VOICE OF SILENCE [ 1 ]

THE SIGNAL AT DAWN

Location: Budapest outskirts, near the railyard

The railyard was empty.

Not abandoned—just waiting. The kind of stillness that wasn't natural but forced. The city was waking up behind them, Budapest stretching its arms beneath the first slivers of dawn. But here, among the rusted tracks and forgotten cargo, the world had paused.

Moreau flicked the King of Spades card between his fingers, letting it catch the dim light before disappearing into his sleeve. A parlor trick. Sleight of hand. Something to keep his fingers busy while his mind tore apart the puzzle.

Behind him, Theo was whistling. Loudly. Off-key.

Moreau sighed. "If you want to announce our location to every passing spy, by all means, continue."

Theo didn't stop. If anything, he got louder. Then, mid-whistle, he said, "You know, for someone with a reputation, you sure do spend a lot of time looking like you lost a bet with a coat hanger."

Moreau ignored him. "The material of the card—cheap, mass-printed. But the ink? Hand-applied. Custom." He turned it over. "Which means someone wanted it to look unimportant at first glance."

Theo finally stopped whistling. "Or, and hear me out, it's an invitation to a very exclusive poker game where the buy-in is state secrets and the losers mysteriously disappear."

Moreau gave him a look.

Theo grinned. "See? You hate it, but you know it's possible."

The quiet snapped.

A crackling sound. A pulse of static. Moreau tilted his head slightly, catching it beneath the city's morning hum. Not a random interference. Something deliberate.

Theo heard it too. His usual smirk flattened just a little. "Is that us?"

Moreau pulled out a small, battered receiver, adjusting the dial. The signal wasn't on their frequency. But it was close—close enough to be intentional.

Then the first coded phrase came through.

Morse. Slow. Deliberate.

"… Echelon 17 compromised. Rendezvous point altered."

Theo's eyebrows shot up. "Echelon 17? That's—"

Moreau raised a hand, silencing him. The message wasn't over. Another set of taps, another line of code. But this one… was different.

Not standard encryption. Something older. Something not meant for official channels.

Theo leaned closer, his voice lower now. "That's not just for us, is it?"

Moreau's jaw tightened. No. It wasn't.

Someone had broadcasted it on a frequency that multiple factions could access. Meaning—

"This isn't a warning," Moreau said quietly. "It's a challenge."

Theo let out a low whistle. This one, at least, was in tune.

Moreau didn't move. He was staring at the tracks, at the way the morning light touched the steel, at the almost invisible scratches near the junction switches.

Little marks. Not random. Not natural wear.

He followed them with his eyes, tracing a pattern no one else would notice unless they were looking for it.

Theo noticed his expression. "Oh no. That's your 'I'm about to say something unpleasant' face."

Moreau exhaled sharply. "The missing operator didn't send that message."

Theo blinked. "Right. Because that would be too easy. So who did?"

Moreau tapped the King of Spades card against his palm. "Someone who wants us to follow a trail. Someone who made sure every interested party heard the message." He looked up. "Someone who wants a war."

Theo rubbed his temples. "And let me guess. The new rendezvous?"

Moreau didn't answer. He just held up the card again, letting it catch the light.

The spade's black ink shimmered gold for half a second. A hidden layer. An address.

Theo groaned. "You know, sometimes, I really miss simple assignments. Just one bullet, one target, no conspiracies, no secret messages hidden in playing cards."

Moreau finally let a small, humorless smile cross his lips. "No, you don't."

Theo grumbled but didn't argue.

The gold ink faded back into black.

Moreau slipped the card into his coat pocket.

The rendezvous?

The Budapest Opera House.

And if someone had gone through this much trouble to lure them there?

They weren't walking into a meeting. They were walking into a performance.

And they weren't the audience.

They were the main act.

THE MEETING AT THE OPERA HOUSE

The Budapest Opera House was a masterpiece of deception.

Gilded arches. Opulent chandeliers. The kind of grandeur that made men forget how easily velvet-covered seats could become death traps.

Moreau adjusted his cufflinks, stepping past the doorman. He wasn't the only predator here. Every movement around him—the flick of a wrist, the subtle nods, the champagne glasses held at deliberate angles—all signals in a silent war.

Theo, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.

"Bonsoir, my good fellows!" Theo bowed theatrically at a pair of dignitaries, nearly knocking over a waiter. "Ah, the grandeur! The splendor! Reminds me of my last play—'Tragedy in Vienna.' A magnificent disaster! Closed in two nights."

Moreau didn't look at him. "You're overdoing it."

