Kingsman wasn’t just an agency. It was a myth forged in silence—an espionage syndicate so deep underground, most governments only knew its name when their power had already slipped through their fingers. What they did know was this: when Kingsman deployed, it meant containment had failed.

And when failure threatened to rewrite history, Kingsman turned to the Round Table.

Eight operatives. Handpicked. Lethal. Each capable of toppling a regime—or resurrecting one.

They weren’t elite. They were legends.
And tonight, they were all that stood between a ballroom full of global power brokers and an untraceable massacre.

The Command Room pulsed with the cool glow of surveillance feeds. Ballroom. Rooftop. Corridors. Every angle monitored. Every second counted.

Callsign Arthur stood at the center of it all, rigid and composed. His frame was all sharp lines and coiled calm, the silver at his temples stark against slicked-back dark hair. He looked carved from command itself.

Beside him stood Agent Merlin, a figure of quiet intensity and wiry frame. His dark hair, perpetually tousled as if he had just rolled out of bed, framed his face, which was focused intently on the mission brief in his hands; memorized after countless readings. The blue light from the large screens bathed the room in a cool hue, causing his glasses to gleam as he adjusted them.

His skin retained a sun-kissed glow despite contrasting sharply with the sterile environment of their dimly lit command center. 

“The Knights are in position, Commander Lancaster.” he drawled as he handed over the datapad with a meticulously folded sleeve.

Arthur didn’t fidget as he took it. Both men never take their eyes off the screen.
He didn’t blink more than necessary.
He watched. He waited.

Click.

He pressed his comm into place. “Status.”

One word. Flat, precise. It erupted along the line like the sound of a starting pistol.

A Gala in the Heart of the City

The gala glittered with polished danger. Crystal chandeliers. Velvet shadows. Money that made enemies.

Intel flagged two threats: a bomb or an armed assault.

Possibly both.

And the Knights of the Round Table were in position.

Agent Lancelot lounged at the bar, tux straining slightly against his fighter’s frame. He stirred a drink he  hadn’t touched, eyes scanning the room like a wolf waiting for the herd to panic.

“Two tailers near the wine cart,” he murmured. “One’s pretending to text. Poorly. Thinks lowering the backlight of the screen makes him subtle.”

Arthur’s voice came back, clean. “Mark them. Don’t engage.”

Agent Galahad stood near the VIP section, wine glass in hand, smile just sharp enough to cut. His voice was velvet, timed to a beat between flattery and threat.

“VIP Three’s drunk enough. Wager they’d start listing shell companies if I blink at him the right way.”

Merlin cut in, dry as sandpaper. “We’re not licensed for confessionals.”

Meanwhile, Agent Percival was posted at the north entrance like a wall disguised in formalwear. His stance never shifted, but his voice was low and grim.

“Security detail just doubled. Civilians are twitchy. One twitch and we’ve got a stampede.”

Merlin’s voice filtered in. “Could be they’re spooked.”

“Or they know more than we do,” Percival replied. “One woman near the lobby was sobbing into her purse.”

Agent Bedivere was hunched over his tablet in a hidden security tower, eyes narrowing.

“Encrypted RF chatter in the east wing. Not ours. Frequency’s jumping. Whoever’s transmitting is mobile.”

Arthur didn’t miss a beat. “Trace it. I want a fix and an angle.”

“On it,” Bedivere muttered. “But we’ve lost visual on the northeast stairwell. That’s not interference. Someone physically unplugged the camera.”

Agent Gawain ghosted through the crowd, warm grin still on but tighter.

“Telecom CEO just exchanged something with the ex-spook. Flash drive, maybe. Now they’re splitting up. This is coordinated.”

Arthur’s jaw set. “Shadow op or external threat?”

“Both,” Gawain said. “Feels like we walked into someone else’s war.”

Up on the rooftop, Agent Tristan spoke for the first time in minutes. His voice was quiet, unshaken.

“Two men unloading crates. Civilian clothes. I can’t confirm weapons, but one just covered the crate with a thermal blanket.”

Arthur’s attention snapped. “Confirm the convoy.”

“Armored truck. No tags. No traffic record. They’ve got two more crates. I give it five minutes before they’re inside.”

Arthur turned to Merlin. “Pull feed. Scan for logos, serials, anything.”

Merlin’s screen flashed. “No identifiers. Whatever this is, it was scrubbed clean. Logistics confirm: nothing should be coming in tonight. That convoy is off-grid and fully armed.”

Galahad’s voice came sharper now.

“VIPs are scattering. One’s still in the ballroom. Two just took the stairwell. Last one ducked into a service wing. Fuck, it’s the negotiator from the Manila accord.”

