The office Simoneau maintained existed in a neighborhood that stood in stark contrast to the gleaming prosperity Mina had just traversed. Here, neglected buildings leaned precariously against one another, their facades scarred by time and indifference. This was where society's castoffs landed—immigrants, addicts, the desperately poor—invisible to the wealthy districts just streets away.
Mina approached a particular house, indistinguishable from its neighbors except for the specific pattern of cracks in its front steps. No sign advertised the business conducted within; anonymity was essential in their line of work.
Inside, the building was eerily quiet. Mina moved directly to a specific room on the second floor, entering without knocking. The man who awaited him sat behind a massive oak desk, incongruously elegant in these squalid surroundings.
Simoneau was in his fifties, but age had only enhanced his striking features. He possessed the cold beauty of classical statuary—all precise angles and perfect symmetry. His short-cut hair, once dark but now streaked with silver, waved naturally away from a high forehead. The resemblance between his features and Mina's was unmistakable, though Simoneau's eyes held none of the haunting emptiness that characterized Mina's gaze.
"What do you want, mister?" Mina asked without preamble, dispensing with formalities. "What's my next mission?"
Simoneau didn't react to the abruptness, seemingly unsurprised by Mina's direct approach. "Oh, Mina, finally," he said, his voice cultured and smooth. "I told you not to be late. Why are you late again?"
The rebuke was delivered softly, but the underlying steel was unmistakable.
"I'm sorry," Mina replied, his tone carefully modulated. "I received the message too late, mister."
"Never mind," Simoneau waved a manicured hand dismissively. "I know what you did last night. Such inconvenience." His lips thinned with displeasure. "You shouldn't have engaged them directly."
He rose from behind the desk, moving to the window where gray light filtered through grimy glass. "I have business in town that requires discretion. I want you to remain in your apartment for the next ten days. Do not leave home. I'll send someone with food and whatever else you might need."
His gaze, when it returned to Mina, was piercing. "Be mindful that I might summon you at any moment. Now get lost. I don't want to see you again until necessary, and don't create unnecessary troubles. I can't always clean up your messes. Understood?"
"Yes," Mina replied, his face betraying nothing of the rebellion that momentarily flared within him. "I've got it. You shouldn't have to clean up after me."
"Good. Now go."
"Goodbye." Mina turned to leave, catching the door before it closed completely behind him. Through the narrow gap, he observed another man entering the room—younger than Simoneau but with the same aristocratic bearing. Mina was already moving silently down the hallway, but his enhanced hearing caught the beginning of their conversation.
"So, father," the newcomer asked, "is he the man?"
"Yes," Simoneau replied. "He is the boy. But he's not the problem—his mother is."
"Amane belongs to the Syndicate of Crime," Simoneau continued, unaware that his words still reached Mina's ears, "while Mina belongs to me."
The younger man—Remi—shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath expensive shoes. "So father, what are you going to do about the situation?"
Simoneau's sigh was audible even from the hallway. "I don't know. If his mother shows that she's righteous and demonstrates interest in the boy, I'll need you to take care of your little brother. Understood?"
The word "brother" froze Mina mid-step, but he forced himself to continue moving, unwilling to risk discovery.
"Yes, father," Remi replied, his tone carefully neutral.
"Remi, be mindful that the lad shouldn't be treated humanly," Simoneau cautioned. "He should only be kept quiet, well-fed, and dressed. Don't mind him too much."
"Of course, father," came the smooth response. "I'll take care of that. But let's see first what Amane does."
"Agreed."
By the time this exchange concluded, Mina had already reached the street, his mind churning with this new information. Brother? The implication was clear, yet impossible to accept. He'd always known Simoneau controlled his fate, but the suggestion of blood relation opened wounds far more painful than the knife gash in his side.
Mina had barely reached his apartment when the quarrel erupted. It started as distant voices, growing louder as they approached his door. Amane's voice—growing stronger, more insistent—carried clearly through the thin walls.
Meanwhile, across town, another confrontation was unfolding. Amane herself had appeared at Vern's residence, her unexpected arrival causing visible discomfort to the man.
"Come in!" Vern called in response to her forceful knock, struggling to his feet as she entered. His surprise was poorly disguised beneath a veneer of cordiality. "Amane, what a surprise!"
She cut through his false welcome with a blade of words. "Don't mind me. I want to see my son."
Vern's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "You can't right now. You can't see Mina."
"Why not?" Amane demanded, steel beneath the silk of her voice.
"Because Mina's ill," Vern improvised, the lie smooth from practice. "I sent Remi to look after him. We'll inform you when he's well enough for visitors."
Amane's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I hope you're not lying to me, and the boy is alright."
"No, no," Vern hastened to reassure her, hands raised in a placating gesture. "He's alright. He's not in any danger. He has an apartment of his own, and I've taken care of him."
"I hope he's not—"
"No, Amane," Vern interrupted, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. "I wouldn't lie to you. He's not a bribe boy. He stays mostly with Remi, at Remi's mansion."
This seemed to mollify her slightly. "Very well. I will inform my husband, and I want to see Mina as soon as possible."
"Of course, Amane," Vern agreed readily. "Don't worry about that."
As she departed, the false smile dropped from Vern's face, replaced by an expression of calculated malice. The game was becoming more complicated, the players more dangerous. And caught between these powerful forces was Mina—a weapon none of them could afford to lose.