The private jet touched down in Prague just after midnight. Rain tapped gently against the tarmac, blurring the city lights into soft gold ribbons in the distance.
Celeste stared out the window in silence, her thoughts noisier than the engines. Noah sat across from her, arms crossed, watching her the way a bodyguard might—not just ready to react, but ready to absorb impact.
"Welcome to the land of missing ghosts," Kuroda muttered, unbuckling his seatbelt behind them.
They exited into the cold, damp air and were whisked into a sleek, nondescript black car waiting just beyond the customs area. No branded hotel chains, no Langford insignias—everything about this trip had been stripped of identity.
They had entered this city as shadows.
Their boutique hotel was tucked into the older quarter, a beautifully restored manor with vaulted ceilings and quiet staff that asked no questions. Kuroda had already checked them in under aliases—Celeste as Lena Ward, and Noah as Ben Hale.
Noah glanced around their suite. Clean, modern, with minimal ornamentation. A single painting hung on the wall—a tree in winter, its limbs tangled like veins.
"Nice place," he murmured.
Celeste didn't respond. She was already unpacking, her focus sharp.
Within minutes, the room was transformed into an impromptu command post. Kuroda had set up a portable rig across the desk, three slim monitors blinking to life as he decrypted data from the last lead—the offshore account trail that had pointed here.
"Tracking signatures from the Geneva laptop now," he said. "And triangulating satellite records from the Langford estate's last known European contacts."
Celeste turned from the window. "Did the encryption signature match?"
Kuroda tapped a key. "Yes. Two hours ago, someone accessed the stolen drive from a server just three blocks from here. But they used an old redirect protocol—Langford-style. Whoever's running it knows our architecture inside and out."
Noah leaned over the map. "And they're still local?"
"For now."
Celeste pulled a faded document from her leather case—a scan of her father's final personal itinerary. On it, one name was circled twice.
"Maison Alba," she said.
Kuroda narrowed his eyes. "Langford estate. Used as a retreat house."
"My father met with Declan there. I thought it was sold, but according to this, he reactivated it three weeks before he died."
She laid a photo beside the map—black and white, slightly crumpled. It showed her father and a tall, scarred man—Declan Voss—standing outside an ivy-covered villa with wrought iron gates.
"That's where we go next," she said.
Noah looked at her, his voice quiet.
"You think he'll be there?"
"No," Celeste replied. "But I think what he left behind will be."
Kuroda closed his laptop. "Then we move at dawn. Stealth only. One wrong step and this whole trail goes dark."
Celeste's eyes didn't leave the photo.
"Then let's not miss the next step."
The countryside bled into fog as they drove out of the city.
Trees flanked the narrow road like silent witnesses. A chill settled over the car that wasn't entirely due to the weather. Even Noah—usually relaxed in moments of tension—kept one hand near his concealed holster. Celeste sat beside him, unreadable, clutching a black leather notebook her father once used. Kuroda drove, eyes darting between the road and a GPS grid on his screen.
Maison Alba came into view like a dream half-forgotten. The estate sat on a hill of wild grass and dying ivy, its stone walls worn but intact, the wrought iron gates still bearing the Langford crest.
They parked down the slope, out of sight, and approached on foot.
"Security system's offline," Kuroda confirmed after a quick scan. "No signs of recent tampering."
Celeste pulled the gate open herself. It groaned in protest, as if reluctant to let her in.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and memory. Furniture remained covered in white sheets. The faint scent of old books and firewood clung to the walls. Light filtered through fractured stained glass above the grand staircase.
Noah moved first, sweeping each room cautiously. Kuroda followed, scanning with a handheld sensor.
Celeste entered last.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
They reached the study at the back of the estate. The door was ajar.
Inside: signs of life. Cold coffee in a chipped mug. A solar-powered laptop blinking standby on the desk. A folded blanket on the chaise near the window. Someone had been here—recently.
Kuroda went to work on the laptop. "Encrypted. Same protocol as the Geneva system."
Celeste moved toward a drawer in the desk. She opened it slowly—and pulled out a bundle of handwritten notes, yellowed but intact. Her father's writing mixed with someone else's. A harsher pen stroke.
Noah stood beside her as she unfolded the top page.
"Protocol 2 is incomplete. She's not ready yet. If I vanish—don't trust the board. Don't trust Vale. Wait until she finds the second key."
There was no signature.
But at the bottom was a name scratched in the corner: Voss.
Celeste sat down slowly, as if her knees might betray her.
"He was here," she said. "Declan was alive. And my father… knew Cassian would try to bury him."
Noah rested a hand on her shoulder. She didn't flinch this time.
Then she turned to him, her voice lower, vulnerable.
"If I lose everything—Langford, the Foundation, the name—would you still stay?"
Noah didn't hesitate.
"I was never here for what you had, Celeste.""Just for who you tried not to show."
They looked at each other then—nothing dramatic, nothing loud. Just real.
Kuroda interrupted gently. "Found something else."
He held up an envelope. Aged. Sealed in wax. Labeled in the same jagged hand:
To C.L. — Only if Cassian turns violent.
