The room around Bernard Lee shrank into a tunnel.
All he could see was Mara—those unreadable gray eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw, the tangle of dark hair barely restrained by a frayed scarf.
The clatter of dishes, the hum of conversation, the stale coffee smell—all of it faded to nothingness.
Trust her?
Leave everything behind and trust a stranger who spoke like she knew the ending to a story he hadn't even begun to understand?
Bernard licked his dry lips.
He considered bolting.
He considered laughing in her face.
He considered pretending none of this was happening.
But something in Mara's gaze pinned him to the spot—an urgency so real, so visceral, that it bypassed logic and went straight to something primal inside him.
Instinct.
Survival.
"Where are we going?" Bernard asked, voice rough.
Mara didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she glanced over her shoulder, scanning the café with a predator's wariness.
Her hand dipped into her coat pocket. Bernard's heart gave a nervous stutter—was she reaching for a weapon?
Instead, she pulled out a crumpled receipt and a pen. She scribbled something quickly and slid it across the table.
It was an address.
Somewhere uptown, near the river, if he remembered the street names correctly.
"You have twenty minutes," Mara said, her tone clipped. "Don't look for me. Don't talk to anyone about the wallet. Not your boss. Not your neighbor. Not your cat. No one. Got it?"
He blinked.
"My cat's been dead for three years."
Mara gave him a dry look, one eyebrow arching ever so slightly.
"Good. Then we're already cutting down your liability."
She rose from the booth, pulling the oversized coat tighter around her.
"Be at that address in twenty minutes," she said again, voice low and fierce. "Or don't. Your choice. But if you stay here..." She let the threat hang in the air like a blade.
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and slipped out the door, vanishing into the gray autumn morning.
---
Bernard sat there for a long moment, the slip of paper burning against his fingertips.
This is insane, he thought.
Absolutely, completely insane.
And yet...
His legs moved on their own, pushing him out of the booth, across the cracked tile floor, past the counter where the barista shouted something he didn't catch.
Out into the street, into the cold bite of the wind.
The city unfolded around him in a smear of movement and color.
He stumbled toward the nearest subway station, heart hammering, the wallet and the note tucked deep inside his jacket.
He knew he could still turn back.
Catch a train home.
Pretend none of this ever happened.
But he wouldn't.
He couldn't.
Because somewhere deep down, in a place beyond reason, Bernard Lee knew the truth:
His old life had ended the moment he'd picked up that wallet.
There was no going back.
---
The address Mara had given him led to a nondescript apartment building nestled between two abandoned warehouses.
The brickwork was crumbling.
The windows on the lower floors were boarded up.
A faded sign above the door read: Rutherford Storage Co.
Bernard hesitated at the threshold.
Everything about the building screamed bad idea.
But he shoved the thought aside and pushed open the heavy door.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the sharp, metallic tang of old rust.
A narrow hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by flickering fluorescent lights.
No receptionist.
No guard.
Just a battered elevator at the far end, its cage doors slightly ajar.
Bernard stepped inside and jabbed the button for the third floor, just like the note had said.
The elevator groaned and shuddered to life, lurching upward like a dying beast.
---
When the doors rattled open, Mara was waiting for him.
She leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, one boot resting against the peeling paint.
Her eyes flicked over him once, sharp and assessing.
"You made it," she said, almost grudgingly.
"That's better odds than I gave you."
Bernard opened his mouth to fire back a sarcastic comment, but Mara was already moving, beckoning him down a narrow hallway lined with cracked doors and faded numbers.
"This way."
They passed door after door, each one identical, each one closed tight.
Finally, Mara stopped at 3C.
She produced a small brass key from somewhere in her coat and slipped it into the lock.
The door creaked open.
Inside was not what Bernard expected.
It wasn't a dingy apartment or a storage closet.
It was... an archive.
Shelves lined every wall, sagging under the weight of dusty books, battered briefcases, yellowing maps, and odd trinkets that glimmered faintly under the dim light.
At the center of the room sat a heavy oak table, worn smooth by decades of use.
"Come in," Mara said, stepping aside.
Bernard entered, and the door clicked shut behind him.
He turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.
"What is this place?"
"A safehouse," Mara said shortly.
"One of many."
She crossed to the table and pulled out a battered leather satchel. From it, she extracted a manila folder, thick with papers.
"You're in trouble, Bernard Lee," she said, her tone as blunt as a hammer.
"Deep trouble."
Bernard gave a shaky laugh.
"No kidding. I picked up a wallet, and now I'm starring in some kind of spy movie."
Mara didn't smile.
"You have no idea what you're holding," she said.
"No idea who wants it back—or what they'll do to get it."
She slid the folder across the table toward him.
"Start reading."
Bernard hesitated.
Then, slowly, he opened the folder.
