Silence reigns, broken only by the air conditioner's low hum. It's my trusty white noise machine, really — keeping my brain from turning to mush out of sheer boredom. I'm sprawled back in my chair, feet propped up on the desk like I own the place. Which, technically, I kinda do. A mountain of paperwork lies next to my shoes, each page silently judging my lack of motivation. But hey, that's a problem for future me.

"What a waste of time," I mutter under my breath, my gaze drifting from the monotonous forms to the small glass prism nestled in my palm.

The delicate trinket, no larger than a matchbox, seems to embody the very essence of fragility. I find myself drawn to its intricacy, marveling at how something so small can hold such captivating power.

Slowly, I rotate it. Its cool surface contrasts sharply with my warm fingers as light dances across its flawless faces. Each rotation reveals a new spectrum of colors — a fleeting rainbow that appears and vanishes faster than a blink of an eye. With every angle, the prism catches the light, refracting it into a dazzling array of hues that paint ephemeral masterpieces across my cluttered desk.

"You poor thing. Such transparency." I run my thumb along one sharp edge. "You reveal everything, yet conceal so much."

Deep in thought, my concentration is promptly interrupted by the sliding of the metallic door.

"No knocking. Again," I think, swiftly and carefully tucking the glass object into my drawer.

"You have no real place here," I think to myself. "Stay safe." It's a small act of protection, a fleeting moment of care in a world that often seems devoid of such sentiments.

As I close the drawer, my attention shifts to the visitor who's holding a file in his hand. He quickly strides towards my desk, foregoing any greetings or pleasantries.

His attire — a tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and muted rose tie — exudes precision. A rose gold watch on his left wrist further boasts his meticulous nature. He stands with squared shoulders, eyes methodically scanning the room.

As soon as the thin file lands on my desk with a soft thud, I give it a quick glance. It's a profile adorned with a black band — a marker of death. With quick fingers, he flips it open, revealing the photo and rating: 94.31%.

"Another one?" I grimace, the words tasting like bile.

A nod is all I get.

"Tsk tsk." I lean back, fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest. "Was there at least a body?" It's a feeble hope, but I cling to it anyway.

This time, a shake.

I exhale slowly. "Any great idea?" Another empty chair at the next briefing, another name to be etched onto our memorial wall.

"I'm looking at one."

"Seriously?" I scoff, finally lifting my gaze to meet his. "My rating barely scratches 50%."

"We are both aware that these ratings scarcely capture the essence of one's capability," Violet retorts with a casualness that belies the gravity of our conversation. "That's precisely why you're the one sitting comfortably in that chair, dictating orders, while I'm relegated to paperwork duty, and one of our top agents... well, he's no longer with us."

"Come on now. At least show some concern for the demise of a fellow agent."

"Please, spare me the theatrics. We both foresaw this outcome. Adherence to 'regulations' and 'protocols' was a façade the upper echelons insisted on. They now find themselves bereft of stratagems."

I slouch further in my chair. "And that's why I need to get my hands dirty now?" It's a mock question; we both know the answer.

"Correct."

With exaggerated nonchalance, I pick up the file from the desk, though it's mostly just for show. At this point, everyone knows about Kronus, the enigmatic figure at the center of our troubles. Just a code name, not that I care about his real identity anyway.

As I lazily flip through the pages, my eyes catch on familiar inconsistencies. They've been gnawing at me for quite some time now.

"Why do you persist in reading those files?" Violet's brows knit together. "Surely you are already aware—"

"Shhh." I press a finger to my lips, cutting him off mid-sentence.

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I reach for my trusty pen. With a deliberate clumsiness, I accidentally slip it from my grasp. It clatters to the floor, the sound echoing.

I run a hand through my hair, feigning exasperation. "Shut up already. I'm not in the mood here."

"Understood. I shall take my leave. Pardon my prior rudeness," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Without waiting for a response, he he turns on his heel and exits.

I linger in the office, giving the room a lazy once-over. Man, if these walls could talk... they'd probably just spout more cryptic nonsense. With a shrug, I pop open the drawer, fingers skimming over the cool glass trinket. "Catch you later, little guy," I murmur, closing it shut before flicking off the lights.

Cruising down the corridors, I entertain all the possibilities brewing in my mind. The fluorescents overhead cast funky shadows, like some low-budget noir flick guiding me to the elevator. As I descend, I find myself tapping out an upbeat rhythm on the handrail.

