The silence in the hospital corridor was broken only by the rhythmic squeak of rubber soles on polished linoleum. Spy A stood rooted to the spot, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. That look—Arjun's gaze—wasn't the vacant stare of a patient coming out of sedation. It was the piercing, analytical look of a predator who had already mapped out the room.
It had to be a coincidence, Spy A told himself, wiping a bead of cold sweat from his forehead. He's just a kid. He's been in a coma for days. There's no way he could have known I was watching.
Despite the rationalization, a cold knot of dread remained in his gut. He watched as the Men in Purple turned the corner toward the service elevators. Shaking off his paralysis, he moved with the practiced stealth of a ghost, trailing them from a safe distance. He saw them enter the second lift. Waiting a few agonizing beats, he took the adjacent elevator, his eyes fixed on the floor indicator.
They stopped at the private wing. Spy A peered through the heavy glass doors of the corridor, catching a glimpse of the two men wheeling Arjun into a personal restroom. He ducked behind a vending machine, his breath shallow.
Minutes passed. The Men in Purple emerged alone, looking efficient and unbothered. They headed toward the reception desk to finalize the paperwork for Arjun's "bedroom" room transfer.
Spy A pulled out his encrypted comms. "Spy B, move in. Secure a position near Arjun's new suite. Do not engage, just eyes-on. I'm following the escorts. I suspect they're heading back to a primary hub."
He tapped a quick message to the A.P.O. Chief: Following two high-level suspicious targets. Will update on destination.
Outside the hospital, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long, bruised shadows across the pavement. The two Men in Purple entered a sleek, nondescript black sedan. Spy A hailed a taxi, tossing a wad of bills at the driver.
"Follow that car. Don't lose them, but don't get too close," he commanded.
What followed was a masterclass in urban navigation. The black sedan moved with terrifying precision. It didn't speed, yet it never seemed to hit a red light. It glided through intersections as if the city's traffic grid was being manipulated in its favor. The taxi driver, spurred by the promise of more cash, drove like a man possessed, keeping the sedan's taillights in view as they left the city limits behind and headed toward the industrial ports.
The sedan finally pulled into a restricted pier. Spy A stayed low in the backseat of the taxi, watching through binoculars. After fifteen minutes of silence, a massive, midnight-black cruise ship loomed out of the fog, its hull cutting through the water without a sound. It bore no flags, no name, and no lights.
The black sedan drove straight up the loading ramp and into the bowels of the ship. He moved like a shadow among the shipping containers, timed his breath with the lapping waves, and managed to slip through a closing cargo hatch just before the ship pulled away.
Inside, the air was cold and smelled of ozone. He found a small, cramped storage locker filled with spare engine parts and hunkered down. Thirty minutes later, a low hum vibrated through the floorboards. The ship was moving.
He pulled out his phone, checking the GPS. They were heading south. Deep south. Toward the Antarctic Ocean.
Back in the quiet warmth of the hospital suite, the atmosphere was far more domestic, though no less tense. Arjun sat on the edge of his bed, looking remarkably healthy for a man who had been declared "near-death" forty-eight hours ago.
His mother, her face etched with the exhaustion of a thousand prayers, watched him with watery eyes. Beside her, Aradhya was practically poking Arjun, checking his shoulders and arms for scars.
"Where did they go, Arjun?" Aradhya asked, her voice a mix of wonder and suspicion.
"The doctors said you were shattered. Your ribs, your internal bleeding... and now you're sitting here like you just came back from a spa. How?"
Arjun gave her a playful, lopsided grin—the kind that usually got him out of trouble. "I told you, the doctors here are geniuses. Maybe it's the hospital food. High in protein, apparently."
Aradhya gave him a look that said she didn't believe a word of it, but before she could press him, her phone buzzed.
"Hello? Yes, Maa," Aradhya said, stepping toward the window. Arjun watched her, his heightened senses picking up the faint tinny sound of her mother's worried voice from the receiver. "Maa, stop worrying. Arjun is fine. He's actually healthy... suspiciously healthy."
She listened for another moment, her expression softening. "Yes, I'll be home in a day or two. Don't worry. Okay. Bye."
She hung up and turned to Arjun. "My mom is losing it. I need to head back to Bangalore."
"I'll take you tomorrow," Arjun said firmly.