Arthur’s pulse jumped. “If he dies, that treaty collapses.”

“And if the CEO upstairs gets taken,” Merlin added, “We lose access to the entire Balkan satellite network. Half the defense grid goes dark next quarter.”

Bedivere cuts in faster now.

“Signal’s deteriorating. We just lost rooftop cam three. Jamming’s active and tightening. If they hit the ballroom with those crates, we’re too late.”

Arthur flipped channels. “Command. This is the Round Table. Immediate backup required. Threat is active.”

There was a pause. Too long.

“Nearest unit is thirty minutes out, Commander Lancaster.”

Arthur’s hand curled into a fist. His voice stayed low, but it cut like glass.

“I have six operatives and a ballroom full of targets. If you don’t move, we will fail containment and lose the upper tier of three allied defense networks.”

Still nothing.

Then Tristan, colder now:

“They’re mobilizing. Not prepping. I repeat, mobilizing. The crates are open. I can’t see inside, but one of them just pulled gloves and a radio out of a false panel.”

Bedivere’s feeds blinked hard.

“Multiple floors losing visual. System override from outside. Someone’s inside our lines.”

In the ballroom, a waiter tripped and dropped a tray then didn’t move to pick it up. Instead, he disappeared into the crowd. No ID tag.

Arthur’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“We need a door. Or we’re going to burn alive in a gala full of billionaires.”

Merlin’s hands moved fast. “Command’s stalling. Emergency override locked. I’m trying a private channel—”

Buzz.

Merlin’s personal phone lit up.

One message.

Hey. Need help or you got this?

No name popped up immediately. No insignia. Just the casual threat of someone who already knew the answer.

Merlin tapped into the ballroom camera, or what was left of it.

There she was.

A woman stood motionless in the chaos—white hair pinned up with a hairpin. The ballroom pulsed around her: fleeing staff, flickering lights, rising confusion. 

But she remained still, composed. Eyes like steel under storm clouds locked on the camera feed.

Merlin let out a quiet breath and tapped out a message, eyes on her.

Go ahead.

She smiled as her phone vibrated and then tapped her phone once, then again.

“Backup is en route. She’s already in play. Let her handle it.”

Silence followed.

Then Percival’s voice, low and wary: “Did Command just say she?”

In the ballroom, Gawain blinked hard as someone cleanly plucked an earpiece from his ear. He turned, halfway through a pivot—

And froze.

She stood there.

Unbothered. Like she hadn’t just ghosted into a high-security event through blind spots only Merlin could map. Her dress matched the ballroom’s palette perfectly. Her smirk did not.

She slipped the comm into her own ear.

“Evening, gentlemen,” she said, voice light and lethal. “Heard we were improvising.”

Arthur’s voice cracked like a blade. “Identify yourself.”

She sighed. Almost playfully. But not quite.

“You called for backup. I picked up. I assumed that’s what you lot needed.”

Arthur’s tone dropped, clipped and cold. “Unless you can somehow clear the ballroom, there’s not much you can offer.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she moved.

No rush. No panic. Just a brief, graceful slide of her hand as she brushed a passing waiter’s tray. One flute of champagne tilted, fell—

—right into the lap of an heiress whose family had been blackmailing prime ministers since the Cold War.

The white hair woman shrieked.

“RAT! THERE’S A RAT!”

The scream was shrill. Cutting. Infectious.

A domino effect. A diplomat startled and bumped into a server. Someone stepped on a heel. Glass shattered.

And just like that, the ballroom detonated.

Security rushed in the wrong direction. Guests bolted, stumbling toward exits, tripping over each other in a wave of panic. A centerpiece caught fire. Chairs fell. One man ran into a pillar hard enough to knock himself unconscious.

In under sixty seconds, the floor was clear.

The feed caught a wide shot: empty ballroom, spilled champagne, fractured silence.

“…What in the actual hell,” Percival muttered.

Arthur stared at the feed.

“That’ll do.”

She smoothed her dress, as though she hadn’t just caused a high-society meltdown. Then handed Gawain a small, leather-bound notebook—light as a promise.

“A little gift for your Commander,” she said. “If he’s signing the funeral cards, he might as well make it an informed decision.”

She turned to leave.

Arthur didn’t move. Not at first. But Merlin looked at him and Arthur didn’t need to know what it said.

We’re out of other options.

“Halt,” Arthur called.

She paused mid-stride.

A quiet settled in the room. Arthur exhaled once, steady but thin.

“What else can you do?”

She smiled. Not wide. Not soft.

Like someone who had just been invited to cause more damage.