At the National Library, a gutted shell of a building scarred by war, The Collector waited. He held the ivory rook, its base hollowed out for the chip. "Agent Izzy," he said, not turning around. "I expected someone… louder."
The Collector’s face drained of color. For a long moment, neither moved. Then he laughed—a dry, defeated sound. "They say you’re a ghost. A whisper in a crowded room."
"Why would I do that?"
At the National Library, a gutted shell of a building scarred by war, The Collector waited. He held the ivory rook, its base hollowed out for the chip. "Agent Izzy," he said, not turning around. "I expected someone… louder."
The Collector’s face drained of color. For a long moment, neither moved. Then he laughed—a dry, defeated sound. "They say you’re a ghost. A whisper in a crowded room."
"Why would I do that?"
