“Rely more on the wounds your adversaries will inflict than on the help your companions will offer."

  – A man behind bars

  The table fell into profound silence after my account, as though weighing truth against deception. I cared little for their verdict. I reclined in my chair with easy grace, offering them a pleasant, unruffled smile while I awaited their response.

  Mary continued chewing without the slightest shift in expression. Richard processed the revelation slowly, brow furrowed. The driver—Claude, I would later learn—remained utterly unaffected, as if my words had passed through him unheard.

  Seizing the lull, I summoned the waitress with a courteous nod and ordered sandwiches for the table. After all, the bill was not mine to settle.

  Minutes passed. I ate one of the fresh sandwiches as Richard finally absorbed my tale. He met my gaze with a flicker of fear, then drained a glass of water in a single motion.

  “If you will excuse me,” he said, rising, “I must make a call.”

  He departed. I continued my repast, engaging Mary in a quiet, staring contest while we both partook of the sandwiches. Claude, meanwhile, tapped away at his mobile game.

  Richard returned presently, a light sheen of sweat on his brow. He reached for the pitcher—empty, thanks to Mary and me quenching our thirst—and then summoned a fresh one. It arrived promptly. He downed two glasses before exhaling; whether in relief or resignation, I could not discern.

  “I spoke with headquarters about you and what you’ve told us. They’re offering you a position in our ranks. They believe an unnatural-born fae—fae or not—would prove valuable.”

  The proposal held appeal. My plans had extended no further than departing Rennes; employment among arcane practitioners might yield diverting opportunities. Should they prove otherwise, departure remained ever an option.

  “I accept,” I replied.

  Richard exhaled in evident relief, then hastened to clarify: the bureau employed two classes of officers—back-line support providing intelligence and logistics and frontline operatives who pursued investigations and confronted peril directly.

  I bestowed upon him a sweet, serene smile—one that visibly unsettled him—and declared my preference for the frontline. “It promises greater amusement.”

  He sighed, muttering under his breath, “The back-line can be fun too,” though I affected not to hear. He drained another glass and excused himself once more, hurrying out to report the decision.

  I watched him depart through the restaurant door, then turned back to my companions. Mary appeared to doze lightly. Claude continued his game; the sound effects had shifted—perhaps a new level or title.

  Uncertain how long Richard might be, I drew from my bag a deck of cards purchased earlier in my travels: mystery cards inspired by the traditional 78-card tarot deck. Amusingly, one bore a name most à propos to my circumstance.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Alexander’s blood had bequeathed me more than his likeness and the tattoo; fragments of his memory lingered as well, including proficiency in card games.

  I shuffled with practiced ease, attempting to divine the first card, or the eighteenth, from the deck.

  Richard returned after some minutes.

  “You’ve been approved. You’re to report to headquarters for registration. We’ll need your full name and a callsign.”

  “A callsign?” I enquired mildly.

  “Yes. Operatives choose one for secretive missions. In certain arcane circles, a true name can be wielded as a weapon.”

  “Hmm. Most prudent. I do possess one already.” I extended the deck toward him, then withdrew a single card and presented its back for inspection.

  “The Hanged Man?” he read aloud.

  “Precisely. I was born from a hanged man, after all. The tattoo echoes the noose. And—most divertingly—this was a mystery purchase. What card did fortune grant me?”

  “The Hanged Man", he answered.

  I smiled. “I thought at first—mere luck. So I acquired two more decks.” I produced the additional cards from my bag. “Behold.”

  “The Hanged Man,” he repeated, voice flat.

  “The first instance: chance. The second: coincidence. But the third…” I trailed off, allowing implication to hang. “And now I possess three decks, each yielding the same. Is it not delightfully amusing?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s disturbing.” He turned to the others. “Mary, you’re with me. Reports of undead activity on Paris’s west side. Claude, you take…” He faltered, realising I had not yet named myself.

  "Alezander", I supplied gently. “Alezander Von Holms. You may address me as Alez—or as the Hanged Man.”

  He nodded curtly. “Claude, take Alez to headquarters.”

  Claude inclined his head in acknowledgement. Mary rose; the pair departed.

  Claude and I remained. I offered him a pleasant smile; he returned it briefly before stepping away to settle the bill.

  After an hour’s silent drive, we arrived at P.A.B.I. headquarters: a five-storey edifice of harmonious modern and traditional design. I confess mild surprise at the sight of horse-drawn carriages still in use along the streets—a charming anachronism.

  Claude parked in the compound lot and escorted me to the main entrance. Inside, cool air carried the subtle scent of fresh flowers, easing the senses at once. Tiled floors met painted walls, accented by potted plants; the space felt balanced, welcoming.

  While I admired the decor, Claude spoke briefly with the receptionist and guided me to an elevator. We descended—not ascended—to the fortieth sublevel. The elevator’s soft music pleased me; I resolved to enquire after it later.

  The lower lobby greeted us with warmer tones: wood-panelled accents, traditional artworks, and leather couches encircling a wall-mounted television. A cat slumbered peacefully on the central table.

  Then I heard it—the unmistakable dialogue of water and ice. I whirled toward the receptionist’s screen.

  He glanced up, startled by my sudden intensity, but I paid his expression no mind.

  “What show are you watching?” I asked.

  “Huh? What?”

  “What show are you watching?” I repeated, urgency creeping in.

  “Uh… water and Ice, Season 3.”

  Dread confirmed. He sat two seasons ahead of me. Armiliya’s line—“Hendro cheated on you?”—echoed in my mind. Hadn’t he taken a bullet in the Season 1 finale?

  "Please, turn it off at once,” I requested with strained composure. “I have only completed the first season.”

  He complied swiftly, though his gaze held pity. Too late: another spoiler slipped through before the screen darkened. Hendro’s ex—Miyala—was a man in disguise? What madness unfolded?

  Claude’s lips twitched in amusement at my outburst. He assured me the Bureau’s premium television package included the series; I would catch up at leisure—and enjoy other programmes besides. I expressed sincere gratitude.

  Moments later, the receptionist completed my registration, assigning a dorm room. Only then did I realise we occupied the residential sublevels.

  Claude escorted me to the door, then excused himself to report upstairs. I thanked him cordially and stepped inside.

  The room evoked a comfortable home yet retained hotel precision: a bathroom, a compact kitchen, a living area, and a bedroom. The wardrobe held rows of suits identical to those worn by Richard and Claude.

  I undressed, bathed thoroughly, and donned only undergarments for comfort. Settling in the living room, I navigated the television to Water and Ice and began Season 2, eager to unravel the mysteries I had glimpsed.