Veil of the forsaken.

"Six High-civilians."

Mai-Lee entered the meeting room with the kind of quiet authority that made people straighten up just a little, even when they were already on the verge of losing their minds.

Inside, the scene was nothing short of chaos—the comedic kind, at least.

Art had his face buried in his hands, groaning into them like this was the worst headache of his life. Dorothea was pacing, her lab coat flaring behind her as she muttered under her breath. Matthew was slouched in his chair, arms crossed, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might break his own teeth. And Father Gonzales? He was staring at the ceiling, mumbling a prayer under his breath like divine intervention was the only thing that could save them now.

"Six," Art finally lifted his head, running a hand through his hair. "Six high-civilians. By V.L.T.R. assassins. Again."

Dorothea spun around dramatically, pointing at no one in particular. "You know what's funny? We caught the bastard. He's literally right there—" she jabbed a finger toward the one-way mirror on the wall, where the assassin was undoubtedly sitting on the other side, looking all smug and unreadable, "—and still, we can't get a single damn word out of him."

Matthew exhaled sharply through his nose. "That's because he's a V.L.T.R. operative. You think they train those bastards to talk?"

Father Gonzales let out a slow, suffering sigh. "I'm beginning to think we should've just exorcised him."

Art shot him a look. "He's not possessed, Father."

"Are you sure?" Gonzales countered. "Because the way he just sits there, smiling, completely unaffected by everything we've tried—"

"Oh, we haven't tried everything yet," Matthew cut in, his voice dangerously smooth.

Dorothea stopped pacing. "Matthew," she said warningly.

"I'm just saying," he continued, leaning forward, "we've been playing nice. We've been patient. Too patient."

Mai-Lee, who had been watching this whole disaster unfold in silence, finally spoke. "So what are you suggesting?"

Matthew met her gaze. "I say we stop wasting time and start the wars with V.L.T.R. again."

The room went silent.

Then:

Art groaned louder. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

Dorothea threw her hands up. "Great! Fantastic! Love that for us! Just another war on the list—why not?!"

Father Gonzales shook his head. "I'll start writing two prayers, then."

Mai-Lee, unimpressed, crossed her arms. "So instead of getting intel out of one assassin, you'd rather start an all-out war?"

Matthew didn't flinch. "I'd rather remind V.L.T.R. who the fuck we are."

Dorothea plopped into a chair, rubbing her temples. "You know, I think I actually felt my life expectancy drop just now."

Art looked at Mai-Lee with a pleading expression, as if she were the last shred of sanity left in the room. "Talk some sense into him, please."

Mai-Lee simply exhaled through her nose, glancing back toward the mirror where the assassin sat, still unreadable.

She tilted her head slightly. Maybe Matthew had a point.

Mai-Lee stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The room waited.

Then, with perfect calm, she spoke.

"I agree."

Art's head snapped up. Dorothea nearly choked on her own breath. Father Gonzales blinked like he misheard. Even Matthew, despite expecting her to back him up, raised a brow at how easily she said it.