LOOP OF EVENTS [ 2 ]

THE ARRIVAL AT OPERA

The Vienna State Opera stood like an immovable relic, its marble pillars framing a night that smelled of damp stone and unspoken treason. The city outside hummed with life—carriages rolling, lovers whispering—but inside, within the private boxes above the grand stage, history was being rewritten in silence.

In the royal balcony, where the Emperor himself might have once sat, four men gathered, each arriving separately, as if by coincidence. They were not friends. They were not allies. They were architects of fate.

The performance had already begun—a Wagnerian piece, appropriately tragic. Below them, the audience fixated on the stage, oblivious to the far greater drama unfolding above. Music swelled, voices soared, and between the rising notes of power and betrayal, the real negotiations began.

Seated in the center of the balcony, as if by some unspoken understanding of his dominance, Adler, The Architect, adjusted his cufflinks. His suit was charcoal, pressed to perfection, but beneath his polished exterior lay a mind that had orchestrated the rise and fall of governments.

To his left, Silber, The Financier, poured himself wine. He handled the glass like he handled empires—lightly, carelessly, as though power were nothing more than a passing investment. His silver ring tapped softly against the crystal, as if calculating its worth.

Across from him, Falken, The General, said nothing. His presence was that of a man who had seen too many wars, too many shifting allegiances. His uniform was gone—tonight, he was not a soldier but a player in a game more delicate than war.

And lastly, leaning slightly into the shadows, his gloved fingers tracing the edge of his chair, sat Noir, The Foreign Hand. His origin was uncertain. His allegiance, unknown. The others had titles, ranks, and estates. He had only secrets.

Adler lifted his glass, the gesture slow, measured.

"To history," he said, his voice carrying just enough amusement to make the words feel heavier.

Silber smirked. He did not believe in history—only in profit.

"To its authors," Silber corrected, sipping his wine.

Falken did not drink. His eyes remained fixed on the stage below, on the tragic downfall being sung in the opera.

"Some men believe history is written with ink," Falken murmured, his voice sharp, edged with unspoken warning.

"Others know it is written with blood."

Noir finally spoke—his voice soft, almost bemused.

"And some know it is rewritten."

A beat of silence. The air thickened.

Adler set his glass down with the kind of deliberate slowness only a man completely in control would allow himself.

"Gentlemen, let us not dance around the matter. We all knew what was meant to happen in Budapest next week. A bullet, a name erased, a government left in disorder. Simple. Elegant."

Silber tapped his glass again—once, twice, three times. A calculated rhythm.

"And yet," Silber mused, "there are complications."

Falken exhaled sharply. He despised men like Silber—those who spoke as if war and treason were no more than numbers in a ledger.

"There are always complications," Falken muttered. "That is why men like us exist."

Noir leaned forward ever so slightly, his gloved fingers barely brushing the table.

"Do we even know who first decided this assassination must happen?" Noir asked, his tone unreadable.

For the first time, the conversation paused.

Because the truth was, no one in this room had given the original order.

They had approved it. Funded it. Exploited it.

But the idea itself?

That had come from somewhere else.

And now it was no longer a certainty.

Adler's fingers curled against the armrest of his chair. He was displeased—not with the question, but with the fact that he did not yet know the answer.

"The only certainty," Adler said finally, *"is that Budapest will not remain untouched. Whether by a bullet or by something far less visible, history is already in motion."

Falken scoffed. "Invisible forces do not win wars. Men do."

Silber gave him a knowing look. "Ah, my dear general. And yet, you sit here, drinking with us instead of commanding your armies. What does that tell you?"

A flicker of something dangerous passed through Falken's eyes, but he said nothing.

Noir smiled faintly. "Perhaps Budapest is the distraction, not the objective."

Adler's fingers tightened once more. He did not like how quickly Noir was seeing through the layers of the game.

"Then tell me," Adler said, his voice cold now.

"What is the real objective?"

Silber, for once, stopped tapping his glass.

Because he had a suspicion.

And it was worse than he had anticipated.

The music below swelled, reaching its tragic climax.

A scream from the soprano. A betrayal on stage. The fall of a king.

Adler spoke first, his voice quiet.

"One of us will not leave this room with the same certainty we entered."

Noir's smirk barely moved.

Silber, for the first time that night, looked genuinely intrigued.

Falken's hand shifted under the table.

Something had just changed.

The assassination plot was never the real war.

Something much larger was at play.

And someone in this room already knew how it would end.

Adler's words hung in the air like a loaded gun.

"One of us will not leave this room with the same certainty we entered."

The silence that followed was not empty. It was thinking. Calculating. Watching.

Noir's smirk barely moved.

Silber studied his untouched wine.

Falken remained still, his fingers barely grazing the inside of his coat.

Then—

A sharp knock on the balcony door.

A pause.

A second knock. Measured. Intentional. Not the knock of an usher, nor a servant.

Adler's fingers stilled. Falken's muscles coiled. Silber glanced at the door with mild amusement.

"You weren't expecting company?" Noir murmured, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

Adler did not answer. Because he wasn't.

The door opened without permission.

A man in a military officer's coat stepped in, his silhouette sharp against the dimly lit hall behind him. He moved with the casual ease of someone who knew he could not be stopped.

His face was familiar, but his presence was wrong.

It was Colonel Weber, a decorated man with no official stake in Budapest.

Which meant he had come here for something else.

Colonel Weber did not remove his gloves. He did not bow. He simply reached into his coat and placed a sealed envelope on the table.

Adler did not touch it immediately. He measured the Colonel as if calculating how much of this had already been planned.

"You came in uniform," Adler said evenly. "Is that meant to reassure us or warn us?"

The Colonel's expression did not change.

"I came because the game has changed."

Noir, ever the silent observer, let out a slow breath—just enough to let the tension break slightly.

"And here I thought the game hadn't even begun."

The Colonel ignored him. His attention remained on Adler.

"Read it," he said simply. "It does not require discussion. It requires action."

Adler's jaw tightened ever so slightly. He unsealed the envelope, his fingers working with deliberate control.

Inside, a single sheet of paper.

Five Latin words.

Nothing else.

As Adler read them, his grip on the paper visibly tightened. For the first time that night, his certainty fractured.

Falken leaned forward.

"Well?"

Adler exhaled slowly. He did not raise his eyes.

"They moved the train."

The room shifted.

The plan they had spent months crafting—the assassination, the chaos in Budapest, the domino effect—was now compromised.

Because the train was no longer where it was supposed to be.

Silber tapped his glass—twice, three times. A different rhythm this time. Slower. Calculating.

"Moved by whom?" he asked.

The Colonel's lips curled just slightly.

"That's the wrong question."

Adler finally looked up from the letter. His expression was unreadable, but something in his posture had changed.

"Then what is the right one?"

The Colonel met his gaze directly.

"Moved… for whom?"

Silence.

Realization.

The train was never just a target.

It was a piece on a larger board.

And now, someone else was playing.