The interior of MACUSA was enveloped in a solemn atmosphere, illuminated by the dim light of the floating lamps, whose flames danced softly over the heads of the few who were still working in the stillness of the night. The light reflected off the polished marble floors, creating sparkles that drifted through the corridors like echoes of an ancient time.

Percival Graves strode forward, his cloak billowing lightly behind him, as if the very air parted to allow him passage. The murmurs of the staff, hurried and full of urgency, mingled with the jingle of scrolls being hurriedly reviewed, each one laden with vital information, each one a piece of a puzzle that never quite fit together.

In his office, the silence was thick, almost palpable. On his desk rested a report, simple in appearance, but with a disturbing shadow over it. Indications of illegal magical activity outside New York.

Graves picked up the document with measured movements, every word in it was examined with unrelenting precision, his keen eyes losing no detail.

“There's always someone who thinks they're above the law...” he muttered, his words almost drowned out by the rustling of the parchment as he set it down on the table with a light thud.

He took a moment, staring at the sheet. Next, he adjusted his jacket, a gesture almost imperceptible but charged with decision, and with a cool gaze that reflected years of experience, he picked up his wand.

He did not like to leave loose ends, and tonight, the darkness would be but another obstacle to overcome. He knew that, behind these clandestine activities, there was something bigger waiting to be unraveled. And he would not rest until everything was in place.