Zurich, Midnight.
Snow drifted down onto the mirrored facade of the Global Central Reserve, softening its brutal lines. The building looked serene from a distance. But inside—
Inside, it was a powder keg.
Damien Voss stood in the service corridor beneath the vault floor, breath steady, eyes sharp.
Asher's voice crackled weakly in his ear: > "They're not Black Sun… This is something else. Something ugly."
Ugly was an understatement.
The team that breached the east wing weren't mercenaries — they moved too clean. No hesitation, no radio chatter, no wasted bullets. Their armor wasn't commercial issue, and their insignias were scrubbed clean. These were ghosts.
Government-trained? Maybe.
Corporate? Possibly worse.
But whoever they were, they didn't come for money.
They came to erase witnesses.
Mara stood beside Damien, gun raised. For the first time, he saw doubt behind her usual steel.
"Why do I get the feeling," she murmured, "we just stepped into a war we don't even have names for?"
"Because we did."
On the top floor, Emil Hartmann finally stood from his chair, turning away from the panoramic view of Zurich. His polished office was lined with books he'd never read, art he didn't care about — the mask of culture hiding a predator's heart.
He checked his secure channel. A private signal blinked on his encrypted phone. One symbol:
🐺
The wolves were here.
"Good," he whispered. "Let the ghosts clean this up."
The Wolves.
They were called that in whispers — Les Loups Gris, or simply The Grey Wolves.
An off-book paramilitary unit, older than Black Sun, funded not by nations, but by something deeper — old European aristocracy money, Vatican black funds, even Saudi petro-shadows. Their only job: preserve the global order.
No trials. No news reports.Just silence. And ash.
And tonight, they were here for Damien Voss.
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, a different war room buzzed.
Victor Strand — Damien's true enemy, the old spider behind the Thirteen — sat in a London estate older than America itself. Cigar burning low, eyes fixed on encrypted video feeds from Zurich.
Valeria stood behind him, arms folded, a storm building in her expression.
"You're risking exposure," she said coldly. "Sending in them."
Victor didn't look away from the screen. "Exposure to who? The fools protesting in the streets? The children with encrypted hashtags? They don't matter."
He puffed once, exhaling smoke like a dragon from old fairy tales.
"Voss is different," Valeria whispered. "He's not screaming for change. He's cutting arteries."
Victor's smile was pure aristocratic contempt.
"Good. Let him struggle. Let him bleed."
"And if he wins?"
Victor finally looked at her, one eye gleaming in the low light.
"If he wins, darling, then we burn the whole system and build another."
"And the Wolves?"
"They'll bury the ashes."
Zurich, Ground Floor.
The Grey Wolves moved like phantoms, sweeping the marble lobby, boots silent, rifles hot.
Asher saw them first, crouched behind the shattered security checkpoint.
"They're clearing floors one by one," he murmured. "Clock's ticking."
Damien checked his weapon.
"Then we move first."
"To where?"
Damien's eyes lifted to the glass staircase leading up to Emil Hartmann's office, glinting like a path to judgment.
"To the architect."
Floor by floor, they rose.
Two Wolves caught them on the mezzanine. Mara dropped the first with a clean headshot. Asher took the second in the throat, brutal, messy, unforgiving.
Alarms screamed. Fire suppression systems triggered, spraying mist across the burning data centers below.
It felt biblical.
"We're not getting out of this one," Asher growled.
"Didn't plan to."
Emil Hartmann was still calm when they finally breached his office.
"Mister Voss," Emil said, smoothing his tie. "You've made quite a mess."
Damien stepped forward through the shattered door, boots crunching glass. His pistol was raised, steady.
"Hello, Emil."
Mara flanked him, eyes scanning for hidden shooters. Asher came last, bleeding from a graze on his forearm.
Emil didn't flinch. Why would he? He had the Wolves. The Thirteen. The entire system humming beneath his fingertips.
"You can kill me," Emil said softly, "but nothing will change."
Damien smiled. Just a little. "That's where you're wrong."
"Do you know how many will replace me? How many more names are on your little list?"
Damien tossed a small, blood-stained USB onto Emil's desk.
"Not names. Files. Bank transfers. Black ops funding. Satellite records. All linked to you. And not just you."
He leaned closer, voice quiet.
"The Thirteen aren't ghosts anymore. They're coordinates."
For the first time… Emil Hartmann looked afraid.
And then—
CRASH.
The Wolves breached the far windows on rappel lines, floodlights exploding across the office. Gunfire erupted. Chaos again.
Damien fired first.
Emil Hartmann's brain decorated the Monet behind him like modern art.
"One down," Damien muttered.
Asher grabbed Damien by the collar, dragging him behind the reinforced conference table. Bullets screamed overhead.
"Great plan, boss," Asher coughed. "Any bright ideas on step two?"
"Yeah," Damien said, teeth clenched. "Burn Zurich to the ground."
Back in London, Victor Strand watched the feed go dark.
He didn't blink. He just sipped his drink and reached for his phone.
"Call the meeting," he whispered. "It's time for the Thirteen to step into the light."