Chapter 6: Planned Attack?
Meeting
Lehros placed the glasses and tablet on the table. The room fell silent as everyone leaned forward, studying the evidence.
Willson extended his hand. "Can I have the glasses, please?"
"For sure." Lehros handed them over.
Willson turned the glasses over in his palms, examining them with the careful attention of a man who made his living studying perception. His eyes narrowed.
"Wait. These seem familiar." He held them up to the light. "These are GoPro glasses. Only Samuel wears this model. So why was Shometsu wearing them?"
The question hung in the air like smoke. Heads turned. Eyes shifted.
Ryan broke the silence. "What do you mean?"
Willson's voice was calm, measured—the tone of a man who knew he was walking onto dangerous ground. "It could mean Samuel was watching. It could mean Samuel orchestrated this."
Every gaze in the room slowly pivoted toward Samuel.
Samuel's expression didn't change. His voice remained steady, almost gentle—the tone of a man explaining something obvious to a confused child.
"First of all, Willson, why would I let Shometsu be killed? Why would I let humans be betrayed by humans? There's nothing wrong here. You're the one framing me—while we all know your reality."
Your reality. A polite knife.
Everyone understood. Samuel had caught Willson in corruption once. He hadn't fired him—because Willson was too valuable, too good at deduction. But that mercy was now a leash. Samuel could pull it anytime.
Samuel added,"shometsu had an interesting in wearing glasses too, so why are you framing me and spreading misinformation?"
Willson said nothing. The implication was clear: You're compromised. Your words have no weight.
The room shifted uneasily. No one knew who to believe. The meeting dissolved into scattered discussions, then silence, then adjournment.
The question hung unanswered: really why was Shometsu wearing Samuel's glasses?
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Post-Meeting: The Trip
India swallowed Paul Sumea whole.
He wasn't recognized here. Among those who did know him, the reactions ranged from indifference to quiet hostility. Reputation meant nothing in a country where he was just another foreign face.
He didn't know that a group of gunmen had tracked him to Varanasi. They moved through the ancient city's labyrinthine streets, waiting for the right moment.
Paul walked to his hotel. A black cat crossed his path. He barely noticed.
He checked in, rested, and at 3:00 p.m. made a decision that would haunt him: he would visit Manikarnika Ghat.
The cremation grounds. The holiest burning ghat in Varanasi. A place where bodies turned to ash and souls moved on. Superstition called it cursed. Paul called it interesting.
At 4:00 p.m., he booked an auto-rickshaw and set off.
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4:13 p.m.
The gunmen were waiting.
Some positioned on the outskirts with sniper rifles. Others near the road, watching, waiting for the signal.
They saw the auto approaching. Recognized the face.
The men near the road moved fast—spikes scattered across the tarmac. The auto's tires shredded on contact. The vehicle lurched, skidded, stopped.
A crack echoed from the outskirts.
Paul felt the bullet before he heard it—a violent punch to his stomach. He crumpled, gasping, as a gunman sprinted forward, grabbed him, and hurled him against a wall. Paul's skull cracked against stone. His vision blurred.
Then—sirens.
Police vehicles swarmed the area. The gunmen melted into the alleys of Varanasi, disappearing like smoke.
Paul lay bleeding against the wall, time dissolving into fragments of pain and sound. Someone lifted him. He was in a vehicle. Moving.
He pulled out his phone. Blood smeared the screen.
"Lehros," he whispered when the call connected. "Lehros—I've been shot. Varanasi. Tell Samuel—"
The words cost him everything. He collapsed into darkness.
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Anthroportica Labs
Lehros's face went pale. He found Samuel immediately.
Samuel listened in silence. Then his expression cracked—just slightly, just for a moment—something between shock and devastation.
Paul. His PR campaigner. His reputation. Shot.
"Private helicopter," Samuel ordered. "Now. Get him out. Bring him home."
The words were calm. The urgency beneath them was not.
Lehros moved. Samuel stood alone, staring at nothing.
He was on the verge of losing the one man who could control the narrative. The one man who made him a hero. The one man whose name meant reputation.
If Paul died, who would tell the story?
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Chapter 6 End
To Be Continued