As they stepped out into the golden late afternoon light, Elise tucked the kite more securely under her arm and fell into step beside him. The warmth of the restaurant and their easy conversation seemed to follow them onto the street.

"I can't believe how fast that time went," she said, checking her phone for the time.

"Yeah, it feels like we just—" Aris started, but stopped when he saw her face change as she looked at her screen.

"What is it?" he asked, but then his phone started buzzing. And again. And again.

Around them, the busy street was suddenly punctuated by people stopping to stare at their phones, conversations dying mid-sentence.

"We are disgraced to have our dearly trusted members of our agency involved in these atrocities against humanity," an English translator dubs over the broadcast. "As the commissioner, I cordially invite an open internal investigation from other Agencies and any and all third-party investigators as I step down from this position."

"That is the statement provided by the now former commissioner of France's Interpol Agency, Nichts. On to other details of—" The news anchor continues.

Having seen the news, his gaze returned to Elise, who looked like a pale, unadorned marble statue, eyes frantically darting across her screen, a stark contrast to the vibrant woman she'd been moments ago.

"Elise?" he said softly.

She looked up at him, quickly locking her phone screen. "Just work drama. Nothing I can't handle." But her hands were still shaking.

"Work drama that's making national news?" he pressed gently.

"It's—" a dull sensation settled in her head "—complicated." She started walking, clearly wanting to end the conversation.

He kept pace with her. "The meeting you mentioned earlier with that 'colleague'. This is connected, isn't it?"

"Aris, please." Her voice was strained, but she was still trying to maintain that casual tone. "You should go home, Aris. This doesn't concern you."

"It concerns you," he said, firmness in his voice, "and that's enough for me."

She stopped, looking back at him with something between frustration and gratitude. "You don't underst—" she caught herself, "It's not something you'd want to get involved in, not in the way I have."

"Helping me understand won't get me involved in whatever you're up to."

"I can't." Her voice was barely a whisper, shocked by his absolute trust. "I can't drag you into this mess." Her jaw tightened, and she looked away, as if the words themselves were painful to say.

"What if I want to be dragged in?"

She looked at him for a long moment, her careful composure finally starting to crack. "Why would you want that?"

"Because," he said simply.

Elise looked at him, almost awestruck. She shook her head in resignation, unable to speak.

"We don't have to pretend it's nothing," he continued, surprising himself with his directness. "If you want to talk, I'll listen. If you want to be alone..." He paused, realising he didn't want to leave her. "Then I'll respect that too." His words are faint.

"Okay, don't oversell yourself." A small, genuine smile broke through. "How'd you even..."

"I have a good teacher," he said, echoing her earlier playfulness. Elise raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Yes, it's the same teacher," he said with a prideful grin.

Around them, the initial shock had faded, and pedestrians resumed their daily routines, but worry lingered in the public consciousness, as a key institute had been rendered defunct.

"I should head home," Elise said, glancing at her phone again. "I have some things to figure out."

"Do you want company?" he offered, surprising himself.

She smiled, touched by the gesture. "I think I need to process this alone first. But..." she hesitated. "Maybe we could work something out after your classes."

"We could," he said, relief evident in his voice.

"Good." She adjusted the kite under her arm. "And also, don't let Malcolm intimidate you tomorrow." She leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. "He's secretly a big softy, or at least according to my sources."

Aris gives a dry chuckle, "I'll believe it when I see it."

As the sun sets across the city, Lyle walks through the crowded Art Deco city centre, a cacophony of scents from the train station plaza permeates the atmosphere, bringing a homely scent to the urban space.

"What did you hope to achieve by letting this go to the public while we deal with this internally? Now you've forced a commissioner to tender his resignation prematurely," a commanding voice scolds Lyle over the phone.

