CODE OF THE DEAD FOG, GLASS AND LIGHT The city was wrapped in silver fog. Not the gloomy kind. The elegant kind. The sort that turns glass towers into floating illusions and makes headlights look philosophical. Eli adjusted his scarf for the seventh time. “Remind me,” he muttered, staring up at the shimmering facade of the Aurora Nexus Convention Center , “why are we attending a tech conference? We don’t even own a toaster smart enough to spy on us.” Zane Faulkner stood beside him, light brown overcoat falling perfectly over his shoulders. One hand rested lazily in his pocket. The other toyed with an invitation card. “Correction,” Zane replied calmly. “You once owned a smart watch.” Eli grimaced. “It accused me of being stressed while I was sleeping.” “It was accurate.” Eli narrowed his eyes. “You enjoy this, don’t you?” Zane’s lips curved into that faint, dangerous smile. “Immensely.” The banner above the glass entrance glowed: GLOBAL FUTURE TECH SUMMIT — KEYNOTE: ADRIAN VOLKOV Inside...

  THE NEURAL HARVEST THE ELEVATOR The elevator hummed softly as it climbed toward the twenty-second floor. Lyra Vance adjusted the grocery bags in her hands and leaned her head back against the mirrored wall. It had been a long day—back-to-back consultations, two corporate briefings, and one very arrogant executive who believed emotional intelligence was a myth invented by underperformers. She smirked faintly. “Men,” she murmured to her reflection. “Such fragile neurological specimens.” The doors slid open with a polite chime. The corridor outside was silent. Too silent. Lyra stepped out, heels clicking against polished marble. The hallway lights flickered once—barely noticeable. She took three steps toward her apartment. And then— A shadow moved. Before her instincts could complete the warning signal, two masked figures emerged from either side. One arm locked around her shoulders. A cloth pressed over her mouth. She tried to twist free. She was strong. She was trained. But the ch...

  THE UNDERGROUND BOARD The staircase spiraled downward like a thought you were not supposed to have. Dim lights followed the curve of stone walls, each bulb flickering with deliberate restraint, as if even electricity respected the secrecy of the place. At the bottom, a steel door stood half open. Beyond it lay the underground chess club. Zane Faulkner paused at the final step. He adjusted the collar of his white overcoat, slid one hand casually into his pocket, and observed the room with quiet precision. Long wooden tables. Vintage chess boards. Heavy silence punctured only by the soft click of pieces touching squares. “Tell me again,” Eli whispered, leaning close, “why perfectly sane people would choose to play chess in a basement that looks like it hosts secret trials.” Zane’s lips curved faintly. “Because sanity is overrated.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the only honest one.” Eli sighed and tugged nervously at his jacket. “You said this place would help you think.” “I said t...

  BLOOD IN THE INK THE MANSION AT THE EDGE OF THE CITY The mansion stood where the city quietly surrendered to darkness. A colossal structure of glass and stone, perched at the very edge of civilization, surrounded by trimmed hedges, towering pines, and a fog that seemed less like weather and more like intention. Soft lights spilled from tall windows, dissolving into the mist like secrets trying to escape. Zane Faulkner adjusted the collar of his black overcoat as he stepped out of the car. “One day,” Eli muttered beside him, staring at the glowing mansion with visible discomfort, “you’re going to tell me why trouble always wears expensive clothes.” Zane smiled faintly. “Because danger, my dear Eli, has excellent taste.” Fog curled around their shoes as music drifted from inside—laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of power gathered under one roof. This was no ordinary celebration. It was the birthday of Victoria Hale—the only daughter of Senator Richard Hale, one of the most influe...

  A FOGGY MORNING AND A BROKEN TOAST The fog outside the apartment windows looked thick enough to be sliced with a knife. It clung to the streetlights below like a secret refusing to be revealed. Inside, the small kitchen smelled of toasted bread, black coffee, and mild irritation. Eli stared at the toaster as if it had personally betrayed him. “It burned again,” he announced, lifting a piece of toast like evidence in a courtroom. “This machine has a personal grudge against me.” Zane Faulkner sat at the small dining table, calmly buttering his perfectly golden slice. He didn’t even look up. “The toaster doesn’t hate you, Eli. It simply responds poorly to panic and impatience. Much like you.” “I was calm,” Eli protested. “Extremely calm. I only hit the lever five times.” Zane finally glanced up, one eyebrow arching. “That explains the carbonization.” Outside, a light drizzle fell, barely visible through the fog. Zane took a sip of coffee, his sharp eyes unfocused, as if he were alre...