George did not ask Eric to sit.

Eric understood the message and remained standing.

The office was too quiet. George’s broken phone had already been replaced. A new device lay on the desk, still without many numbers saved inside it. That alone was enough to remind Eric why he had been called.

"What did you find?" George asked.

Eric placed a thin folder on the desk.

"Not much," he said. "The caller was careful. Every trace ends before it reaches a person."

George opened the folder but did not read immediately.

"The phone?"

"The call to you came from a public booth near the old transport quarter," Eric said. "By the time we checked it, there was nothing useful. The booth sees too much daily use, and the nearby shops did not remember anyone clearly. No fixed camera angle caught the face. The man either knew that, or he was lucky."

George’s eyes moved.

"Lucky people do not reach my number that fast."

"That is why I said careful."

George turned one page.

Eric continued, "The earlier calls to Rovan also used public phones, but each one came from a different booth and stayed short. There is no pattern stable enough to wait at the next one. Whoever is doing this knows enough not to repeat a route."

George leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment.

The police officer had panicked because he was weak. That part had made sense. But the caller was not weak. He had reached Rovan, found proof, reached George, and then vanished behind public lines before anyone could take a clean step toward him.

That did not make him a giant.

It made him careful.

Careful enemies were irritating because they forced time to be spent on them before they became profitable or dead.

"Do you think it is actually an organization?" George asked.

Eric did not answer too quickly.

"If it is, it is small or newly placed. A large group moving here would have created noise. We would have heard from at least one of our contacts."

George opened his eyes.

"That is my thought too."

"But he wanted us to believe he was not alone."

"Of course he did."

George tapped the folder with one finger.

The claim of an organization could be a bluff. It could also be a small crew wearing a bigger mask. Either way, the useful question was not what the caller called himself. The useful question was where he first found leverage.

"Start from Rovan," George said.

Eric nodded. "The police officer?"

"Yes. Find out how this person reached him. The body, the records, the phone, the woman connected to the dead activist, the owner, every path. Somewhere there is a first contact. Find that."

"Understood."

Eric picked up the folder again.

As he turned to leave, George spoke once more.

"Eric."

He stopped.

"I do not want a dead end this time. This may be small now, but a small threat becomes expensive when people ignore it. You know what I do when a headache keeps returning."

Eric lowered his head.

"I will find him."

George watched him leave.

The door closed softly.

He looked at the new phone on his desk and did not touch it.

Someone had tried to pull him into a street game with a police officer and a few threats. If that person was alone, George would break him. If he had people, George would break the people first.

For now, he needed the first thread.

The scene shifted to Gonda.

Gonda sat in the rear seat of an ordinary black car, not the larger vehicle he usually preferred. The driver was one of his old men. Beside him sat Kundra, the quiet man Gonda trusted more than most. Another guard followed in a second small car, but even that was kept at a distance.

Bruno was not with him.

That was deliberate.

Gonda had not told Bruno where he was going. He had not told anyone connected to Wil.

The car stopped behind a hotel near the freight market.

It was not a rich place. That made it better. Men could enter and leave without clerks remembering names. Gonda walked through a side entrance and climbed to the third floor.

The room at the end of the corridor had two men outside.

Neither wore a uniform.

Both carried automatic rifles close to the chest, not hidden and not shown off either. They looked at Gonda once and opened the door.

Inside, an old man sat near the window.

His hair was white, but his back was straight. Two younger men stood behind him, also armed. On the table were tea cups, an ashtray, and a small recorder that had not been switched on.

Gonda felt sweat gather under his collar.

He still smiled.

"Sir," he said, stepping inside. "It is an honor to meet you."

The old man looked up.

"Come, Gonda. We have heard much about you from our people."

Gonda sat only after the old man gestured to the chair.

"It is my privilege," Gonda said. "Working with an international organization like yours is not a small matter for someone like me."

The old man accepted the respect as if it was normal.

"Then let us speak clearly," he said. "You know Maren Voss?"

Gonda remembered the meeting at once. Maren had been one of the louder men, proud enough to refuse what others were quietly considering.

"I know him," Gonda said.

"His side has already come under our arrangement. If you enter, your gang will not be fully integrated. You will be an extended wing. You move where we need local movement, and we support you where support is useful."

Gonda kept his face controlled.

This old man expected him to accept.

Most gangs did.

Gonda lowered his eyes for a moment, then said, "Sir, there is one problem."

The old man’s fingers stopped near the tea cup.

"Speak."

"Another international organization has already contacted me."

The room changed.

The old man’s eyes widened.