Private Loft, Budapest — Midnight.

The room was quiet—too quiet for what had just happened.

Blood was beginning to pool beneath the antique rug, creeping toward the marble floor like a slow confession. The man who had once worn Corvin’s insignia lay sprawled on his back, chest blooming red, eyes still frozen in disbelief.

Corvin stood a few steps away, holding the pistol with one gloved hand, steady and silent. No anger. No raised voice. Just a click. A shot. And now, a body.

He exhaled through his nose, then slowly holstered the gun inside his silk-lined coat like it was nothing more than a dinner napkin.

Across the room, his second-in-command, Lucien, remained still—back straight, jaw tight. No one moved. No one breathed too loudly.

Corvin stepped closer to the tall windows that framed the Budapest skyline in amber light. He pulled a cigarette from a lacquered case, lit it with a slow flick of silver, and took a long drag.

Then, he finally spoke.

“Do you know what offends me the most?” he asked, voice soft, accented, every word crisp. He didn’t turn around. “It’s not the theft.”

Lucien said nothing.

“It’s the insult,” Corvin continued, smoke curling from his lips like silk ribbons. “He truly thought I wouldn’t notice. That I was too distracted. Too… merciful.”

He chuckled—low, dry, humorless.

“I built the Nocturne Accord on precision. On trust. Every man beneath me is a vein in the same body. And when one vein goes septic…” He turned then, finally facing Lucien, his dark eyes unreadable beneath the shadows of the room.

“…we don’t treat it. We cut it out.”

Lucien nodded once. “Should I have the cleaners—?”

“No,” Corvin interrupted. “Leave it there until morning. Let the others walk in and see it. Let them remember what happens when you think I’m not watching.”

He took another long drag from his cigarette, then smiled—that dangerous, slow grin that never reached his eyes.

“Nothing escapes my gaze, Lucien. Not in this city. Not in my empire.”

He flicked ash onto the blood-stained rug and walked away, the soft sounds of his polished shoes echoing in the hollow quiet.

Behind him, the corpse stared up at the ceiling, still and silent—another forgotten vein, excised cleanly from the body of a flawless machine.