His mother chimed in, "I'm coming too. I can't stay here alone. I'll just get bored and worry about you."
Arjun nodded, a sense of duty settling over him. "Fine. We'll all go. I have some things I need to take care of in Bangalore anyway."
Underneath his calm exterior, Arjun's mind was racing. He could feel the pulse of the city outside, but more importantly, he could feel a strange, persistent "itch" at the back of his skull. It was a sensory trail. He knew he was being watched. He could feel the intent of the spy nearby, a prickling sensation on his skin that grew stronger whenever the watcher focused on him.
While Arjun prepared for his return, the world's economic gears were screaming. In Washington D.C., the business department was drowning in contracts. Every major corporation was scrambling to claim their piece of the "American Garden."
But in a secure, darkened boardroom halfway across the world, a different map was being drawn. Representatives from India, China, and Russia sat in a circular formation. At the edge of the shadows sat Lizzy, wearing his signature "Simple Mask"—a featureless white face that gave away nothing.
"Let them go," Lizzy's voice echoed, smooth and cold. "Let the companies flock to America. They are chasing a dream of low taxes, but they are forgetting the one thing a factory cannot survive without."
He tapped a holographic display, showing the global supply chain.
"Raw materials," Lizzy continued. "America wants to be the factory of the world? Fine. But we will be the warehouse. India and Russia, you have the land and the ties. Buy every scrap of raw ore, every log of timber, every barrel of oil you can find. Siphon the global supply. Empty the markets of the West."
He turned toward the Chinese representative. "And China, you have the infrastructure. You buy from India and Russia. Use those materials to produce goods that are higher quality and lower cost than anything America can make with their expensive labor. If we control the materials, we control the price. We will make America's 'Golden Opportunity' an expensive cage."
The plan was audacious. It was economic warfare on a scale never seen. The three nations, usually rivals in some capacity, saw the logic. Within twenty-four hours, the news broke: India and Russia have begun a massive, unprecedented buy-up of global raw ores, coal, and oil. The market didn't just shift; it shuddered.
The next afternoon, an aeroplane touched down at Bangalore Airport. Arjun, Aradhya, and his mother stepped out into the humid, familiar air of the city.
As they walked through the terminal, Arjun felt it again. That sharp, focused "sting" in his awareness. He didn't turn around. He didn't need to. He knew the spy was there, trailing them through the crowd, blending in with the travelers.
Arjun dropped Aradhya at her home first. The goodbye was brief, but there was a lingering look in Aradhya's eyes—a realization that the Arjun who went into the hospital wasn't exactly the same one who came out.
Arjun and his mother finally reached their own home. It felt hollow and quiet. They spent the evening cleaning, replacing the bedsheets that smelled of dust, and watering the parched garden. After ordering a simple dinner, they ate in silence, the domestic normalcy acting as a fragile shield against the chaos Arjun knew was coming.
As his mother went to sleep, Arjun stood by the window, staring into the dark. He could feel the spy outside, perched somewhere in the shadows of the street.
Keep watching, Arjun thought, his eyes flashing that brief, predatory blue. See what you want to see.
At the same moment, thousands of miles away, Spy A was shivering in the dark.
He had lost all GPS signal the moment the ship entered the Antarctic Circle. The storage room was freezing, the metal walls groaning under the pressure of the southern storms. He crept out of his hiding spot and moved to the upper deck, staying low against the railing.
What he saw defied every law of nature.
The cruise ship was hurtling toward a massive, jagged glacier—a wall of white ice that soared hundreds of feet into the gray sky. There was no harbor. No opening.
"We're going to crash," he whispered, bracing himself.
But as the bow of the ship touched the ice, there was no impact. No sound of grinding metal. The ship slipped through the glacier like a ghost passing through a wall. It was an illusion—a massive, high-frequency holographic cloak that masked a hidden passage.
The temperature shifted instantly. The biting Antarctic wind vanished, replaced by a climate-controlled, temperate breeze.
Spy A gasped, his legs nearly giving out. Beyond the icy curtain lay a city that didn't exist on any map. It was a sprawling metropolis of white stone and blue glass, powered by shimmering energy spires that reached toward a fake, glowing sky. It was a civilization hidden at the edge of the world, silent and invisible to the rest of humanity.
And Spy A, trapped on a ship with a group of Men in Purple, realized he had just found the heart of the W.S.O.