---
The first page was a photograph: a man, mid-30s, sharp features, eyes like winter storms.
Gideon L. Moore.
The name was typed neatly underneath.
Bernard flipped to the next page—a biography, or part of one.
Born 1971.
Disappeared 2008.
Status: Deceased (presumed).
Special notes: Suspected Agent of the 13th Foundation.
Bernard frowned.
"Thirteenth Foundation?" he echoed aloud.
Mara nodded grimly.
"A ghost organization. Shadow brokers, information smugglers, power players. They manipulate governments, corporations, criminal syndicates—you name it. Always behind the scenes. Always hidden."
Bernard swallowed hard.
"And Gideon Moore was... one of them?"
Mara's mouth twisted.
"Not just one of them. The best."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping.
"And now you've got something that belonged to him."
Bernard glanced down at the wallet peeking out of his coat.
The world shifted under his feet.
---
Over the next hour, Mara explained.
Gideon L. Moore had disappeared under mysterious circumstances sixteen years ago, after orchestrating a series of black-market deals that had sent shockwaves through the underbelly of international politics.
Everyone assumed he was dead.
But recently, whispers had surfaced—whispers that Gideon hadn't died at all.
That he had left behind a trail, a puzzle, a breadcrumb path leading to a cache of secrets so dangerous it could topple governments, dismantle corporations, and bring the 13th Foundation crashing down.
And now Bernard had stumbled onto the first piece of that trail.
The wallet.
The check.
The receipts.
All clues.
All bait.
All highly, highly dangerous.
Mara was clear about that last part.
"You're a target now," she said flatly.
"They'll come for you. Not because you're important. But because you're in the way."
Bernard stared at her, mind reeling.
"This is insane," he muttered.
"I'm nobody. I work in insurance. I don't even have a driver's license anymore. Why would they come after me?"
"Because now you know about them," Mara said simply.
"And because that wallet chose you."
Bernard blinked.
"Chose me?"
Mara shrugged, a weary gesture.
"Gideon was... methodical. He didn't do anything by accident. If his wallet found its way to you, it's because he wanted it to."
Bernard's heart gave a sickening lurch.
"But I don't know anything!"
"You will," Mara said.
"Assuming you survive long enough."
---
A soft thud interrupted them—a sound barely audible but enough to freeze the air in the room.
Mara's head snapped up.
She moved faster than Bernard thought possible, snatching a pistol from beneath the table and pressing a finger to her lips.
"Stay behind me," she mouthed.
Bernard ducked instinctively as Mara edged toward the door.
Another sound—a scrape of shoes against concrete.
Then a voice, low and rasping, spoke from the hallway.
"Hand it over, Mara. We can make this painless."
Mara's grip on the pistol tightened.
She threw Bernard a sharp glance, a command in her eyes.
Run.
But there was nowhere to run.
They were three stories up, with no fire escape visible from the grimy windows.
Another voice joined the first—cooler, feminine, almost bored.
"Tick tock, darling. We're losing patience."
Mara took a step back, motioning Bernard toward a shelf in the corner.
"Trapdoor," she whispered.
Bernard stumbled toward it, fingers scrabbling for the hidden latch she pointed at.
The floor beneath the shelves creaked.
Shifted.
Revealed a narrow tunnel sloping downward into darkness.
Mara shoved the wallet into Bernard's hands.
"Go," she hissed.
"Follow the tunnel. Don't stop. Don't look back."
Bernard hesitated.
"I'm not leaving you—"
"You have to," she snapped.
"If they get the wallet, everything is lost."
The door shuddered as something heavy slammed against it from the other side.
Mara fired a warning shot into the ceiling.
Plaster rained down.
Bernard didn't wait to see what happened next.
He dove into the tunnel, the trapdoor slamming shut above him, plunging him into darkness.
---
The air in the tunnel was damp and stale, filled with the choking scent of mold and rot.
Bernard crawled forward blindly, the wallet clenched in one trembling hand, the other feeling along the walls to guide him.
Behind him, faintly, he heard the door splinter.
Shouts.
Gunfire.
His heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He crawled faster.
The tunnel twisted and turned, sometimes narrowing so tightly that he had to squeeze through sideways.
At one point, he nearly panicked, sure he was stuck, but sheer terror propelled him forward.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he saw a faint glimmer of light ahead.
He scrambled toward it, ignoring the scrapes and bruises blooming across his knees and palms.
The tunnel opened into a sewer culvert.
Disgusting?
Yes.
Salvation?
Also yes.
Bernard staggered upright, clutching the wallet to his chest, and stumbled into the open air.
Above him, the city hummed, oblivious.
Below, in the shadows, Bernard Lee realized he had crossed a threshold from which there would be no return.
The wallet had chosen him.
And now...
Now, the game had truly begun.
---
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