CHAPTER 153: Insurrection-22

CHAPTER 153: Insurrection-22

Phoenix sat on the sofa, an ice pack pressed to his right cheekbone as a German news program played in the background. The screen showed images of the destroyed zoo, with headlines talking about a "mysterious fire." The volume was low, just enough to fill the silence.
Agnes's aunt, a woman in her fifties with her hair pulled back and a cigarette dangling from her lip, sat down beside him with a steaming cup of tea.

"You don't look too bad, considering what Agnes told me," she commented in a raspy voice, letting out a light chuckle.
"I've been through worse," Phoenix replied without taking his eyes off the TV.

There was a brief pause, where the sound of the news mixed with the patter of rain against the window. The woman glanced towards the hallway, making sure Agnes wasn't listening, and then turned her attention back to Phoenix.

"You know?" she began. "Agnes was never one to have many friends. She was always... reserved. As a child, she barely spoke."
Phoenix turned his face towards her, curious, lowering the ice pack.
"Why's that?"
"I guess life didn't give her much of a chance." The woman exhaled smoke slowly. "Her mother left when she was little. Her father... died in an accident when Agnes was eight. She's been alone ever since."

Phoenix looked at her silently. For a moment, his usual sarcasm vanished from his face.

"I didn't know that," he said quietly.
"No one does. At sixteen, she started working. Studying wasn't her thing, it was never her strength. But she's got guts, that's for sure." She smiled with a hint of pride. "I don't know how she ended up mixed up in all this Enid Corp business, but at least she seems to have found a purpose."

Phoenix nodded slowly, his gaze lost on the screen, which now showed images of the chaos in Berlin.

"She's braver than a lot of adults I know," he finally said.
The aunt let out a soft chuckle. "And she's got more heart. Don't tell her, but she always wanted to help people... even if she won't admit it."

Silence returned to the room, broken only by the distant echo of the television. Phoenix sighed and placed the ice pack back on his face.
"She's lucky to have you," he murmured.
"No, kid." The woman looked at him with a mix of toughness and tenderness. "The lucky one is her, for finally having people who care about her."

Phoenix didn't respond. He just nodded, with an expression that mixed weariness and a hint of guilt.
And in that silence, something within him seemed to begin to change.

Marcus walked slowly along the sidewalk, the warm sun on his face; the neighborhood smelled of cut grass and terrace coffee. He kept his hands in his pockets, feigning nonchalance, but his mind was racing. As he passed a parked car, the window reflected an image that tied his stomach in a knot: a figure crossing a rooftop, elegant and cold, with a dark trench coat fluttering. Marcus stopped for a second, looked more closely—the face clicked—and he understood.

"Matthias."

He recognized him instantly: the guy with the tablet, the dry voice, the hand that signed condemnations. One of Helena's division men. The same one who had that morning pledged to "take care" of the matter. He saw him looking around, measuring facades, checking routes. It was a flash in the glass, and then he disappeared among the shadows.

Marcus swallowed, clenched his jaw, and kept walking. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to look like any other neighbor: he greeted a delivery man, pretended to check his phone. He didn't want to alarm anyone on the street or give any clues. He entered the house through the back door without haste, with the calculated calm of someone carrying a big problem in their chest.

Inside, Agnes's aunt was pouring the last cup of tea on the table. Phoenix was sitting on the sofa with the ice pack still on his face, his eyes half-closed. The TV volume was barely audible; the house smelled of cookies and bleach, of the safe, everyday life it had always seemed to be.

Marcus closed the door carefully, leaned against the frame for a moment, and said quietly:

"There's someone prowling outside. I saw him reflected in a car window. Matthias."

Silence cut through the living room. The aunt set her cup down with a measured clink on the saucer; Phoenix sat up immediately, the ice pack falling to the floor.

"Matthias?" the aunt repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That's the name of the door-breaking guys in suits?"
"The very same," Marcus replied without raising his voice. "If he's in the area, he's not out for a stroll. They've picked up our scent."

Phoenix fixed Marcus with a cold stare, and for the first time, his anger gave way to calculation.
"Okay," he said. "Don't freak out. What do we do?"

Agnes's aunt switched into operational mode without hesitation; her hands already knew the routines of someone who lived by their wits.

"Cover the windows," she ordered. "Get the sheets, move furniture against the doors, anything that can give the impression no one's here or, at least, make a forced entry difficult."

Agnes came through the door as if returning from shopping, her backpack slung over her shoulder and her face still trembling with adrenaline. Seeing her, Marcus stopped hammering the boards and went straight to her.

"Did you get it?" he asked in a low voice, without preamble.

Agnes set her backpack on the table and, with trembling hands, pulled out a small case wrapped in a handkerchief. Unwrapping it, the two green vials glimmered in the dim living room light.

"Yes," she said, panting. "Two. As you asked. They didn't see me, they didn't stop me, and I swear I crossed my fingers every other step."

Phoenix brought a hand to his chest as if hope were growing back inside him.
"Well done," he murmured. "Well done."