
Three days had passed since the Hôtel des Catalans burned.
Interpol had branded Damien and Mara fugitives.
Black Sun had doubled their bounty.
And the Thirteen?
Silent.
They were regrouping, circling the wagons, waiting for Damien to make his next move.
And here it was.
Mara stood beside him now, dressed in stolen corporate security gear, hair tucked under a cap, her badge forged, her nerves raw.
"You're insane," she whispered as they stood in the service corridor beneath the bank.
Damien smiled faintly. "Not insane. Committed."
"This is suicide."
"Then it's about time someone taught God how to bleed."
Above them, Emil Hartmann poured himself a glass of 80-year-old whiskey, utterly relaxed, completely unaware that two of the world's most wanted people were in his building.
Emil wasn't afraid of revolutionaries.
Revolutionaries came and went. They burned cars, smashed windows, screamed on livestreams, and then disappeared back into obscurity when they realized no one cared.
But Damien wasn't a revolutionary.
Damien was a surgical infection in the bloodstream of the global elite.
And Emil was about to be amputated.
Back in the corridor, Mara's encrypted comm buzzed.
Asher's voice: > "We've got movement on the east wing. Three tangos, light armor. Looks private. Definitely not Swiss police."
"Black Sun?"
"Could be. But there's something else..."
Gunfire.Screaming.
"What the hell..."
Another voice broke through, distorted, brutal:
"This is not your war anymore, mercenary."
"New players have entered the field."
Damien froze.
New players?
That wasn't in the plan.
At the top floor, Emil Hartmann checked his phone.
A text. Anonymous number.
"We're here. Proceed as discussed. Damien Voss dies tonight. Zurich remains secure."
Emil smiled. Perfect.
But behind that smile was fear — because Emil wasn't just another banker.
He was the accountant of wars, the architect of blood economies stretching across three continents. And he knew:If Damien reached his office alive, it wasn't just Emil's life at stake.
It was the entire illusion of order in the Western world.
Outside, armored black SUVs screeched to a halt.
But they weren't Interpol. They weren't Black Sun either.
A third faction had arrived.
And for the first time in years…
Damien Voss had no idea who they were.
"Mara," he said quietly, locking the slide on his weapon, eyes like cold winter steel, "you're about to find out what happens when the people who really run the world panic."