Chapter 15

     The streets were quieter than they should have been, the fog thicker than before, settling in like an old habit that refused to die. I had been chasing shadows for weeks, but this was different—something had shifted, and the city felt like it was holding its breath. I kept replaying the moment in the square, hearing the bell’s mournful toll echo in my head, feeling Madeleine’s presence still lingering just out of reach.

     She’d slipped away again, as she always did, leaving more questions than answers. And Achilles—he was nowhere, and yet everywhere at once, the strings he pulled now tightening in ways I could feel, but not yet see.

     I moved down the backstreets, my footsteps muffled by the wet cobblestones. The sky was a bruise, dark and swollen, threatening rain but holding back for reasons I couldn’t explain. I had a lead, but it wasn’t much: a name scrawled on the edge of a torn page, found wedged between two crumbling bricks near the old printworks.

     Tony.

     It meant nothing to me, at least not yet. But the more I turned it over in my head, the more I felt like I’d missed something important. I didn’t know who Tony was, or what his connection to Achilles could be, but something told me that this wasn’t just another dead end. Achilles had been too careful, too deliberate with the way he moved people like chess pieces. This Tony wasn’t just a pawn. He was something else—something I needed to figure out before Achilles made his next move.

     I reached the place where the name had led me: a rundown bar on the edge of town, the kind of place where people went to disappear. The sign out front was missing letters, and the windows were dark, except for the faint glow of a jukebox spilling low, tinny music into the night. I pushed open the door, the scent of stale beer and cigarette smoke hitting me like a wall.

     Inside, it was dim, the haze from a few scattered cigarettes hanging in the air like fog. A couple of old regulars sat hunched over their drinks at the bar, but no one paid me any mind as I slipped inside. I scanned the room, looking for a face that fit the name, but the only person who stood out was the bartender, a burly man with a thick mustache and arms like tree trunks. He was cleaning a glass with slow, deliberate movements, his eyes fixed on the counter as though the world outside didn’t exist.

     I moved toward the bar and sat down, the stool creaking under my weight. “I’m looking for Tony,” I said, keeping my voice low but clear.

     The bartender’s hand froze, his grip tightening on the glass for just a fraction of a second before he resumed his cleaning. He didn’t look at me, didn’t acknowledge the name. But I knew he’d heard it.

     “Tony’s not here,” he said, his voice gruff, but there was an edge to it, like he was holding something back.

     “Maybe you could tell me where I might find him,” I pressed.

     The bartender’s eyes flicked toward me then, just briefly, before he set the glass down and turned away. “Tony doesn’t like company,” he muttered. “Especially not now.”

     “Now?” I leaned forward, the weight of the conversation shifting. “What’s changed?”

     He didn’t answer right away, just wiped his hands on a rag and moved to the other end of the bar, as though he could put distance between us and whatever was hanging in the air. But before I could ask again, someone behind me spoke.

     “He’s right. Tony’s not looking for company.”

     I turned to see a man standing near the jukebox, his figure half-hidden in the shadows. He wasn’t tall, but there was something about him that felt solid, like he’d been carved out of stone and given flesh. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and he had a small, faint scar running along the edge of his jaw. His clothes were simple—worn jeans and a leather jacket—but the way he carried himself made it clear he wasn’t just some drifter passing through.

     “Tony?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

     He nodded, his gaze locked on mine. “Depends on who’s asking.”

     I didn’t flinch. “Someone who needs answers.”

     Tony chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He stepped closer, the dim light casting long shadows across his face. “You think I have answers? To what, exactly?”

     “Achilles,” I said, the name hanging in the air like a challenge.

     Tony’s expression darkened, the faint smile fading from his lips. He looked past me, toward the bartender, who had now retreated into the back room, and then back at me. “You should leave,” he said quietly. “While you still can.”

     “I’m not leaving,” I replied, my voice steady. “Not until I know what’s going on.”

     Tony shook his head, his jaw clenched. “You don’t understand. Achilles isn’t playing the game you think he is. And if you keep chasing him, you’ll end up where everyone else does—buried in a hole no one remembers.”

     I didn’t move. “Then explain it to me.”

     For a moment, Tony said nothing, his gaze fixed on the floor. The air between us felt heavy, like the room was closing in. Then, with a resigned sigh, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He handed it to me without a word.

     I unfolded the paper, my eyes scanning the handwritten note. It was a single sentence, scrawled in a hurried, almost desperate hand:

     "Ret, Tony. Divert."

     “What does this mean?” I asked, but before I could get an answer, Tony stepped back into the shadows, his figure blending into the dim light of the bar.

     “It means you’ve been warned,” he said, his voice low. “Achilles doesn’t leave loose ends. And neither do I.”

     With that, he turned and disappeared through the back door, leaving me alone in the bar, the note clenched in my hand. The jukebox played on, the same low, tinny music filling the empty space. And for the first time in months, I realized I might have been chasing the wrong lead all along.

     Tony wasn’t just another pawn in Achilles’ game. He was something else—something deeper, something that might turn the tide if I could figure out where he fit. But that was the trick, wasn’t it? Diverting me just enough to make me question everything I thought I knew.

     The game wasn’t over. Not yet. But the rules were changing, and I wasn’t sure who was writing them anymore.