CHAPTER 90: Conversations

CHAPTER 90: Conversations

CHAPTER 90: Conversations

The door to Marcus's room opened with a soft creak. He entered with the weary movement of someone dragging through an overly long day, plunging the room into a gloom broken only by the cone of faint light from a desk lamp. He took off his jacket with an automatic gesture, but his instinct, sharpened by years of service, kicked in immediately. A subtle, crystalline sound—the clinking of ice against glass—alerted him that he wasn't alone.

His gaze shot towards the darkest corner, where the minibar stood. There, wrapped in shadows, was Phoenix. The low light caressed his sharp features, outlining a silhouette of absolute tranquility. In one hand, he held a bottle of Pepsi; in the other, a glass with several ice cubes swirling slowly.

"Good evening, Marcus," Phoenix greeted, his voice serene, raising the glass slightly in a silent toast.

Marcus suppressed the urge to startle. With Phoenix, surprise was a constant, but alarm was a useless luxury. He closed the door behind him and leaned against the frame, crossing his arms. His expression was a mix of resigned annoyance and curiosity.

"A bit late for visits, isn't it, Phoenix?" he asked, with a hint of caution. "And I thought your palate was more refined than soda."

Phoenix let out a low, deep laugh.
"The bourbon ran out. Pepsi is an acceptable substitute when the mission is sobriety."

"You don't usually make social calls," observed Marcus, approaching the minibar and pouring himself a shot of whiskey, this time without ice.

"You're right. It's not social," Phoenix's voice lost all its previous mild humor, adopting a seriousness that tensed the air in the room. "Sit down, Marcus. We need to talk."

Marcus obeyed, sinking into an armchair opposite him. He rested his elbows on his knees and interlaced his fingers, staring intently at Phoenix.
"Alright, talk. What's going on?"

Phoenix set the glass down on the furniture; the click of glass against wood sounded like a full stop.
"Marcus, I know I no longer lead the squad. But that doesn't stop me from asking: why is a human on our team? Why Anna?"

Marcus sighed, took a long sip of his drink before answering. The liquid burned in his throat.
"I knew that question was coming. Anna doesn't have our strength, that's true. But she possesses skills that we, in our nature, despise or ignore. Digital infiltration, pure intelligence analysis... systems we can't access. Her mind is her weapon."

"And is that enough?" Phoenix's voice was a blade. "When the mission goes sideways and instead of a keyboard there are claws and fangs, will her mind protect her? Or will she become the weak link that costs all of us our lives?"

"Anna knows the risks," Marcus replied, maintaining his calm. "And she's been tested. She has a coolness under pressure that many soldiers would envy. Don't underestimate her ability to fight. Not everything is brute strength, Phoenix. Sometimes, the advantage lies in seeing the world as a human does, without the arrogance of the supernatural."

Phoenix was silent for a moment, his gaze scrutinizing Marcus as if searching for a crack in his conviction.
"I hope your faith is well-founded, Marcus. Because if you're wrong, I won't be the one picking up the pieces. The responsibility will be yours alone."

"I accept it," Marcus stated without hesitation. "I'm confident Anna will earn her place. You just need to give her a chance."

Phoenix rose with a fluid motion. The shadow he cast was long and threatening.
"Fine. I'll trust your judgment... for now. But I'll watch her every step. And if she fails, you know what awaits you."

"I know," Marcus nodded. "Good night, Phoenix."

"Good night, Marcus."

The door closed behind him, leaving Marcus alone with the weight of his decision and the echo of a warning that resonated in the silent room.

The lounge was an extravagance of cold opulence. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting glimmers onto tables with immaculate tablecloths and silver cutlery. An orchestra played a soft, distant melody, drowned out by the murmur of banal conversations. Enid, wrapped in a black dress that seemed to absorb the light, was the most perfect statue in that gallery of vanities. Beside her, Phoenix observed the spectacle with palpable boredom, his black suit blending into the shadows.

"Let's get to the point, Phoenix," said Enid, with a smile that was pure strategy. "We have a mission. And I think you'll find this one... amusing."

Phoenix raised an eyebrow, bringing his glass of whiskey to his lips.
"Amusing? The last time I 'had fun,' I ended up with the stench of sewage stuck to my clothes for a week."

"This time will be cleaner," Enid assured, closing the distance between them until her voice became an intimate whisper. "Antigen is holding a meeting at their headquarters. It seems routine, but documents will be circulating... information that would give us a decisive advantage."

"Let me guess," Phoenix interrupted sarcastically. "You'll play the distinguished guests, and I'll play the stealthy thief. The same old story."

"Exactly," Enid confirmed, her smile widening. "You're so quick at picking up the details."

Phoenix feigned a yawn, looking at the crowd with disdain.
"Hmm... I have schedules to attend to. Sleep to catch up on, for example."

Enid took another step closer, until her perfume invaded his space. Her hand rested on Phoenix's arm with a delicacy that was anything but casual.
"Come on, Phoenix. You know you can't refuse."

Her touch was light, but the intention was firm.
"Besides," she continued, her voice a thread of silk, "isn't this what you do best? Create chaos and disappear before anyone notices you're gone."

"Dirty work, some call it," Phoenix grumbled. "And what's my reward this time?"