Marcus gripped the steering wheel of the Audi A8 so hard his knuckles turned white. As he watched the plumes of black smoke receding in the rearview mirror, he let out a long, ragged shutter of a breath. The weight of his choices was etched into the lines of his face.

  "I... I can't go back to the office," Marcus said, his voice low but laced with a cold finality. "Director Stewart will have already branded me a traitor. By now, the entire FBI probably has a shoot-to-kill order on my head. If I go back, a fate far worse than a prison cell is waiting for me."

  He paused, casting a sidelong glance at Novem. "I’m with you, Professor. I have nowhere else to go. Besides... I want to see the end of this secret."

  Novem peeled off his blood-stained gloves, offering a singular, slow nod. "Very well, Marcus. Your skills will be an asset. But be warned—this path has no U-turns."

  Walking into the Lion’s Den

  Instead of gunning for the city limits, Marcus swerved the car toward the pulsating heart of downtown Geneva. Alister, clutching the crimson-soaked cloth to his abdomen, looked up in disbelief.

  "Professor... why aren't we running for the border? Shouldn't we be putting as much distance as possible between us and them? Why are we heading into the center of the city?"

  Novem drew a fresh cigarette and sparked it. A thin veil of blue smoke began to coil through the cabin. "Arthur... fleeing as far as possible is what common men do. A hunter always calculates where the prey will run. It is often safer to vanish right under the enemy's nose than to hide in the distance."

  He gazed out at the shimmering neon lights of the city. "Besides, you need medical attention. The mountain passes have no medicine for a gut shot. In the heart of this crowd, we become invisible."

  The Grand Casino & Hotel: A Dangerous Refuge

  The Audi pulled up before the colonnades of The Grand Casino & Hotel, Geneva’s most opulent fortress of luxury. It was a playground for the world’s elite and high-stakes gamblers—a place where security was absolute, and discretion was the only currency that mattered.

  "Here?" Alister rasped, brow furrowed.

  Marcus guided the car into the hotel’s private underground vault. His pulse was thrumming against his fingertips on the wheel. "This is madness, Professor. We just tore up a research institute, and now we’re walking into the most crowded spot in the city? It’s a death trap."

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  Novem adjusted his long overcoat, a chillingly calm smile touching his lips. "The darkest spot is always at the foot of the lamp, Marcus. While they search the highways for us, we’ll be resting right under their nostrils. Let’s move."

  The Rosicrucian Hand

  Inside, the architecture of the Grand Casino glowed like burnished gold. Outside, the blizzard howled, but inside, the air was heavy with expensive perfume, the rhythmic fizz of champagne, and the hypnotic clatter of chips.

  The trio entered, coats cinched tight. Alister was pale, leaning heavily on Marcus’s shoulder. Novem led the way to the reception desk with a gait that commanded the room.

  The receptionist looked up, immediately struck by Novem’s sharp features and piercing gaze. "Good evening, sir. How may I assist you?"

  Novem slid a peculiar black card across the marble counter. Embossed in gold was the ancient Rosicrucian symbol. "A high-level VIP suite. Absolute privacy. No reports to any authorities."

  The woman’s eyes widened. She straightened her posture and bowed slightly. "Understood, Master. The Imperial Suite on the penthouse floor is ready. You may use the private express elevator."

  The Alchemist’s Touch

  Once inside the suite, Novem laid Alister across a plush leather sofa. The room was a masterpiece of luxury, but it was about to become a theater of surgery.

  "Marcus... get hot water and clean towels," Novem commanded, reaching into his bag to produce a small, ancient wooden case.

  He delicately snipped away Alister’s ruined shirt. The wound was deep, blood still seeping from the jagged entry point. Alister hissed, teeth bared in agony.

  "Arthur... breathe deep. I’m taking the lead out."

  Novem produced a pair of strange, silver forceps. His hands were as steady as a machine. As he probed the wound, Alister’s eyes went wide, his breath hitching in a silent scream. A sharp clink echoed through the room as the bloody slug hit the metal tray.

  Then, Novem sprinkled a shimmering amber powder over the wound—not a modern antiseptic, but an alchemical styptic from a forgotten age. The bleeding stopped instantly, as if by command.

  "I’ll stitch it now. There will be no scar; your cells will knit back together on their own."

  Using a silver needle and silk thread, Novem closed the wound with surgical artistry. He applied a cooling salve and wrapped the bandage with practiced ease. Color slowly returned to Alister’s face, his breathing leveling out.

  The High Stakes Game

  With the procedure finished, Novem cleansed his hands and donned his coat once more.

  "Marcus... stay here with Alister. He needs rest. Let no one in. I’m heading down to the tables."

  Marcus stared at him, bewildered. "What? Professor... you’re going to gamble now? There are assassins on our tail!"

  Novem paused at the door, his eyes dark and inscrutable. "Marcus... I am not going to gamble. I am going for 'information.' The owner of this casino holds the strings of Geneva’s underworld. If we are to track Dr. Varkas’s movements, this is the source. And... our tickets to India depend entirely on the outcome of tonight’s wheel."

  With those words, Novem vanished into the hallway. Alister, drifting in a medicinal haze on the sofa, listened to the fading echoes of Novem’s footsteps. A haunting question lingered: Who was this man truly? Was he really a "Timeless Traveler" capable of bending history itself?

  Downstairs, Novem stepped into the throng of gamblers with absolute confidence. His target: the high-stakes Roulette wheel in the corner of the room.