Send an Encrypted Message to the Men

There’s something poetic about being caged. Not in the literal sense—though I was, of course, boxed in like a prize thoroughbred at the glue factory—but in the existential sense. You see the truth of people when the bullets start flying. The veneer peels away. The cowardice. The courage. The betrayal.

Anslo Garrick continued his symphony of carnage with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. His objective was clear: extract me, by force or by blood. I don’t begrudge him that—it’s just business, after all—but I do take issue with his taste in music. So loud. So… uncultured.

Inside that box, I had a front-row seat to the collapse of order. Poor Luli… loyal, intelligent, utterly irreplaceable. She was executed in cold blood. And Dembe? Even bound and bleeding, he was unshakable. I’ve seen mountains with less resolve.

But the real twist? The mole. The rot inside the FBI. You think you’re surrounded by patriots, people with credentials and lanyards and moral compasses, and then—snap!—someone’s feeding your movements to the highest bidder. It’s always the quiet ones.

And then there’s you, Elizabeth. Racing against time, clutching at shards of hope like a child collecting fireflies in a jar that’s already cracked. You did well. Found Aram. Got the signal. Nearly saved the day.

Nearly.

But in the end, the box was opened—not by rescue, but by design. Mine. You see, I had a contingency. I always have a contingency. And when the dust settled, when Garrick made his fatal mistake, well… let’s just say I reminded him that I am not a man to be cornered.

Trust is a luxury I cannot afford, and sentiment… sentiment is a weakness best left to those who haven’t made enemies of the world.

So yes, Part 2. Blood. Steel. Loyalty. And the high cost of knowing me.

Now then… would you pass the salt? These eggs are a bit bland.