Chapter 7: The Observer’s Gambit

**London, East End — Dawn**

Victor Black's black Volkswagen idled at the edge of a grimy alley, exhaust curling into the morning haze. Through the windshield, he watched a two-story building twenty meters away—home to his next target, David Smith. The urban village teemed with life: vendors hawking fried breakfasts, delivery vans honking through narrow streets, hungover workers stumbling home. Victor blended in, anonymous as the soot-stained bricks around him.

At 11:00 AM, David emerged—a paunchy man in stained sweatpants, dragging slippers across cracked pavement. He lumbered into a corner café, reappeared with a greasy paper bag, and waddled to a rusted van. Victor memorized the license plate as the engine coughed to life. David drove off, oblivious.

Victor didn't follow. *Patience*, he reminded himself. *Observe. Calculate.*

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**Niutuo Mountain, Outskirts — Nightfall**

Victor spent hours mapping backroads and footpaths, his boots crunching over gravel. By moonlight, he marked dead zones—places without cameras, where a van might vanish. He buried a waterproof case beneath a gnarled oak: gloves, a burner phone, a syringe filled with clear liquid.

When he returned to the city at noon the next day, exhaustion clawed at him. He collapsed into bed, visions of David Smith's slouched frame flickering behind closed eyelids.

*Four days until execution.*

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**Scotland Yard, Serious Crime Unit — 3:00 PM**

A man slouched in the office doorway, tousled hair half-covering a smirk. "Sebastian Gray. Call me 'Lazy Fish.'" His hooded eyes gleamed like polished flint.

Captain James Morrison shook his hand stiffly. "James Morrison."

Sebastian flopped into a chair, legs propped on a desk. "Relax, Cap. I'm here to nap, not nag. Do your thing. Pretend I'm decor."

James eyed the Ministry of Interior's so-called "advisor"—rumpled shirt, scuffed sneakers, the scent of espresso clinging to him. *A wolf in slacker's clothing.*

He briefed Sebastian on the case: John Wilson's death, Margaret's defiance, the Ghost's taunts.

Sebastian listened, doodling spirals on a notepad. When James finished, he twirled his pen. "Margaret's no mastermind. She's a pawn. The Ghost? Now *he's* the puppeteer. Used her like a rented mule."

James leaned forward. "Explain."

"Think about it. If they were partners, why involve the police? Why the theatrics? Nah. Ghost manipulated her—threats, promises, maybe her kid. Made her dance while he stayed clean." Sebastian grinned. "And Margaret? She's still dancing. Bet she doesn't even know his name."

James's pulse quickened. "How do we find him?"

Sebastian shrugged. "Wait for his next move. Ghosts hate silence."

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**Victor's Apartment — Evening**

Victor awoke to dusk bleeding through his curtains. He brewed black tea, the steam curling like phantom fingers. On his desk lay David Smith's dossier.

He traced David's photo with a blade. *Four days.*

Outside, London buzzed—unaware of the clock ticking in Victor's mind.