The building had no name.
Just five dead floors and a broken elevator shaft. The roof was covered in black tarp, heaters on crates, and string lights that flickered in the wind. Music played low from a dusty speaker behind the bar—old jazz, warped by static.
Rafael stepped out from the shadows.
The people here didn't look twice at strangers. They knew better. No one asked names, and no one wore anything that could be traced.
At the far end of the rooftop, a woman leaned against the bar, one boot on the stool rung, glass in hand. Short leather jacket. Black braid over one shoulder. She was talking to the bartender, laughing at something he said.
She stopped laughing when she saw him.
For a moment, Ivy Vasquez didn't move. Just blinked. Slowly.
Then: "Shit. I thought you were dead."
Rafael didn't answer.
She gestured at the stool next to her. "Well, now you're ruining my night."
He sat.
The bartender looked between them. Ivy gave a small nod. He walked away fast.
"You look good," she said, giving him a sideways glance. "Less ghostly than I remember."
He looked at her. "You owe me a favor."
She snorted. "You save someone's life once and they never let you forget it."
He didn't blink.
Ivy took a long drink, then set her glass down.
"Alright," she said. "Let's hear it."
Ivy reached under the bar and pulled out a thin black laptop. No stickers. No logos. Scratched at the edges. She opened it with one hand, typed fast with the other.
The screen lit up.
Encrypted files. Dozens of them. Lines of numbers. Hidden ports. Lists with no context—until she opened one.
"Manifest from two nights ago," she said. "Marked private. Handled through an off-grid carrier I've seen before—Scythe Freight. They don't move things, they move secrets."
She turned the screen toward him.
A manifest line item blinked near the bottom.
Subject: NO-IDENTITY
Age: 8
Gender: Female
Status: ALIVE
Condition: CALM / UNMEDICATED
Value: REDACTED
Transfer Type: PRIVATE / MEDICAL HOLD
Destination: UNDISCLOSED
Request Origin: C. Welt.
Rafael's jaw didn't move. But his eyes stayed locked to the screen.
"I didn't know who the girl was until I saw the camera still," Ivy said, tapping the key.
A photo opened.
Blurry. Low light. Taken from a side angle.
But it was her.
Aria. Hair messy. Backpack half-open. Her purple monster sketch poking from the zipper.
No name.
Just a number.
Rafael stared at the image for a long time.
"You sure it's her?" he asked, voice low.
Ivy didn't smile. "I don't forget faces. And I sure as hell don't forget kids who show up on this kind of manifest."
She closed the laptop slowly.
"I've seen dozens of lists like this. They don't list girls unless they're not for sale."
Rafael's fingers curled slightly against the bar.
Ivy studied him. "Whatever this is… it's not a market grab. It's something deeper."
Ivy tapped out a few more commands on her keyboard.
"Welt keeps his tracks covered. Doesn't use his real name for contracts, but I've been watching this bastard since Prague. He uses shell companies—medical startups, data labs, gene clinics. Always foreign. Always with security that doesn't speak."
The screen filled with logos, companies, case codes.
"Most of these are shut down. Burned through investors. But a few… stuck around."
She opened a folder labeled "Ghost Class – Tier 1".
"Everything in here is linked to Welt. And all of it's off the books. These aren't criminal files, Rafael. They're worse. They're clean."
Rafael's eyes scanned the data.
"Organ harvesting?"
"No," Ivy said. "Welt doesn't take organs. He watches what they do. Brain mapping. Shock-response studies. Growth rates in trauma-stimulated children. He's not selling bodies. He's trying to redesign them."
She clicked on a list of program heads.
Names. Nationalities. Roles. Most didn't matter.
But one did.
Valen Moricci — Bio-structural research lead, Vitra Laboratories
Rafael stared.
Then blinked. Once.
Ivy looked up. "That name means something to you?"
"My father's doctor," Rafael said. "Years ago. During the war."
She nodded slowly. "Then maybe that's your way in."
He didn't move. His face unreadable.
But his eyes stayed on that name like it was a crack in the wall—finally giving way.
Ivy closed the laptop and leaned forward on her elbows, her tone shifting.
"You know what you're asking me to do, right?"
Rafael didn't answer.
She kept going. "You want a route to Welt? Fine. I can dig up a pipeline. Backdoor flight path, non-tracked cargo ferry, whatever. But once you're on that ride, you vanish."
She picked up her drink, paused, then set it down untouched.
"These people don't send warnings. They don't send teams. They just make you not exist."
Still, Rafael said nothing.
"You kill Moss, yeah?"
He nodded once.
Ivy smiled without humor. "Thought so. His name was on three of Welt's movement logs. You just lit a fire under their feet."
"Good," Rafael said.
She sighed. "Okay, Devil-boy. I can get you a name. One handler in Berlin. She processes outbound medical shipments. Never seen her face, but she uses the alias 'Rook.' She won't talk unless she's scared—or impressed."
"When?"
"Two days. Maybe less."
"Do it," he said.
She leaned back, arms crossed. "Alright. But listen to me, and listen close. I'm giving you one shot. One clean line. You miss it, or it burns—you don't get another."
Rafael stood up. "I only need one."
Rafael turned to leave.
Then Ivy spoke—quieter this time. Almost careful.
"Who is she?"
He stopped at the stairwell.
Ivy stood up slowly, arms at her sides now. "The girl. You've killed men for less than a name. So what is she to you?"
He was silent for a moment.
Then he looked back.
"She calls me Dad," he said.
Nothing in his tone changed. Not his face. Not his eyes.
But something in Ivy's did.
She stared at him, searching. Like she wanted to say something sharp—maybe clever. But nothing came.
She just nodded.
"You better find her, then."
He didn't move.
"Because if Welt gets what he wants?" Ivy added, voice lower now. "She won't remember your face. She won't remember her own."
Still, Rafael didn't blink.
He turned and walked down the stairs, into the dark.
Behind him, Ivy stood on the rooftop, arms crossed, jaw tight.
The wind caught the edge of the tarp above her, made it flap like a warning flag.
She lit a cigarette with a flick of her thumb, took a long drag, and whispered:
"God help anyone who tries to stop him."