I gripped the door handle as Goran swerved around a Punto, my still aching torso stabbing with each jolt. Pain radiated through my chest like something sharp had lodged between my bones. Afternoon sun cut through the windshield, illuminating dust particles between us—a visible manifestation of our unspoken tension.

  Five minutes from the Archives, and neither of us had spoken. The rhythmic hum of tires against asphalt punctuated by occasional horn blasts became our soundtrack as Goran navigated Belgrade's congested streets with singular focus.

  "Could you possibly—" I started as we narrowly missed a delivery van.

  "No," Goran cut me off, accelerating through a yellow light. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. "We're already behind."

  I measured my exhale, careful not to aggravate burn in my chest. The dashboard clock read 16:47—rush hour traffic thickening in Belgrade's arteries.

  "You think they'll move him tonight?" I braced against the door as we rounded a corner.

  Goran's jaw tightened. "If I were them, I would. They've maintained his digital presence to buy time, but that won't last." His phone pinged. "Jovan's tracking Proti?'s phone—still at his apartment building. They're not even trying to make it look like he's moving around."

  Through the windshield, Belgrade streamed by—Soviet-era buildings alongside modern glass structures. Thoughts collided in my head faster than Goran could weave through traffic.

  The leather interior smelled of Goran's cologne. Outside, pedestrians squinted against the low autumn sun, oblivious that somewhere in their city, a man's life hung in the balance—a man connected to secrets buried for over a century. It's remarkable how secretive the world truly is. Countless activities unfold beneath the surface, and you can access just a minuscule portion by being fortunate or unfortunate enough to find yourself at precisely the right moment in exactly the right place.

  I shifted, my body protesting. The throb in my bruises matched the pulsing behind my eyes. My phone buzzed—surveillance photos from Jovan showing the Dor?ol apartment building. Its ordinary fa?ade revealed nothing.

  Goran cleared his throat. "About yesterday—"

  "We don't need to—"

  "Yes, we do." He slowed at a congested intersection. "I should have warned you about the potential hit on United Force."

  I turned to him, surprised.

  "The intelligence was sketchy. Anonymous tip, no concrete details, just whispers that someone might move against them." His fingers drummed the wheel. "I didn't want to send you in with half-baked information."

  "So you decided no information was better?"

  He winced. "Not my finest decision."

  I leaned back. "I should have told you what I was planning. Going in alone was stupid."

  "Monumentally stupid," Goran agreed, his voice softer than his words.

  A delivery truck cut us off. Goran swore, mentioning mothers, dogs, love and other profound phrases usual for native Serbian speaker, as he swerved. When we straightened out, he continued, "This Meridian Society business changes everything. We can't afford these miscommunications anymore."

  "Agreed."

  "We clear the air now. Moving forward, full disclosure. I tell you what I know, you tell me what you're planning to do with that information."

  I nodded. A group of teenagers crossed the street ahead of us. "What do you think, what's White City's angle with the Codex?"

  "Hard to say. Hacktivist groups usually want information freedom, system disruption. But this—" He shook his head. "A magical network that bypasses Book Keepers entirely? That's revolution, not disruption. And not really expected from non magical organisation."

  "For me, it doesn't make sense either," I said, staring out at the traffic. "Maybe they're just hired guns? Contracted by someone with real skin in the game. Dazbog Cult, perhaps?"

  "Possible," Goran nodded, his eyes never leaving the road. "But that doesn't track either. Organizations like Dazbog—they hoard power, they don't share it. Why outsource something this valuable to a bunch of digital anarchists?"

  "Maybe they know something we don't," I started, running scenarios through my head. "What if there's an angle here that we're completely missing? What if—"

  My phone buzzed, cutting me off mid-thought.

  Jovan's message lit up my phone: detailed floor plans of the Dor?ol building. I studied them quickly—entry points, stairwells, emergency exits.

  "Just got the apartment and building layout. What's our play once we get there?" I asked.

  "Reconnaissance first. We verify Proti? is inside, assess the security, then coordinate with the police tactical unit."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Since when do we wait for backup?"

  Goran gave me a pointed look. "Since 'monumentally stupid' nearly got you killed few days ago." His expression softened. "I need you in one piece, Aleksandar."

  The admission hung between us as we turned onto a side street, bypassing the worst traffic.

  "Besides," he added with a hint of a smile, "Ljiljana would kill me if I let anything happen to her favorite troublemaker."

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  I snorted. "That's a lie. Milenko's her favorite."

  "Maybe. But you're a close second."

  We drove in silence. The car clock ticked forward. 16:53. 16:54. Each minute meant Proti? was still in their hands. I'd seen what happened to people who resisted enhanced interrogation. If he is resisting at all. My stomach tightened at the thought of what state we might find him in—if we found him at all.

  Schoolchildren crossed ahead, their colorful backpacks bouncing with each step. They laughed and nudged each other, oblivious to the shadow world existing alongside theirs. These kids lived in a world where magic belonged in fantasy novels, where ancient societies guarding secret knowledge were just stories—not something that might determine whether they had a tomorrow.On the other hand, even without magic, the world is a dark place, teeming with criminals, drugs, and politicians, all lurking just out of sight. As I watched those kids, I couldn't help but wish I could go back to a time when my biggest concern was beating my best friend in our favorite video game.

  "So let's say that it this whole situation is about the obvious. The Meridian Codex—it's not just about magical power," I said, trying to structure the idea in my head. "It's about democratizing magic. Bypassing the Book Keepers entirely."

  Goran nodded slowly.

  "And that's why all information about it is buried so deep," I continued, watching him. "A magical internet would upend the entire power structure that's existed for centuries."