Lyle takes a leisurely browse at the trinkets stall amidst the conversation, an amber charm catching his eye. He turned it over in his fingers, examining each facet while his superior ranted, "The only thing I'm forcing us to do is act. We don't need all the extra time just for someone to turn whistleblower and have Trafalgar as the interim anyway, better to deal with it while we can keep control of the story." A clover, embalmed by the amber, was counted to have four leaves in asymmetry. He set it down without purchase. "As a bonus, getting myself out of the picture would stop the syndicates from knowing I've gone kaput. Keep appearances and all that." He spoke with the casual confidence of someone who had already won the argument.

"There is immense strength in being underestimated. Your overreach took that potential leverage from us."

Lyle picked up a small wooden figurine, a reference mannequin, testing its weight, adjusting the figure's pose. "It's only leverage if we understand what is happening; until then, it's a burden at best." His voice carried an edge that made the vendor glance up nervously. "Besides, with Trafalgar at the helm of Agency Nichts, I'm sure Anais would appreciate some fresh company." He placed the figurine back where he'd found it, posed with its hands clutching its head in panic.

The silence stretched long enough for Lyle to examine three more trinkets before his superior's frustrated exhale crackled through the speaker, having nothing to say to his flippancy, cutting the call. Seeing the vendor's nervousness, he made an apologetic gesture.

Inside the station, the whirring of departing trains and metallic screeches of arrivals create a symphony of urban transit. Waves of commuters surge through the metro's vertical circulation like blood through arteries. Lyle weaves between clusters of lost tourists, their babel of languages masking his conversation as he orders his ticket and calls Trafalgar.

A youthful groan echoes through the speaker, "Just text us, gardener."

"Congratulations on the promotion!" Lyle disregards the complaint entirely, his voice cheerfully oblivious as he collects his ticket to Munich. "You're now the commissioner of not just one but two agencies."

"What are you talking about?" Trafalgar's irritation sharpens. "Isn't ICJ in the middle of damage controlling your—"

"Check your email," Lyle interrupts, making his way toward his terminal. "I'll wait."

Trafalgar's voice went faint as they called out to their sibling to check the email. As siblings, they resisted, and the line went quiet, except for the sound of typing, then clicking. Lyle counts the seconds—one, two, three—before Trafalgar's sharp intake of breath.

"Etwas am Hals haben," their tone rises, but exhaustion in their voice is unmistakable. "They want me to run both agencies? And clean up the mess you made?"

"It's only temporary," Lyle says helpfully. "Just until they find someone else," positivity emanating from him. "Whenever that may be..." he says it in a whisper loud enough to be heard.

Deep breaths could be heard from the phone's speakers. "We don't have time to fuel your antics. We have to prepare. Goodbye."

The call ended with a decisive click, leaving Lyle staring at his phone in the echoing station. He pocketed the device and checked the station clock; there were minutes until his departure.

The platform buzzed with travellers hauling luggage and checking departure boards. Lyle moved through them with practised ease, his ticket already in hand. The Munich Express sat waiting, with diagonals of pearl-white and lapis-blue livery gleaming under the sun's dimming light.

He found his first-class seat and settled into the window. Other passengers filtered in: a businessman with a laptop, an elderly couple sharing a crossword puzzle, a young woman with noise-cancelling headphones. For the most part, the cart remained sparse.

With the click of the brake release, an electric whirr reverberated through the cart chassis as the train began to move, soon becoming a hum. The platform slid past his window, then the city's outskirts, and finally the open countryside.

Lyle pulled out his phone and scrolled through the news coverage of the scandal. Headlines about corruption, investigations, and resignations. His handiwork was already being featured in every major outlet. He set the phone aside and watched the landscape blur past.

He let out a sigh of exhaustion and sank into his seat, leaned back, and closed his eyes, trying to centre himself.

But even in meditation, his mind felt blank and hazy, a mockery of the vividness his power had once provided. The girl who had somehow severed his connection to his abilities, the scandal he'd used to mask his deficiency, his upcoming plea to the one person who might understand what had happened to him, it all swirled together in an exhausting spiral.

He took this time to contemplate the current circumstance. He had set everything in motion. Now he could only hope Munich would provide the answers he desperately needed.