Theo grinned. "No such thing."

They split at the main hall.

Behind the stage, past a hallway marked "Staff Only", a private lounge was already filling with men who pretended not to know each other.

Players from every side of the war.

🔹 Colonel Dietrich (Prussian Intelligence) – The Cold Strategist.

🔹 Lady Katarina Varga (Hungarian Royalist & Arms Financier) – The Queen maker.

🔹 Dr. Emil Kirsch (Austrian Banking Elite) – The Hidden Hand.

🔹 A Russian Ambassador (Too quiet, watching too much).

🔹 And someone new. A man Moreau didn't recognize.

A man who wasn't supposed to be here.

The moment Moreau entered, conversations paused. A fraction of a second. But it was enough.

"Ah," said Lady Varga, sipping her drink, "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come."

Moreau smiled. "And miss a performance? Never."

Kirsch, the banker, leaned in. "You know, Moreau, they say even a dead man can get a ticket here… if he pays enough."

Moreau met his gaze. "The dead are often better company than the living."

A test.

Kirsch smiled. But his fingers tightened slightly on his glass. A tell.

He knew something.

Meanwhile, across the room, Theo was making a show of drunkenly debating military strategy with Colonel Dietrich.

"Ah, but see, you're missing the true power of cavalry in urban warfare! It's the hooves, Colonel! The hooves! People underestimate a good trampling!"

Dietrich sneered. "You're an idiot."

Theo gasped theatrically. "Why, thank you, sir!"

Distraction complete. Moreau had the floor.

Lady Varga tapped her ring against her glass. A sharp, deliberate sound.

"The train," she said. "It left Vienna with a full manifest. Arrived in Budapest… missing something."

Moreau stayed neutral. "Something?"

"A passenger," Kirsch said, swirling his drink. "One who never officially boarded."

The Russian Ambassador finally spoke. "Or one who never left."

Moreau calculated. So, they knew. Not everything. But enough to smell blood.

He decided to bait them.

"I assume," he said, "you've already checked the cargo."

Lady Varga smiled. "Of course."

Moreau leaned back. "And?"

A pause.

Then Kirsch, the banker, said: "There was a coffin."

Moreau didn't react. But inside, his mind reeled.

Theo, across the room, had stopped mid-rant.

"A coffin?" he said loudly. "Are we sure this isn't just some avant-garde art shipment? You know how Vienna gets."

Nobody laughed.

Lady Varga placed her glass down carefully. "The paperwork says the coffin was empty."

Dietrich exhaled sharply. "Paperwork lies."

The Russian flicked his cigarette ash. "So do spies."

Kirsch chuckled. "And politicians."

Moreau watched their faces. The tension wasn't fake. None of them had expected this.

Meaning… none of them had planted it.

So, who did?

The door creaked.

Not open. Closed.

Someone had locked them in.

And then—

The lights flickered. A second of darkness. Just enough for a single movement.

When they came back—

Kirsch was bleeding.

A thin cut along his wrist. Not deep. A warning.

Moreau saw the blood before Kirsch did.

Lady Varga stood first. "Who did that?"

No answer.

The Russian Ambassador was already checking his pockets. Dietrich's hand was on his pistol.

Moreau took a slow step forward. His eyes locked on the blood.

The cut was deliberate.

Someone in this room had just sent a message.

Moreau gripped Kirsch's wrist, pressing lightly.

Kirsch flinched. "It's nothing," he muttered. "A scratch."

Moreau ignored him. His focus was on the angle of the cut.

Too precise. Too clean.

Not a brawl. A warning.

Moreau looked up. "You were holding something when you were cut."

Kirsch hesitated. "No."

"Lie," Moreau said, calm as a winter wind.

Kirsch pulled his hand back. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Moreau turned to the room. "Someone wanted us to know that the train isn't our only problem."

Lady Varga exhaled. "So, what? A ghost did this?"

Theo cleared his throat. "I'd like to go on record as saying: if it's a ghost, I absolutely refuse to fight it."

Moreau took Kirsch's drink and poured it onto the floor.

Something tiny slipped out.

A rolled-up piece of paper, hidden in the base of the glass.

Moreau unfolded it.

Just three words.

"BUDAPEST. MIDNIGHT. ALONE."

The train wasn't just smuggling cargo—it was smuggling a person.

The coffin was "empty" on paper—but no one believes that.

Someone inside the meeting cut Kirsch as a silent threat.

Moreau found a secret message hidden in Kirsch's glass.

The message? A midnight meeting. Alone.