Mara Sen hated mornings. Especially mornings that began with death threats.
The Interpol offices in Lyon were chaos incarnate. Phones ringing, analysts shouting, caffeine-addicted technicians clacking on keyboards like gunfire.
And above it all, projected on a fifteen-meter screen at the front of the command center, was his face.
Or rather, that mask. Porcelain. Stark. That black diagonal slash cutting across it like a wound.
"Subject: Damien Voss," the briefing officer recited flatly. "Alias: Saint of Shadows. Status: World's Most Wanted. Crimes: Treason. Sabotage. Propaganda. Global Destabilization. Current objective: Unknown."
Unknown.
Mara knew better.
She stood alone at the edge of the briefing room, arms crossed, sharp grey suit matching her sharp mind. Half Chinese, half French, eyes like steel — Mara didn't need to speak to command the room. Her reputation did that for her.
A small buzz in her earpiece. Personal channel.
"Agent Sen," came the voice of Director Cole, her handler. "Status report."
Mara kept her voice steady. "The broadcast was not random. Geneva wasn't symbolic. It was tactical."
"Explain."
Mara's eyes narrowed on the frozen image of Damien's mask.
"Julian Hart was one of the Thirteen. One of the inner circle."
Silence.
They never talked about the Thirteen over open channels. But now, it was unavoidable.
"Damien's not targeting governments," Mara said softly. "He's targeting the real ones in charge."
The Thirteen. The hidden families. The untouchable bloodlines that owned countries the way children owned toys.
And the first one was dead.
Across the ocean, in a marble penthouse above Manhattan, a man sipped whiskey slowly as he watched the footage again and again.
"Twelve more to go."
He wasn't afraid. He was furious.
The man's name was Victor Strand — tech magnate, media king, secret financier of half the wars in the last decade. Member of the Thirteen.
"Activate Project Black Sun," he murmured to the woman beside him.
"Sir?" she asked.
"Find Voss. Kill him. Kill anyone who helps him."
His glass clicked softly against the edge of the table.
"And bring me that Interpol agent. The pretty one. Sen."
Mara didn't know it yet, but she was no longer the hunter.
She was now the hunted.