The note wasn't there when Carmen left the flat.
But by the time she reached for her gloves, it was tucked inside the right pocket—folded neatly, like it had always belonged there.
She never saw anyone near her.
Never felt a hand.
But she knew who it was from.
It read:
"The world is listening.
Will you speak?"
No name.
No date.
Just an address.
And a challenge.
The building was a chapel once—before the fire took it.
Now it was something else.
Half theater, half mausoleum. Ash still clung to the pews. The ceiling was open to the sky. Light came in sideways through cracked stained glass, like bruised prayer.
On the stage:
One chair.
Upright. Alone.
Nothing theatrical about it.
Carmen stepped inside alone.
Julian and Vivienne stayed near the entrance. Just in case.
But Carmen knew Hargreave.
This wasn't a trap.
It was a mirror.
She knew before she reached the chair that someone was already sitting there.
A man.
Alive, barely.
Ropes tight around his chest and wrists. Blood drying down his arms.
Not stabbed.
Carved.
Words sliced into his skin:
"Tell them.
Tell them who."
His mouth was untouched.
Because it wasn't meant to be silenced.
It was meant to speak.
Carmen stood in front of him for a long time.
Just watching.
This wasn't her work.
Wasn't Julian's.
Not Vivienne's.
This was Hargreave.
His line in the sand.
His question.
His warning.
She stepped close, crouched down beside the man.
"What did he make you say?"
The man blinked slowly.
Tried to form a word. Failed.
Finally whispered, "He said if I didn't name you… he'd cut out my eyes."
Carmen's voice stayed even.
"Did you?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
She stood.
Brushed off her coat.
Walked out.
Vivienne was waiting.
"Well?"
Carmen didn't break stride.
"He wanted a confession."
Julian's jaw tensed. "And?"
Carmen lit a match with her thumbnail.
Held it too long. Let the flame kiss her skin.
Then said, quiet:
"Then we'll give him one."
That night, they killed again.
Not someone who deserved it.
Not a monster.
Just someone loud. Visible. Innocent.
He was found tied to a bench outside the police precinct at dawn.
Hands folded like a prayer.
Mouth sewn shut.
Carved into his back:
"We speak in action.
You wanted a voice.
This is volume."
The city broke open.
Headlines shrieked. Theories bred. Fear bloomed.
But in their flat—Carmen drank her wine slowly, eyes half-lidded, lips stained red.
"They wanted a message," she said.
Vivienne sucked blood from her knuckle like it was honey.
Julian stared into the fire, and said nothing for a long time.
Then:
"Now we wait."