Chapter 3: Coffee in Lyon

The rainy night in Lyon’s old town held none of that feeble, poetic drizzle; instead, it was thick with the sticky chill of industry. As Egon squeezed out of the high-speed train car, the air was a muddled mix of damp asphalt and a faint, briny stench drifting in from the river nearby.

The cold copper key in his hand seemed to have gained weight. The sharp notch on its edge had nearly sliced through his palm, releasing a single, thin bead of blood that vanished instantly into the rain. Instinctively, he slipped his hand back into his coat pocket, but the chill of being watched did not fade.

To avoid the disorienting chaos of the crowded main street, he ducked without hesitation into a century-old café whose faded neon sign was barely legible. The letters were broken and uneven, like a row of crooked teeth, flickering with an eerie red glow through the mist.

The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind him, a dull thud that shut out the monotonous noise of the wipers at the street corner.

The interior was steeped in a unique scent: the burnt bitterness of old coffee beans, the cloying sweetness of caramelized almonds, and the specific mustiness of oxidized paper. For Egon, who had lived so long in the modern city, this smell of historical dust worked a strange kind of comfort, loosening the nerves that had been strung tight as violin strings.

He chose a table in the corner, his back against the heavy stone wall, facing the entrance. It was an instinct bred in his days as a diver—always keep your escape route in sight, and keep watch for any threat that might close in. Under the dim light, it felt as though countless eyes were watching from the shadows. He pulled his hat brim lower and ran his fingers absently over the scratches on the copper key.

Those scratches were the last clues left by his grandfather, Viktor. They were now his only talisman. The rough metal surface rubbed against his fingertips, offering a phantom sense of security.

He scanned the room warily, his gaze sweeping over the waiter wiping cups behind the bar and the tall man by the window flipping through a newspaper. The man’s eyes drifted toward the entrance from time to time, and the rhythm of his fingers tapping the table fell out of sync with the café’s gentle piano music, sounding more like a hurried burst of Morse code.

A cold weight settled in Egon’s stomach. The specific scent of the Marcus family’s trackers hung faintly in the air. It was the fragrance of expensive amber—cold, potent, and laced with the flavor of ruthless calculation, like the smell of a corpse frozen in the snow. The pursuers were close. They may have already sprung their trap right here.

He drew a deep breath and sank deeper into the seat, masking himself as just another tired traveler, while his eyes locked on every subtle movement with a hawk’s precision. A sharp sense of crisis rose within him, the same shiver a hunter feels when it catches the scent of prey.

Sophia appeared at the door right on time. Dressed in a sharply tailored charcoal-gray suit, she moved with steady, elegant steps. The click of her high heels on the floor cut through the ambient noise, instantly silencing the chatter around her.

Her gaze was a blade. She walked straight to Egon’s table and sat down without a word of pleasantry. Her eyes stabbed into his, trying to pierce through to the fear buried deep in his soul. Her nostrils flared slightly, her brow furrowed, and the corners of her mouth curled into a thin, cold sneer, as if she had just smelled something nauseating.

Egon realized he had been exposed, but he didn’t panic. He waited quietly for the maritime lawyer to deliver her verdict. The copper key tapped lightly against the table, its dull echo jarringly loud in the silent standoff.

Sophia tapped her fingers on the table, her voice cold as ice. "You’re covered in the Marcus family’s tracking scent. That expensive amber essence is reserved for their close-guard agents. You walked into the trap like a marked prey."

Egon did not avert his gaze. He straightened his spine and met her eyes. "I know the danger. My grandfather’s final words are engraved in this key. I have to get the other half of the contract, or the truth will stay sunk on the seabed forever."

Sophia let out a bitter laugh, leaning forward until the pressure between them intensified. "Leave this place, and by tonight you’ll be nothing but a new clipping in a file folder in the family archives. No one will ever mention the name Egon again."

Egon refused to move. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the silver-white device, placing it gently on the table. A faint blue light pulsed on its surface. The dust motes in the air began to dance to an unnatural rhythm, swirling within the beam of light as if they had come alive.

Sophia’s pupils contracted abruptly. A complex light, barely noticeable, flickered in her sharp eyes—a mix of caution and a suppressed, starving desire.

She tried to mask the shock inside her, her tone remaining harsh. "This is nothing more than a sophisticated electronic jammer. Don’t think you can fool me. The Marcus tech division knows every trick with this kind of pseudo-technology."

Egon offered no defense. He simply pressed the start button on the side of the device. The café’s clamor vanished instantly, replaced by the echo of ancient, deep water, as if rising from the abyss of the ocean floor.

Sophia’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes went hazy, and she saw the scene at the bottom of the wreck from years ago, and the shadow of the Marcus ancestors trying to destroy the evidence. The truths buried underwater rushed in like a tide, battering the carefully constructed defenses of her reason.

Shock drained the color from her fingertips; even the fingers holding her cup trembled slightly, unable to break free from that replayed history.

The sound of water faded. Sofia forced down her rising emotions, her composure snapping back into its sharp, cold form. She rose to her feet, bracing both hands on the table as she dissected the situation with a piercing gaze: “Marcus has long since set the trap. The clues in your hands may be nothing but bait—designed to draw the snake from its hole and lure us into their net. They don’t care about the truth. They care about profit.”

