The Temple of Ares was a relic of classical architecture dating back to the War of 1812—the Second Fairylander Revolution. Since its inception, the building had been a lightning rod for controversy in New Athens. Even on this bitter winter day, groups of anti-war protesters huddled on the sidewalk, their breath frosting in the air. Inside, however, the atmosphere shifted to a solemn, heavy silence. A colossal bronze statue of Ares dominated the end of the cella, his scarlet velvet cloak pooling on the floor. His gilded face, beard, and armor shimmered under the dim lights, while his shield and spear were embossed with intricate red-and-gold patterns. The base of the monument featured blue and brown glass mosaics depicting scenes from the War of Independence.
Trevor and Spion blended in with the handful of tourists, pretending to admire the murals while inching toward the rope barriers surrounding the statue.
“Please, do not cross the barriers,” a voice warned. A young acolyte in a scarlet robe emerged from the shadows, offering a polite but firm smile. “I am Brother Mark. May I help you?”
“Pardon,” Spion said, slipping into a flawless French accent. “We are travelers from Frank, just curious students.”
“Oui,” Trevor added, nodding. He couldn’t fake the accent, so he stuck to the only French word he was certain wouldn’t blow their cover.
“Is the adyton closed to the public?” Spion asked, pointing toward the heavy door behind the statue. “We are art students. We’ve heard there are precious paintings inside.”
“I’m afraid so,” Mark replied. “Unless you have an appointment with our oracles or wish to make a significant donation.”
“Ah, I see,” Spion said with an awkward grin. “My friend and I actually thought there might be a sacrificial ceremony taking place.”
Mark’s smile vanished instantly. “Young people today have a poor understanding of religion. They often misunderstand the God of War. Animal sacrifices were abolished long ago. We are a legitimate temple, not a cult.”
“Our apologies,” Spion said sincerely. “May the gods bless you.”
“And may glory and victory follow you always,” Mark replied, his professional warmth returning.
The cold hit them like a wall as they left. They ducked into a nearby fast-food joint, huddled over burgers and fries to organize their thoughts. The morning had been a bust; they had scouted every building in the neighborhood with no luck.
If Hector left the Wounded Warrior Project around noon with plans to visit the military hospital, it was highly likely he intended to stop by the Temple of Ares to see Will and the rest of the staff for lunch. Since Will claims they never met, it’s probable that Hector met his end right here in this neighborhood. It’s a tight radius, less than a ten-minute drive from his apartment and, crucially, just a straight shot down West 27th Street to Pier 66.
“Our suspects were here that day, but we’re standing on zero evidence,” Trevor said, frustrated. “I feel like we’re breathing down the mastermind’s neck, yet I don’t know our next move. Maybe we should go back and pray. Which god helps detectives?”
“Or we could just ask Patric to use his… Tinderbox,” Spion suggested with a shrug.
“No,” Trevor explained. “If we rely on his magic too much, we risk exposing him to the wrong people. We need to find Hector’s phone or wallet. The mastermind has to be holding onto them; if those items were found abandoned, the police would stop treating this as a simple disappearance and start looking for a body.”
“Can’t you just write a program to ping his phone?” Spion asked, sipping his blueberry smoothie.
“Programming isn’t magic,” Trevor snapped, but then his eyes sparked. “Wait. We don’t need to find them. We need to lure them out. Come on, to my apartment. I have an idea.”
Once they were back at Trevor’s place, Trevor dove into his laptop. “I can use AI to generate a fake sighting. We’ll send it to Gossip News and claim Hector hasn’t disappeared at all. He’s just run off with a secret celebrity girlfriend, and they’re planning to attend Jack Goblinez’s ‘Sweet Night’ gala.”
“The mastermind won’t be able to resist,” Spion said, the logic of the plan clicking into place. “They’ll have to go there and confirm it in person. Once they do, we can corner them, trap them in a room with nowhere to run.”
“Yeah,” Trevor cheered. He worked quickly, feeding a photo of Hector into his AI model. He typed a prompt: Hector in a navy puffer jacket, holding hands with a blonde woman in large sunglasses, a black mask, and a chestnut faux-fur coat in front of the Dressrious Salon. Seconds later, a hyper-realistic image appeared on the screen.
“Wow,” Spion muttered, impressed. “That looks terrifyingly real.”
Trevor opened the Gossip News portal and hit the ‘Expose’ button. He uploaded the image with a caption: Camila’s ‘missing’ boyfriend spotted outside Dressrious Salon with a mystery blonde—could it be 2025 Grammy winner Sabryna Cooper?
He hit send. Less than a second later, a notification popped up: SUBMISSION REJECTED: AI-GENERATED CONTENT DETECTED.
Spion chuckled, leaning over Trevor’s shoulder. “Who knew Gossip News actually used AI to sniff out fakes? They’re more sophisticated than they look.”
Trevor’s brow furrowed, but he wasn’t ready to back down. He hammered out a direct message: I am Trevor Edson. I’m investigating a missing person case and need this to go viral to lure a suspect into a trap. Help me out.
The reply came back shortly: Fine. But I won’t risk my reputation on a fake. Send me a real photo.
“A real photo?” Trevor groaned. “How am I supposed to take a real photo of a missing man?”
Spion’s grin turned mischievous. “The photo has to be real, but it doesn’t have to be Hector. We need Camila’s help anyway. We should ask her. It isn’t much different from filming a scene, and she’s already at the studio, right?”