When the gods allow you to escape death twice, it does not mean you are favored; it may simply mean they have reserved a more cruel fate for you.
The death of Fiona Franco shocked the world, leaving a shadow of tragedy that was hard to forget. But what followed was even more explosive: Connor Franco and Victoria Sampson were arrested on Monday afternoon, charged with human trafficking and the systemic abuse of children.
On the day of the arrest, Trevor and Spion arrived at the Franco mansion to collect the “appreciation gifts” Franco had intended to give them on the night of the party.
“A small thanks for saving my life at the hospital,” Franco said feebly. He was draped in a dark gray silk robe and looked as if he had aged ten years overnight. The vigor that once defined him had completely vanished.
Trevor and Spion each picked up a gift box from the table. Inside, both found the keys to identical high-end sports cars.
“Mr. Franco, you are very generous,” Trevor said. He and Spion had already agreed that regardless of the gift, they would donate its value to a foundation for victimized children.
“You can collect the cars from the dealership whenever you like,” Franco murmured, standing up with effort. “Please forgive me for not hosting you for tea. There are… too many things to deal with.”
As Franco turned to leave, Isabel burst into the room. “Connor, the police are here. They have a warrant for your arrest and a search order for the house.”
Franco sighed, a hollow sound. “I knew they would come eventually.” He turned to Adams. “Take our guests out through the back gate. Don’t let the police harass them.”
“Yes, sir,” Adams said, gesturing to Trevor and Spion. “Please, follow me.”
Adams led them through the snow-covered gardens toward the rear exit. The world was a vast, silent expanse of white until a rhythmic thrumming echoed from the sky. A black, unmarked helicopter roared overhead, kicking up a blinding cloud of snow. Five agents in matte-black tactical armor rappelled down.
“Don’t move!” one agent shouted the moment his boots hit the ground, leveling a rifle at them. Their helmets featured integrated glowing visors that obscured their faces.
“Don’t hurt us! We’re harmless!” Adams cried, his hands flying into the air.
“We were just leaving,” Trevor added, keeping his voice steady.
The leader of the unit approached, his visor scanning them. When his gaze landed on Spion, he paused for a fraction of a second. “All clear,” the leader barked into his comms. “Let them pass.”
“Go,” Spion whispered, patting Trevor’s arm.
As they hurried away, they overheard the leader’s cold instructions to his team: “Find the girl, Isabel. Have her lead you to the server. If the police interfere, inform them the server is being seized by the Queen’s order. Use lethal force if they attempt to stop us.”
Once they had safely descended the hill and left the mansion grounds behind, Trevor turned to Spion. “Who were those guys?” he said, his voice low. “Those weren’t like any standard government agents.”
Spion shook his head, “Don’t know. They might be a shadow unit. Directly under the Queen’s personal command.”
One week later, the new year arrived, and the holiday season faded. Report Man returned from his trip to the Alps, and the team gathered at the Dressrious Salon’s cafeteria on a Tuesday morning.
“The Franco news has gone global,” Report Man said, stirring his coffee. “Even in the remote villages of the Alps, it’s all anyone talks about.”
“Few scandals involve this many high-profile names. Gossip News is in a frenzy these days,” Lady News remarked. “Lords, politicians, magnates, scholars, artists… it’s a nuclear strike on the elite circle.”
“Now that the Queen has his files, she has her own nuclear weapon,” Trevor sighed, leaning back. “Isabel is a genius. She made a deal with Regina to ensure she walked away unscathed.”
“What sickens me,” Lady News said, her voice rising with anger, “is that only Franco and Victoria are behind bars. Sarah took Douglas’s money and dropped the lawsuit against the others. Douglas successfully shifted all the blame onto Franco. They’ve escaped justice again.”
“Sarah needed that money for her mother’s care,” Report Man reminded her gently. “I just hope she can find peace now.”
“Well,” Spion said, trying to lift the gloomy mood, “on the bright side, we solved the case and Styles paid us in full.” He took a long sip of his coffee.
“Speaking of which, James Styles still hasn’t replied to any of my messages,” Report Man noted worriedly.
“The Senator told us not to worry about him, so I’m taking his advice,” Trevor shrugged, eating his banana muffin.
They lingered over the end of their breakfast, casually discussing their plans for the day. Spion was headed back to the Academy, while Report Man had a meeting scheduled with his clerk. Lady News planned to drop off a collection of clothes at a donation center, and Trevor happily announced he had a dinner date with Alisa.
“Oh? Is this a date dinner?” Lady News asked, her eyes sparking with mischief.
“Yes,” Trevor grinned. “It’s a date.”
The table erupted in cheers and pats on the back. But the joy was short-lived. A series of pings echoed through the cafe as breaking news alerts hit every phone simultaneously: The infamous financier, human trafficker, child sex offender, and serial rapist Connor Franco committed suicide by hanging in his cell.
“How is that even possible?” Report Man shouted.
“We’ll never know the truth,” Lady News said resignedly.
Even with the lingering mysteries of the Franco case, the day remained pleasant, and the date with Alisa was nothing short of perfect. Trevor walked her to the subway station and they shared a long, lingering kiss goodbye. He headed home, his mind buzzing with plans for their next meeting.
But when he stepped into his apartment, his heart stopped. A man was sitting on his sofa.
“You’re finally back. I’ve been waiting a while,” the stranger said. He looked young, dressed in a sharp, double-breasted navy suit with black curls framing his face.
“Who the hell are you?” Trevor demanded, reaching for his phone. “How did you get in here? I’m calling the police.” He dialed 911, but there was no dial tone.
“Sorry. I’ve temporarily blocked the signal,” the man said casually.
“What? Who are you?”
The man didn’t answer with words. Instead, he began to float. His leather shoes shimmered and transformed into golden sandals with fluttering wings. His suit dissolved into radiant golden armor, and a winged helm materialized upon his head. In his right hand, he gripped a staff entwined with two living snakes.
He spoke again, but his voice was now a majestic, resonant boom that vibrated in Trevor’s very bones. “I have many names in this world, but I prefer to be called Hermes.”