Celeste's fingers hovered over the wax.
"He knew," she whispered. "He knew Cassian better than I did."
Just then—her phone buzzed.
Kuroda frowned. "I disabled GPS."
"It's not GPS," Celeste said.
She opened the message.
No sender ID.
Just a photo.
She, aged nine, was standing beside Declan Voss in the courtyard of this very house.
She nearly dropped the phone.
"I don't remember this," she whispered.
Noah took it gently from her hand.
"Celeste… someone wiped your memory."
The moment they stepped back into the hotel suite, Noah knew something was off.
The air was too still. Too clean. Kuroda stiffened. Celeste reached into her coat for the pocketknife she always carried when she felt exposed.
The lights were on, but no sound.
Then Noah spotted it—the faintest shift in the carpet fibers near the entry table. A drag mark. Subtle. Precise.
He opened the closet beside the minibar.
Empty.
"I swept this place twice," Kuroda muttered, already pulling out his tablet. "Someone got in while we were at the estate."
Celeste scanned the room. Her suitcases were untouched. Her tablet still sat where she left it. Everything looked the same—on the surface.
But Noah moved toward the desk where Kuroda had set up his rig hours ago.
Gone.
"Backup drive?" he asked.
Kuroda cursed under his breath. "Gone. They knew what to take."
"Only the encrypted gear," Noah confirmed. "They weren't searching. They knew exactly what they came for."
Celeste exhaled tightly. "Then they've been watching us since we landed."
Noah checked the windows—no signs of forced entry.
Then Kuroda's phone buzzed.
He lifted it slowly.
"Someone left something."
He opened the door.
A plain burner phone, wrapped in a Langford-branded envelope, sat on the floor just outside the suite.
Noah picked it up and turned it over. The phone had one image in its gallery.
Celeste took one glance—and staggered.
A young girl—no more than nine.Hair braided neatly, a white dress, standing beside a tall, battle-worn man with a scar down his jaw.Behind them, the courtyard of Maison Alba.The girl was smiling. The man wasn't.
Kuroda scanned it. "No metadata. No origin. Whoever sent this knows what they're doing."
Celeste stared at the image, as if willing it to unlock something buried deep inside her.
"I've never seen this photo in my life," she whispered. "I don't remember him."
Noah's voice was careful. "Could your father have erased it? Suppressed the memory somehow?"
"He did that," she said, more to herself. "Not because I couldn't handle it—because he didn't want me to look."
The phone buzzed in Noah's hand.
Unknown number. One message.
He opened it.
A voice message played:
"Stop chasing shadows, Celeste.Declan chose silence for a reason.If you keep digging, the next thing you'll lose won't be a memory—It'll be him."
The message cut off.
Silence hung like a knife in the room.
Noah looked at her. "They're watching you. And they want you scared."
Celeste's jaw clenched.
"They've mistaken fear for surrender."
The sun hadn't fully risen when they arrived at Václav Havel Airport.
Kuroda moved first, clearing customs through his usual shell identity. Celeste followed, her coat buttoned high, dark glasses hiding the storm in her eyes.
Noah trailed just behind—until the uniformed man at the checkpoint frowned at his passport, scanned it again, and stiffened.
"Mr. Hale," he said. "Step aside, please."
Celeste turned instantly. "Is there a problem?"
The man didn't answer her. Two more guards appeared at either side of Noah, gently but firmly leading him into a side corridor.
Noah didn't resist—but his jaw flexed. "They just red-flagged me."
Inside the holding room, the walls were clean and gray. A single camera stared down from the ceiling. A woman in a black blazer entered, holding a folder.
"Mr. Hale, or should I say Mr. Reyes?" she asked in near-perfect English. "Interpol received an anonymous alert—claims you're tied to illegal offshore financial activity."
Noah raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess. No supporting documentation. Just a red notice with no fingerprints."
She didn't answer.
Ten minutes later, the door burst open.
Celeste.
Behind her: Kuroda, waving his credentials like a sword.
"This man is under my diplomatic protection," she said flatly. "And your entire department will be under audit if you detain him further."
The agent hesitated.
Kuroda stepped forward. "We already traced the alert. It was routed through a fake Interpol proxy. Origin point? Mumbai. Guess who used that same node last month—Cassian Vale's offshore fund."
The woman's eyes went wide.
Ten minutes after that, Noah walked out free.
They didn't speak until they reached the gate.
Celeste stopped, turned to him.
"That wasn't about you. It was about me. He's drawing lines in the sand. One step closer to me, one more warning for you."
Noah met her gaze. Calm. Unshaken.
"Let him draw lines. I don't plan on stepping back."
Their boarding call echoed overhead.
But just as they began walking, Kuroda's phone buzzed again.
He stopped. Froze.
"Celeste," he said carefully. "Check Cassian's social feed."
She pulled up the app. Her hand stilled on the screen.
A new photo.
A single black cufflink on polished wood.
Elegant. Minimalist. Inlaid with a golden serpent.
The same cufflink that Robert Langford wore the night he died.
The caption:
"Fathers should choose their heirs more carefully."