VOICE OF SILENCE [ 2 ]

Location: Budapest, Abandoned Dockyard

The Danube was a graveyard at night.

Fog coiled over the water like a noose, swallowing the distant city lights. The only sounds were the creaking of old ships and the occasional drunken yell from the slums behind the docks. A perfect place for business.

Or for a body to disappear.

Moreau arrived alone. At least, that's what he wanted people to think.

Theo was, of course, hiding behind a stack of wooden crates like a man who thought he was invisible but was absolutely not. His ridiculous hat peeked out. Moreau ignored it.

The location matched the note from Kirsch's drink. Budapest. Midnight. Alone.

But no one was waiting.

Which meant they were already here.

Moreau stopped at the meeting spot—a rusted lamppost near the edge of the pier. His hands stayed in his pockets, shoulders relaxed. He looked bored.

And then—

A gunshot cracked the silence.

Moreau didn't move.

The bullet sliced through the air, whistling past his ear, so close he felt the heat. It struck the metal lamppost behind him.

Theo yelped from his hiding spot. "What the hell?! Are we starting with the shooting? What happened to foreplay?!"

Moreau exhaled. This again.

Another shot. This one—deliberately missing his foot by an inch.

Then a third shot, fired wildly into the distance.

A pause. Then footsteps.

Someone was approaching.

A man casually strolled into the dim glow of the streetlamp, adjusting his gloves. A wide grin split his face as he twirled his gun like he hadn't just tried to murder them.

"Ahhh, gentlemen! Good evening! You survived. Excellent."

Theo poked his head out. "YOU SHOT AT US!"

The man gasped dramatically. "Did I?! Oh, heavens! What a silly mistake. I thought you were someone else."

Moreau narrowed his eyes. "That was a warning shot, wasn't it?"

The man winked. "Or a test."

Moreau dusted off his sleeve. "Did I pass?"

The man holstered his pistol, extending a hand like they were old friends.

"Name's Valenci. But you can call me Val. Or 'Sir,' if you're feeling formal. I'm not picky."

Theo muttered, "I can think of a few other things to call you."

Valenci had the air of a stage performer who had wandered into a crime syndicate and just decided to stay.

His clothes were expensive but slightly disheveled, like he had bought them with stolen money and never bothered to iron them. His movements were too smooth, too playful. Everything he did felt intentional.

Dangerous men usually had one of two approaches—brutal efficiency or calculated manipulation.

Valenci? He chose a third option.

He made everything look like a joke.

Moreau didn't shake his hand. "You staged an assassination attempt as a greeting?"

Valenci sighed, dramatically offended. "Staged? Monsieur, that hurts. I assure you, it was real."

Theo glared. "That does NOT make it better."

Valenci chuckled. "Oh, lighten up. You're alive, aren't you? And I like my friends alive." He leaned in slightly, grinning. "For now."

Moreau kept his face unreadable. "And if we had shot back?"

Valenci shrugged. "Then I'd be impressed. And possibly dead. Either way—memorable!"

Theo rubbed his temples. "This guy is making me physically ill."

Moreau finally cut to the point. "The train. The coffin. The missing passenger."

Valenci smirked. "Oh, that. Yes, yes, fascinating, isn't it? So many questions." He looked at Moreau with an amused glint. "The real question is—why do you care?"

Moreau tilted his head. He was testing him.

Instead of answering, Moreau countered. "Where do you fit in?"

Valenci grinned. "Everywhere. I'm like an unsolvable puzzle. Annoying, but irresistible."

Theo scoffed. "Try just annoying."

Moreau cut through the nonsense. "You were at the Opera House meeting."

"Was I?"

Moreau didn't blink. "You were watching from the balcony. Silver saw you."

Valenci clicked his tongue. "Damn. He is sharp."

As if summoned, another figure stepped out of the shadows.

Silver. The quiet ghost from the Opera House.

Dressed in gray and black, with a presence so faint it felt unnatural. If Valenci was a performance, Silver was silence given form.

Theo groaned. "Oh great. Another one. What is this, a magician's convention?"

Silver ignored him. His eyes locked onto Valenci.

"You should be dead."

Valenci spread his arms. "Well, that was rude."

Silver wasn't amused. "You were in Vienna. I saw your body."

Valenci waggled his fingers. "Surprise! Guess I got better."

Theo pointed at him. "See? That's suspicious. You can't just 'get better' from being dead."

Moreau finally put it together. "You were the missing passenger."

Silence.

Then, Valenci smiled wider.

"Well, now," he said, "wasn't that an awfully quick deduction? I expected at least two more drinks before we got here."

Moreau's mind was running.

If Valenci had been on the train, and if he was supposed to be dead—

Then someone had either tried to kill him… or smuggle him out.

Which meant…

The coffin wasn't empty.

Silver took a step forward. "Who helped you escape?"

Valenci waggled a finger. "Tut-tut. Can't just give everything away."

Moreau pressed. "Was it someone in the Opera House meeting?"

Valenci sighed, looking at the sky as if annoyed at their competence. "You lot are no fun."

