“YOU HAD ONE JOB.”

Rayla’s eyes narrowed, her voice low and husky, sending a cold shiver crawling up Yanick’s spine.

“One job, Yanick. And what did you do? Instead of focusing on the mission, you got yourself tangled in a romance. And with who? That bastard’s daughter.”

Yanick clenched his fists, the heat of frustration rising in his chest. He knew Rayla well. She had no tolerance for unnecessary words. His best bet was to keep quiet and not provoke one of her outbursts.

“Relax,” Big Mike interjected, his voice steady as ever, like the chaos around him was nothing but background noise.

Yanick envied Mike’s detachment. He could hardly keep his anger in check. Hearing Rayla spit out Ama’s name with such venom ignited a silent rebellion inside him. The words scraped against his insides, tightening his throat, but he didn’t have time for personal battles. The mission was still the priority.

“I am relaxed,” Rayla bit out through clenched teeth, though her tone betrayed her. A smouldering intensity beneath the words, like a storm just waiting to break.

“I think we shouldn’t jump to conclusions,” Big Mike added, his calm voice cutting through the rising tension, as though he were trying to keep things level-headed.

Rayla shot him a cold, slicing look.

“I wouldn’t have to,” she said slowly, her voice seething with disgust. “If this idiot had just brought the documents.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Mike mused, his tone unwavering. “Maybe it’s just letters to him regarding the farm business, nothing important. We don’t know.”

Rayla scoffed, a low, sharp sound, her voice edged with something primal. She was a wolf on the hunt, and Yanick was her prey.

“How the hell is it even possible that you’ve never seen him? Your little damsel’s father?”

Yanick shrugged, the irritation bubbling inside, but he masked it with a coolness he didn’t feel.

“He’s away a lot,” he replied quietly. “Travels often. Farm business, apparently.”

Rayla flicked a glance toward Mike, who nodded as if piecing together a puzzle. It was clear who truly called the shots in this group, and it wasn’t her. Mike had a way of controlling the flow, even when Rayla had her claws out.

“We need to find out what those documents are,” Mike finally said, breaking the silence that felt like it would suffocate them all.

Rayla’s gaze flickered toward him, calculating, before she turned back to Yanick.

“How?” she snapped.

Big Mike turned to her, waiting for her move. There was a moment’s hesitation before Rayla nodded, a reluctant sign of approval.

“Might as well,” Mike said with a casual shrug, his voice smooth as ever. “The kid can be trusted. He’s proven himself before. Even today, by coming here.”

Rayla exhaled sharply, her eyes narrowing as if Yanick had already squandered whatever trust she’d once had for him. She didn’t speak, but the words hung in the air.

“Of course,” Yanick said, meeting her gaze without flinching. “I’ll do what needs to be done.”

Big Mike reached into his pocket and produced a small, smooth, rectangular metal object, its surface gleaming faintly in the candlelight. He handed it to Yanick without ceremony.

“What is it?” Yanick asked, raising an eyebrow as he studied the strange object.

Yanick examined it, feeling the cool metal against his fingers. It didn’t look like anything special, just a sleek, polished rectangle that could easily fit in his pocket.

“Don’t look into it like a normal mirror,” Mike said with a gentle chuckle. “It won’t reflect your face. Just place your finger here and hold it. You hear that?”

The device hummed gently, vibrating with a faint melodic sound. Something light, almost celebratory, like the chimes of a distant festival.

“And that all?” Yanick asked, still unsure of what he was supposed to do with this weird object.

“Then you say, snap.”

At Mike’s words, the device emitted a sharp, glass-shattering sound, startling Yanick with its sudden intensity. The echo seemed to linger in the air for a moment.

“And that’s it?” Yanick asked, glancing up at Mike, his doubts thickening.

“That’s it,” Mike confirmed, his expression unreadable.

Yanick stared at the Mirror, its surface black and fluid, swallowing light instead of reflecting it. He felt a strange mix of fascination and unease, like the object was more than it seemed. Like it carried secrets, even beyond the chimes and vibrations.

“How do I know it worked?” Yanick asked, his voice betraying a hint of hesitation. “How do I know I did it right?”

“For safety, do it a few times,” Mike advised. “Just make sure you aim this side of the Mirror at the documents. Not too close. Like this.”

Big Mike demonstrated, holding his hand out with exaggerated precision, showing the exact distance.

“And how do you actually see anything in this weird mirror?” Yanick pressed, his curiosity and doubt mixing.

Rayla smirked, her lips curling mockingly.

***

“WAIT,” THE MAN INTERRUPTED.

He leaned forward, gaze sharpening like a blade slipping from its sheath.

Yanick raised an eyebrow.

“This Big Mike,” the man said, tone still playing at indifference, though something shifted beneath the surface. “What does he look like?”

Yanick gave a faint smile and leaned back in his chair with mock ease.

“I thought this conversation was about Rayla,” he said, offering just enough emotion to irritate without provoking.

The interrogator’s brows furrowed. His fists curled.

“You don’t want to make me angry,” he said slowly, each word deliberate and hard as bone. “Trust me.”

Yanick held his stare, counting to five in his head before responding.

“Tall. Broad shoulders. Black hair, cropped short. Skin…”

He hesitated, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it uncomfortable.

“Pale. But not like a Nordling. Almost white, though it didn’t look natural. More like…”

The man tensed, leaning in.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know how it’s possible,” Yanick continued, voice low, thoughtful, “but Big Mike looked like a Svart whose skin had been lightened somehow.”

A thick silence settled like fog. The man’s face drained of colour. His eyes flickered. Not just anger now, but something deeper. Fear. Recognition.

“Did he have a tattoo on his wrist?”

The question came too quickly. And this time, the man couldn’t hide his urgency.

Yanick nodded, slow and deliberate. No smirk. No games. But inside, something uncoiled. Hope.

“Old runes,” he said.

That broke it. The interrogator bolted upright, chair crashing behind him. He didn’t speak, didn’t glare, just stormed out, nearly ripping the door from its hinges.

Yanick sat still. One second. Two. Three. Four. Five.

No voices. No footsteps.

He stood up, walked to the desk. Embedded in the surface: a Spy’s Mirror.

A perfect black slab, obsidian-like, non-reflective, like it swallowed light and memory both. Not like the one Big Mike gave him. A much bigger one.

Yanick pulled open the first drawer of the desk.

Nothing.

Second one. Empty.

Third—