The tension in the Central Archive was almost palpable, but only for Michael. For Bruno, it was just the weight of a poorly slept night. Michael knew Salvatore's time was running out; Michell wouldn't be long in realizing the interrogation was a dead end.
It was time to deliver the "bait."
Michael finished organizing the folders with calculated slowness. He slid a sheet of brown paper, its edges slightly crumpled, to the top of the main pile. It was a document that shouldn't be there — at least not according to Salvatore's official records.
"Bruno," Michael called, his voice slightly trembling, the exact tone of someone who'd just been startled. "You… did you see this here?"
Bruno, already at the door with the scanner and his notebook, stopped and turned back to the archivist.
"What is it? Another one of Salvatore's front company invoices?"
"No. It's… it's an external surveillance report." Michael extended the paper, keeping his arm stiff, pretending hesitation. "It has an Atlas stamp. But it's attached to the Commander's personal unit files."
Bruno took the paper quickly. His eyes scanned the coordinates and the name highlighted at the bottom. He muttered a curse.
"Julian Vane. The man who imploded Atlas from the inside. Salvatore swore he'd vanished after the institution collapsed."
"Here it says he was seen two days ago in a decommissioned warehouse in the Industrial District," Michael said, wiping the sweat (real or manufactured?) from his forehead. "If that's true, Salvatore wasn't just protecting files… he was protecting the man who destroyed the Institute's competition."
Bruno didn't wait. He grabbed the radio from his belt.
"Commander Michell, this is Bruno. Forget Salvatore for a minute. Michael just dug up Julian Vane's location in the hidden files."
*In the Monitoring Room:*
The silence that followed over the radio was absolute. Michell, who was about to enter the interrogation room to press Salvatore, stopped with his hand on the doorknob. Celia and Owen exchanged quick glances.
"Vane?" Michell murmured, his voice like distant thunder. "The puppet the 'Architect' used to level Atlas? If he's in the city, he's our only direct line to whoever's really pulling the strings."
"It could be a trap, sir," Foxy warned, spinning his coin at frantic speed. "It's too convenient. The ghost access appears, and minutes later the archivist 'finds' the biggest target on our list?"
Michell looked through the glass at Salvatore, still huddled.
"It's a trap," Michell confirmed, but a dark smile formed on his face. "But it's a trap I intend to disarm with my hands on it. Celia, Owen, get the tactical team ready. Foxy, you go in first. If Vane's there, I want him alive."
Michael watched Bruno hurry out down the corridor. The archivist sat down slowly on his wooden stool, exhaling a long, dramatic sigh of relief.
Once he was alone, he allowed himself a moment of truth. He tipped his head back, closing his eyes.
Julian Vane wasn't a survivor. He was a loose end Michael had been saving for this exact moment. By handing Vane over to the FBI, Michael wasn't helping justice; he was sending the FBI to carry out the "cleanup" the Institute expected from him.
The FBI thought they were hunting the "Architect." They didn't realize that by following that location, they were only following the blueprint Michael had drawn for that night's massacre.
"Run, my pieces," Michael whispered to the silence of the shelves. "What you find in that warehouse isn't the culprit. It's just the mirror of someone you'll never be able to see."
Michael picked up his pen and began filling out an "overtime" form in the most innocent, trembling handwriting he could simulate.
The night was only beginning.