  "It would be chaos," Goran shot back, swerving around a bus. "Uncontrolled magic, accessible to anyone with the right connection. No oversight, no balance."

  "Or it would be freedom. Depends which side you're on."

  His eyes flicked toward me, then back to the road. "There are reasons some knowledge is restricted, Aleksandar. Not everything is about control."

  "Spoken like someone at the top of the hierarchy."

  Goran's shoulders bunched, the fabric of his suit tightening across his back. "I've seen what happens when magical energy falls into untrained hands. It's not pretty."

  I thought about the faces at United Force—young men with more bravado than sense, caught in forces they couldn't comprehend. Would they have been better equipped if magic had been more accessible? Or would it have just given them more powerful ways to destroy themselves?

  "Maybe," I conceded. "But keeping secrets has costs too."

  "Like what happened to Proti?," Goran said. "The very system meant to protect this knowledge made him a target."

  I leaned forward, tapping the dashboard map. "If this is really about the Meridian Society, they need more than just those blank files. Why Proti? specifically?"

  "Because he has the keys—physical and metaphorical." Goran slowed at a crowded pedestrian crossing. "As you know the National Archives are layered like an onion. There's what the public sees, what most staff access, and then..."

  "The restricted collections," I finished. "Where they keep the truly sensitive materials, hidden in plain sight but still protected."

  "Something doesn't add up," I said, massaging my temple with my free hand. "If they just needed Proti? to locate the physical files, why go through the trouble of kidnapping him? They could've cornered him in the Archives, forced him to hand over the documents at gunpoint."

  Goran's eyes narrowed as he navigated around a delivery truck. "Maybe they tried at Svetlana's apartment. Proti? might have refused."

  "And risked his life for some old papers?" I shook my head. "From what Marina told us, he values the Archive greatly, but I expect he values his own life more than historical integrity."

  "Fair point," Goran conceded. "So they need him for something else."

  I tapped my fingers against the door handle, thoughts racing. "What if they're planning to use him for access? The Archives have biometric security on the deepest levels, right?"

  "Fingerprints, retinal scans and magical energy pattern recognition," Goran confirmed. "Enhanced standard protocol for state institutions with sensitive materials."

  "So they can't just waltz in with his key card. They need him physically present."

  Traffic thinned as we approached Dor?ol. The afternoon sun cast long shadows between buildings, streets quieting as businesses closed for the day.

  "But why wait?" I wondered aloud. "They've had him since Friday."

  Goran's expression darkened. "Because we've been watching. Round-the-clock surveillance on the Archives makes it too risky."

  I straightened in my seat. "They're waiting for an opening. A moment when our guard is down."

  "Or," Goran said slowly, "they're waiting for regular working hours. Hide in plain sight."

  The realization hit me. "Come in with Proti? during a busy period, blend in with researchers and staff. No one questions the director walking through his own building."

  "Exactly. They've kept his digital presence active to prevent anyone from raising alarms."

  I glanced at my watch. "It's Monday. The first day after the weekend wouldn't make sense; they'd want us to believe everything is normal, business as usual, with no impending attack. If we hadn't discovered Dr. Proti?'s disappearance, we likely would have reduced surveillance, at least during office hours. If I were planning this, I'd do it tomorrow morning. Early, when staff are arriving but security is transitioning shifts."

  "I think you're right," Goran said, his voice grim. "Which means we have less than eighteen hours to find him."

  We turned onto a narrow street lined with pre-war buildings. The Dor?ol apartment was just ahead, unassuming in the fading light. My heartbeat quickened. If Proti? was inside, we needed to move fast.

  Time was running out. Whatever they wanted from those archives, they were about to make their play. And judging by the bodies at United Force, they wouldn't hesitate to eliminate anyone standing in their way—including a fussy archive director who'd outlived his usefulness.

  "So we hit the apartment tonight," I said, pulling up the building schematics Jovan had sent. "Two entry points—front door and service entrance. Roof access is possible but exposed."

  "We'll need police support," Goran said, "but they can't know the whole story."

  "And what's our cover with detective Markovi??" I asked. "Magical hackers stealing century-old documents"

  Goran's mouth twitched. "Government official kidnapped. Sensitive historical documents at risk. National security implications."

  "Technical truth," I nodded. "We should emphasize the national security angle. These are historical documents that could compromise state interests if they fall into wrong hands."

  "Good." Goran turned onto the street leading to the police station. "And we need to stress the time-sensitive nature. If they get what they need from Proti?..."

  He didn't finish. He didn't need to. The implication hung between us: if they get what they need from Proti?, he becomes expendable.

  The police station dominated the block ahead, a brutalist concrete relic of the Yugoslav era. Harsh angles cut against the sky, casting authoritative shadows across the parking lot. Two police cruisers sat in front, their blue and white markings pristine against the weathered backdrop.

  Jovan had sent new satellite imagery to my phone—thermal readings showing unusual heat reading on the third floor of the target building, consistent with multiple electronic devices running continuously.

  "I'll coordinate with the tactical team," I said. "We should position magical sensors at all exits before they move in. If someone tries to escape using concealment spells, we'll need to track them."

  "Agreed. I'll handle that personally."

  Goran pulled into a reserved spot and killed the engine but kept his hands on the wheel.

  The late afternoon sun stretched our shadows across the parking lot as we stepped out of the car.

  Goran checked his watch with practiced precision. "Detective Markovi? should be expecting us. Let's not waste any more time."

  I followed him toward the entrance, mentally preparing. We needed to convince a pragmatic police detective to mount an immediate tactical operation based on partial information. We needed to rescue a man who might already be beyond saving. And beyond that, we needed to prevent a magical revolution that could upend the foundations of power as we knew them.

  Just another day at the office.