Egon acknowledged the risk, yet his eyes remained as firm as iron: “Viktor’s dying words are my last guiding light. I must obtain the other half of the contract, even if it means waging war against the entire Maritime Guild. Even if it shatters me to pieces, I will clear my grandfather’s name.”

Sofia scoffed, unveiling a deeper layer of the conspiracy: “Marcus is lobbying the EU Maritime Commission, preparing to block the port through legal channels. Under the guise of environmental protection, they will keep the wreck *San Fernando* forever submerged on the riverbed—not even a salvage permit will be issued.

“You think we are fighting over evidence, but in reality, we are racing against the entire system. Time is becoming their sharpest weapon.”

Egon realized the urgency, his brow knitting as he rapidly mapped out routes in his mind. He had to find the key witness hidden in the winery’s cellar before dawn. That witness was Marcus’s final weak point, and the only breach in the iron curtain.

Sofia agreed to cooperate, but warned Egon that once the operation began, there would be no turning back. The family’s retaliation would sweep in like a tsunami; there was no neutral ground, only two hostile sides.

She smoothed the cuffs of her suit, restoring the lawyer’s precision and chill: “Before I sign anything, I need to know where your bottom line is, and whether you can bear the consequences of a breach. We have only a few hours. We must seize every second, for every moment of hesitation could prove fatal.”

Egon nodded, tucking the brass key back into his coat. He stood, ready to face this war without gunfire.

Just as Egon was about to rise and leave, his phone in his pocket suddenly vibrated violently, shattering the last shred of tacit understanding between them. An anonymous text popped up, the screen flashing a blood-red countdown warning: If the evidence was not handed over by tonight, Viktor would meet with misfortune. The location was the hospital’s intensive care unit, and the time he had left was running short.

Sofia’s gaze swept over to him, catching the shock and despair on Egon’s face. The message was like a bomb, detonating a new crisis in the quiet corner of the café. Their original plan was now on the brink of collapse; they had to make a brutal choice between protecting the witness and exposing the truth.

Egon’s fingers hung stiffly in mid-air, his fingertips turning white from excessive tension. He stared fixedly at the countdown on the screen; the crimson numbers pulsed, alive, devouring the air around them.

Sofia’s pupils contracted sharply. She snatched the phone from him, her fingers hovering above the screen for a fraction of a second before she swiped with incredible speed, attempting a reverse trace to locate the sender’s base station information. But the sender had prepared for this; the signal vanished into a sea of chaotic interference, leaving behind only a string of seemingly random gibberish.

“They know where Viktor is.” Sofia’s voice was low and hoarse; the coldness in her demeanor had fractured, revealing a flicker of panic she could barely conceal. “This is naked coercion—and a psychological tactic that the Marcus family favors. They don’t want the evidence. They want to force you to surrender voluntarily, or... turn you into a new compromised witness, destroying the entire chain of evidence.”

Egon’s heart hammered violently against his ribs; his blood seemed to roar in his ears. He looked out the window. The night over Lyon was dense and impervious to rain, droplets hammering against the glass in a sharp, continuous crash. The hospital was just a few blocks away, a drive of less than fifteen minutes, but fifteen minutes was enough for a life to end in an intensive care room.

If he did not go, Viktor would die, and the Marcus family’s conspiracy would succeed. If he did go, he would not only violate Sofia’s clandestine plan but likely walk into a trap woven by the enemy, becoming the fall guy.

“You cannot go,” Sofia ordered, her voice harsh. She reached out and pressed her hand on Egon’s shoulder, her eyes sharp as a blade. “It’s a trap. The moment you step into that hospital, you will expose your position. Marcus’s special operatives will besiege the place immediately. You won’t just fail to save Viktor—you’ll be trapped with no way to escape.

“The only way out right now is to stick to the original plan. Before the witness in the cellar surfaces, force Marcus to reveal their deployment out of impatience. Time is our only ally, but also their poison.”

Egon clamped his jaw, beads of sweat breaking out on his temples. He looked into Sofia’s eyes, which were filled with calculation and restraint. He realized that her coldness was not indifference, but a last line of defense built from pure logic. Yet, that detachment from human life and absolute adherence to protocol sent a chill to his bone. He slowly pulled the phone back into his pocket. The screen went dark, and the darkness enveloped them again.

“I agree,” Egon’s voice was dry. “But we have two hours. After two hours, if there’s no movement in the cellar, I’m going to the hospital myself. By then, you’d better have all legal shields in place, or we’ll be dragging each other to hell together.”

Sofia did not speak. She merely pulled a voice recorder from her handbag; with a click, the red light flickered on. She stood up, adjusted her collar, and turned toward the door. The tap of her heels on the floor was rapid and unyielding.

The moment she pushed open the heavy wooden door, she glanced back at Egon, a meaningful, cold smirk curling the corner of her mouth. "Remember, Egon: the game is on. Your soul is the stake. May God grant your intuition to be truer than my logic."

The door slammed shut behind her, sealing off the sound of the rain. Egon remained alone in the shadows, listening to his own breath, enveloped by a solitude and clarity unlike anything he had ever felt.