An Agent?

The train practically screamed as it rattled across the border into Lazareth—a country that dressed itself up in diplomacy, but, man, underneath all that paint? Just secrets stacked on secrets.

Eren glued himself to the window, jaw clenched so tight he might crack a tooth. His eyes flicked over the scenery—white-washed buildings whizzing by, all carved into cliffs and shining steel. Fancy stuff. Old-school, like something out of a movie. But behind all that elegance? Yeah, Lazareth pretended it didn’t know a damn thing about war, even while hiding the deadliest assassin out there.

Rime.

Two days back, Eren had ripped through a bunch of fake leads, tearing apart the neat little story the agency fed him. It was all smoke and mirrors—someone’s idea of a distraction, just enough to keep him spinning, nowhere close to the truth.

But there was this one, stubborn clue: some encrypted data, not leaving his country, but sneaking right into Lazareth. Buried inside? A signature. All flourish and snark.

RIME.OVL

Not from Kaelein. Never was. That bastard had always been here. Hiding. Watching.

Eren hit the platform, eyes darting—paranoid, maybe, but not wrong. The air tasted weird—like snow and burned electronics. Every muscle in his body tensed up.

Neutral ground? Yeah, right. This was Rime’s turf. His playground.

Eren could feel it—the rules, shifting under his feet. He wasn’t the hunter anymore. He was the one being stalked.

Prey. On a leash. Or maybe just a countdown.

And from somewhere up high, three buildings over, he was being watched.

Binoculars—no fancy scopes yet. Didn’t need one.

There was Eren Valis, pulling off that “bored traveler” act for customs, lips tight in a fake-smile, flames flickering just beneath the surface.

So he came after all.

Rime tapped gloved fingers along the cold railing, drumming out some lazy beat.

He’d been expecting a marionette, some fool easy to manipulate.

But here was someone with a spark. Someone burning.

Honestly, the whole place looked like someone had tried way too hard to make it look accidental. Like, c’mon — who leaves a file drawer just hanging open, half a red light blinking on some sketchy comm drive? Amateur hour, if you ask me. But that’s exactly what Eren wanted: rookie vibes, bait laid out with the kind of obviousness that practically screams, “Hey, spy stuff happening here!”

Twelve hours. That’s how long he spent fussing over every detail in this tiny downtown apartment. Third floor, right above the street where diplomats like to strut around pretending they’re not being watched. You could smell the setup from the hallway.

The real kicker? A so-called “coded” briefing left out, just messy enough to beg for a second look. Not even fully decrypted, just enough to tease — names, ops, vulnerabilities. Basically waving a red flag at anyone with half a brain and a sniper’s patience. Specifically, Rime.

Because let’s be real: if Rime was watching (and Eren would’ve bet his last tooth he was), this was the kind of thing he wouldn’t be able to resist. Too easy. Too delicious. The sort of trap that almost feels like a dare.

So Eren sat. Waiting. Across the street, playing statue behind some blackout curtains. Headset clamped over his ears. Every nerve wound up so tight he thought he might snap.

Ten hours. Ten. He counted every tick. When midnight finally rolled around, he was about ready to punch a wall just to stay awake.

Then — something. Barest flicker on the sensors. Third floor, window latch. Eren’s heart jumped, fingers poised over the console.

Infrared camera showed a blur, just a shadow really. Didn’t move like some dumb burglar or a musclehead merc. Way too smooth, almost elegant.

Trap door tripped. Sensors went nuts for half a second. And then...

Nothing.

No alarms. No sign of anyone leaving. Place was ghosted.

Eren bolted downstairs, adrenaline making his hands shake. Crossed the street so fast he nearly ate pavement. The door? Still locked. File drawer? Exactly as he’d left it. Not even a smudge.

Except — wait. On the desk, right where he’d know Eren would find it, lay a single black glove. Folded up all neat, like a little present. Underneath, someone had written in the fanciest handwriting Eren had ever seen:

“Clever, Agent Valis. But I don’t pick locks. I pick people.

—R”

Eren just stood there, staring. He hadn’t failed. Not really. The trap had been noticed, poked at, maybe even admired.

Basically, Rime had walked in, looked around, and left a calling card — the way a cat might knock over a cage just to see what noise it makes.

The gallery was nothing special.

Old stone walls. Local art. Free wine that tasted like diluted ink. A diplomatic event — the kind spies liked because everyone wore masks, even without the costumes.

Eren adjusted the collar of his tailored coat, blending easily into the crowd. Not Eren Valis tonight — no. Tonight, he was Elias Ward, freelance intelligence advisor, “just passing through.” He smiled when people talked, nodded at the boring bits, and kept his real attention on the diplomats across the room.

Someone here was linked to the leak.

Someone was laundering secrets through cultural fronts.

And maybe—just maybe—Rime would sniff around, too.

He didn’t expect to notice the man by the sculpture.

Tall. Lean. Unbothered. He wasn’t trying to draw attention — that would’ve been suspicious. But something about him was too... precise. Still. Like he didn’t belong to this room. Like he was borrowing the space, politely.

Stranger.

He caught Eren’s eye for half a second, then looked away, as if disinterested.

Which made Eren watch longer.

Across the room, Rime sipped from his glass.

He wasn’t Rime tonight. No gloves, no mask. Just Lucien Vale, foreign economic attaché, elegant in charcoal black, using his real accent with a slight blur.

He hadn’t come here for Eren.

He didn’t know Eren would be here.

But the moment their eyes met, something in him paused.

That man — the one by the tapestry — the one holding himself like a man coiled too tight?

Something about him rang wrong.

Not a threat.

Not yet.

But… sharp. Hungry.

A spy.

Rime smiled faintly. Looked away. Let him come closer.

Eren did.

He approached casually, swirling his wine like it meant something. “Didn’t think anyone under fifty appreciated this kind of event,” he said with a crooked smirk.

The stranger turned to him, voice velvet-smooth.

“Didn’t think spies appreciated wine.”

Eren’s pulse skipped.

A joke. Probably. Probably.

“Touché,” he replied, smile tight. “Elias Ward.”

The man held out his hand.

“Lucien Vale.”

Their hands met. Brief. Charged.

Neither recognized the other.

But something passed between them — like heat before lightning.

They talked. Of nothing. Of art. Of countries neither of them admitted working for.

But underneath it all, two blades circled, edges veiled in charm.

Later, when they left through opposite doors, both turned back.

Just for a moment.

Neither smiled.

But neither could quite forget the feel of that handshake.