The bells above the entrance of “Le Petit Palais,” the most opulent bakery in the city, didn’t jingle; they chimed, a soft, aristocratic sound that heralded the arrival of the wealthy and the polished

The stairwell to the penthouse was guarded by four heavily armed mercenaries. Elias didn't hesitate. He was a force of nature fueled by a decade of suppressed rage.

He burst through the stairwell doors, dropping the first two guards with precise, lethal shots before they even registered the threat. The third guard fired a wild burst from an assault rifle, the bullets shattering the marble banister inches from Elias’s face. Elias rolled under the gunfire, driving a tactical knife into the man’s thigh, then disarming him with a brutal strike to the throat.

The final guard tried to run for the alarm panel. Elias threw his empty Glock, the heavy metal frame striking the back of the guard's head, knocking him unconscious.

Elias was bleeding, breathless, but unstoppable. He reached the heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse. He didn't bother picking the lock. He placed a small block of C4—courtesy of Silas—on the hinges, took cover, and detonated it.

The doors blew inward in a shower of splinters and smoke.

Elias rushed into the room. The two interior guards were disoriented by the blast. Elias neutralized them with clinical precision.

"Elara!" Elias screamed, his voice cracking.

She emerged from under the grand piano, terrified, her hands covering her ears. When she saw Elias, covered in dust and blood, the programming of the last three years shattered. She saw her brother.

She ran to him, burying her face in his chest. "Elias! I'm scared!"

"I've got you," he whispered fiercely, lifting her into his arms. "We're leaving. Right now."

But as he turned toward the blown-out doorway, a cold, aristocratic voice stopped him dead in his tracks.