The evening air hits me like a refreshing splash of water as I step outside. Ah, sweet freedom from the stuffy office vibes. All around, the city's doing its usual dance, blissfully unaware of the silent war. Holographic ads burst to life, splashing the streets with a rainbow of neons. I chuckle at a massive 3D billboard, some chiseled model trying way too hard to sell mood juice or whatever.

Street lamps dot the sidewalk with pools of light, looking almost quaint next to the towering light shows of the skyscrapers. Sleek maglevs zip by overhead, while honks and whirrsdominate the ground level. It's all white noise to me as I saunter towards Violet's place, my mind buzzing with far more interesting topics.

I walk briskly down the street, enjoying the colorful urban life. Before long, I'm face-to-face with Violet's building — nondescript and uninteresting like unseasoned tofu. Pretty perfect camouflage for my not-so-average 'assistant'.

A snicker escapes me as I approach the entrance. My finger hovers dramatically over the buzzer before I give it a playful poke. Violet's probably already there, waiting in complete silence. Oh, Violet, you wonderfully weird 'assistant', you.

Right on cue, the door swings open.

"Welcome back," he greets, eyebrows doing that thing they do. I swear, those eyebrows have a language all their own.

I saunter in, the door closing with a soft click behind us.

First thing first, Violet activates the privacy barrier with a click as I plop down in front of him. Fancy tech for a not-so-fancy residence.

"Now, please do enlighten me," he says, all prim and proper.

"A rat among our directors," I bluntly state, straight to the point, my voice barely above a whisper.

Five directors, five suspects.

"Refrain from casting baseless aspersions. Unless you have irrefutable proof to back up your outlandish claim," he shoots back, more aggressive than I've anticipated.

"You've noticed it too, haven't you?" I ask, my voice low and measured. "The patterns, the discrepancies in our intel. It's been happening far too often to be mere coincidence."

"What are you implying?"

"I think you know pretty damn well." I lean back, balancing my chair on two legs. "The unexpected mission failures, the agents lost under suspicious circumstances. It all points to a betrayal at the highest level. Take Operation Crimson City, for instance. Our agent was deployed under the utmost secrecy, yet Kronus ambushed him at the rendezvous point."

I pause, gauging Violet's reaction. His silence speaks volumes.

"The information in here is too precise," I continue, tapping the file on my desk. "too conveniently tailored to lead our agents into fatal traps. Operation Azure Gambit. We had triple-layered the intelligence. Yet, the moment Sylvan made his move, he was neutralized."

Still no reaction from him.

"Kronus popping up in ops he had no business being in," I press onward. "Obsidian died for nothing. Such precise, timely appearances can't be coincidental. This level of information leakage suggests a betrayal at the highest level."

I clear my throat before continuing. "And what did they say after every failed mission? That these men were rusty, untrained. That they didn't stick to the plan. Convenient excuses. And who's gonna call them out?"

"Your argument, though fervent, lacks practical insight. Why would our directors orchestrate failures? Surely, the success of our agents aligns more closely with their interests," Violet counters, his composure unshaken.

I dramatically roll my eyes and let out a sigh. "Still playing coy, huh? Fine."

I whip out a metal card from my pocket, the smooth surface glinting under the room's ample light. I hold the card up for Violet to see. His eyes widen just a smidge as he recognizes the name and title etched onto the card.

Slapping it on the table, I wiggle my brows. "No one knows this place better than you do. YYou've been playing the quiet observer, watching the council crumble, the petty squabbles, the power struggles. Time to drop the act, Architect. Your secret admirer's figured you out."

Violet's gaze shifts from the card to meet mine. He nods, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It seems you've found my little secret," he says, his tone even. "And as the saying goes, finder's keeper."

He pauses, measuring his words. "I must admit, I'm impressed. I hadn't expected you to piece it together so quickly. But then again, that's precisely why you're the one I chose to confide in."

"Your little game was quite the torture. Sifting through that mountain of paperwork for the right info was godawful." I wave a dismissive hand. "Now get someone else to take care of it, I've got better things to do."

"Ah, the burden of bureaucracy. It's a necessary evil, I'm afraid." He straightens his tie. "But I'll make sure those files find their way to the right hands, 'boss'. We have more pressing matters to attend to."

He stands up, his movements precise and purposeful, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. The faint scent of his cologne, a mix of sandalwood and spice, wafts through the air.

"You're right, of course. The report, the inconsistencies, the carefully crafted misinformation. It all points to a betrayal at the top level," he confirms, his words leaving no room for doubt. "And as the Architect, it's my duty to ensure the integrity of our organization."

His eyes meet mine once more, issuing a silent challenge and invitation.

"For her."