Then—a gunshot.

Not from Valenci.

From the rooftops.

A sniper.

The bullet missed, barely.

Valenci laughed. "Oh, finally! Someone with some enthusiasm!"

Moreau and Silver dove for cover. Theo, however, screamed and ran in the worst possible direction—toward the sniper's line of fire.

Moreau swore. "Theo, you idiot—!"

Valenci, unfazed, whistled.

"Welp. That's my cue." He backflipped off the pier into the river.

Theo skidded to a stop. "DID HE JUST—?!"

Moreau grabbed Theo and yanked him behind cover as another bullet slammed into the wood.

Silver was already gone.

The sniper was retreating.

And Valenci?

Gone. Again.

Moreau clenched his fists.

This wasn't over.

THE CHESSBOARD OF CORPSES

Location: A Grand Mansion, Vienna

The carriages arrived in silence. No torches were lit, no names were exchanged. Only the sharp clinking of hooves against stone broke the stillness of the winter night.

A woman in black lace stepped down from her carriage, her veil just thin enough to reveal a smirk.

A general, his medals deliberately left behind, glanced at the old mansion's towering gates before entering.

A man with silver-rimmed glasses adjusted his gloves, watching the others with the detached curiosity of a doctor examining a dying patient.

None of them knew who had summoned them. But all of them had come.

Because the invitation wasn't a request.

It was a warning.

Inside, the dining hall was lavish yet suffocating. Red velvet curtains, an oak table stretching the length of the room, chandeliers heavy with secrets. No servants. No introductions.

Just seven people who should never have been in the same room together.

A man with a cigar was the first to break the silence.

"This isn't a dinner," he said, lighting it with an amused flick. "This is a confession booth."

The woman in black lace tilted her head. "For sins not yet committed, I assume?"

A deep chuckle. Then silence.

The only thing on the table besides their plates? A single chessboard.

All the white pieces were missing.

Only the black ones remained.

A man with cold eyes—a former spymaster, believed dead for five years—ran his fingers across the polished pieces. "Fascinating choice."

"We're being played."

"By whom?"

"That," the general said, pouring himself a drink, "is the only question that matters tonight."

They waited for the host to arrive.

No one did.

Then—the first course was served.

And with it, the first kill.

A sharp cough. Then another.

The silver-rimmed man, the one who had barely spoken, reached for his throat. A gurgling sound followed.

Then—his face hit the plate.

Dead.

Wine spilled, the glass rolling onto the tablecloth.

The room was utterly silent.

Then, the woman in black lace let out a soft laugh.

"Well. That was quick."

The general stood immediately, drawing a concealed knife. "No one touches anything. The poison might still be active."

The spymaster, still seated, tilted his head slightly. "No. This was not in the food."

He reached forward, pried open the dead man's palm, and revealed what he had been clutching.

A single chess piece.

A black king.

The general exhaled through his nose. "A warning."

The woman smirked. "No, A mean__"

The doors suddenly locked from the outside.

A single envelope was slipped beneath the door.

The spymaster retrieved it, sliced it open, and read it aloud.

"Move wisely. Or be removed."

The industrialist leaned back. "A game, then?"

The woman in black lace sipped her wine—or perhaps testing if it was poisoned. "Isn't it always?"

The general frowned, his mind already moving in patterns of war. "This is an execution. The only question is… who is next?"

The spymaster cleaned his glasses. "No. This is a selection process."

The industrialist raised a brow. "For what?"

The spymaster studied the chessboard. "Survival."

Then, he did something unexpected.

He moved a piece.

A black knight.

The moment he did, a hidden compartment in the table clicked open.

Inside?

Another envelope.

The woman in black lace whistled softly. "Well, well… Whoever designed this night is very thorough."

The spymaster unfolded the note.

"Some of you have already made your first move. Others have yet to realize they are on the board."

"Decide now whether you will play… or be played."

The room was silent.

Then—the lights flickered.

A faint sound echoed from the hallway. Footsteps.

Someone else was here.

A voice—smooth, casual—spoke from the darkness.

"Such serious faces."

A figure stepped into the light. Dressed finely, smiling like a man who had already won the game.

Silver.

The same man from the opera meeting.

The woman in black lace didn't blink. "How rude of you to be late, darling."

Silver sighed theatrically. "Fashionably. You know me."

He moved towards the table without a single hint of fear.

The general raised his gun.

Silver held up his hands, amused. "Tsk, tsk. You assume too much."

"You tried to kill us before."

"I try to kill many people. Don't take it personally."

The spymaster, watching, asked the only question that mattered.

"Are you the host?"

Silver's smirk widened. "If I was, would I tell you?"

"Yes. Because you love the sound of your own voice."

Silver laughed, sitting down casually. "Fair."

Then, without hesitation, he reached forward and moved the black queen on the chessboard.

Another compartment clicked open.

Inside?

A gun.

Silver grinned. "Oh. Now things get interesting."

The general, the woman, the industrialist, the spymaster—all silent.

The game had just changed.

And they still didn't know the rules.

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