“His face is not unfamiliar,” Jonas thought to himself the moment his eyes fell upon Felzein. “I feel certain I have seen him before... but where?”
His gaze, piercing and deliberate, studied every detail, yet his memory remained obstinately silent.
The question hovered in his mind like a fog that refused to lift, heavy with the weight of unspoken recognition.
Unable to summon the answer, Jonas allowed the thought to drift away into the recesses of his mind. For now, at least.
“Ah... Welcome to our headquarters,” he said at last, his tone gracious but laced with something unspoken, something that hinted at a deeper intrigue.
Felzein returned a mild smile, one that barely touched his lips, and slowly shook his head.
“It seems I have already begun to slip from memory... but perhaps that is no bad thing,” he mused inwardly, his thoughts cold and measured.
With a brief incline of the head, he replied, his voice courteous yet resonant with quiet command.
“Thank you. I apologise for the earlier commotion.”
Jonas gave a short, dry laugh, devoid of warmth, “No harm done. Feel free to enjoy your time here,” he said, turning towards Cherlyn with a glance both cordial and restrained.
“Agent Lyn, if you please...” he added, extending his arm in a gesture that was as polite as it was calculated, a subtle flicker of vigilance betraying his carefully composed manner.
Cherlyn inclined her head without uttering a word, then stepped forward, her heels echoing softly as she led the way into the main chamber of the headquarters.
Jonas followed at a measured distance, flanked by two guards whose demeanour straddled the line between alertness and apprehension.
At the rear walked Felzein, unhurried, composed, yet trailing an imperceptible gravity that drew attention without invitation.
His presence, though silent, spoke volumes.
Without so much as turning his head, Jonas leaned discreetly towards one of the guards beside him, his voice pitched low, like a rustle of wind beneath the threshold of hearing.
“Keep watch on the young man at the back.”
The guard gave a curt nod, the command received and registered, “Yes, Commander,” he said with solemn efficiency.
And yet, behind the veneer of obedience, a flicker of doubt gleamed in his eyes, doubt sharpened by fear.
The same young man had rendered their best combatant unconscious with the effortless grace of a pianist brushing dust from ivory keys.
To watch such a being felt less like surveillance and more like standing beside a wildfire with a bucket of rainwater.
Felzein, for his part, missed nothing. The hushed exchange reached his ears with perfect clarity, each syllable carrying the weight of unspoken suspicion.
He might as well have been standing among them.
“Like a serpent,” he murmured under his breath, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips.
Whether the smile mocked or merely mused, none could say.
One of the guards, glancing back at that very instant, caught the expression and felt his spine stiffen.
There was something in that smile that unnerved him, something that whispered of danger wrapped in silk.
“Commander… why is he smiling to himself like that?” the guard asked hesitantly, suspicion mingling with something dangerously close to dread.
Jonas released a quiet sigh, and replied with studied levity.
“Perhaps it was the blow from Koko. He may have struck his head and now fancies himself a philosopher.”
“But… sir…” the guard began, frowning.
He remembered it with perfect clarity. Koko had not laid so much as a finger on the boy.
Felzein had danced through every assault as though born to it, and felled his opponent with a gesture that scarcely qualified as force.
Before he could voice the protest, Jonas raised a hand, languid but firm.
“Enough. Let it rest.” His tone was cool, yet carried a finality that brooked no challenge.
Then, as if recalling a minor detail that had slipped through the cracks of more pressing concerns, he added, almost absently, “Oh, do we know his name? It seems I neglected to inquire.”
Several of the guards exchanged furtive glances, as though searching one another’s eyes for the answer.
Then, one of them spoke, his voice quiet, uncertain, yet earnest, “I believe… Agent Lyn called him Faizal. Or perhaps Fauzan.”
“Faizal? Fauzan?” Jonas repeated slowly, his brow furrowing as he turned the names over on his tongue, each one sounding oddly ill-suited.
“A name that hardly befits someone who brought Koko to his knees with such ease. What a shame,” he murmured, his tone soft but laced with something veiled and unsettling.
“Damn it. My name is Felzein,” the young man fumed inwardly.
Yet outwardly, his face remained calm, untouched by the storm brewing within. His eyes, however, gleamed with restrained disdain.
“Useless people,” he added silently, his thoughts laced with scorn.
But he said nothing aloud, merely continuing to walk behind them, his gait relaxed, almost casual.
No further words were exchanged. Their footsteps echoed in unison as they made their way down the dim corridor, the silence between them thickening like fog.
Every step seemed to deepen the weight in the air.
Something had changed. Unseen, intangible, but undeniable. His presence had shifted the equilibrium of the place.
At last, they arrived at the main hall.
Two guards stood stationed within, stiff-backed and unmoving on either side of the entrance, while another pair waited silently outside.
There was an unmistakable tension hanging in the room, as if even the walls were listening.
Jonas stepped forward and raised his hand in a composed gesture, polite yet edged with quiet authority.
“Agent Lyn. Mister Faizal. Please, have a seat.”
“Felzein,” the young man interrupted clearly.
His voice cut through the air like a sudden gust, crisp and irrefutable.
For a heartbeat, the room stilled. Even the ambient hum seemed to waver, as though momentarily startled by the force of that single word.
Cherlyn, standing at his side, pressed her lips together in a vain attempt to suppress her laughter.
Her eyes narrowed with amusement, the corners of her mouth betraying the mirth she could no longer contain.
Jonas appeared startled at first, but swiftly inclined his head with a semblance of contrition.
“Oh, do forgive me. Mister Fauzan, was it? My sincerest apologies…”
Felzein’s thoughts simmered, "Heavens above," he seethed silently.
His face remained impassive, carved in composure, yet his eyes gleamed with a dangerous edge, as though daring Jonas to repeat the error once more.
Cherlyn’s restraint finally gave way to a soft, melodic laugh, “Jonas, really. His name is Felzein. Not Faizal, nor Fauzan. Honestly…”
Felzein exhaled quietly, his gaze shifting aside in clear exasperation, refusing to dignify the blunder with a response.
Jonas let out a sheepish chuckle, fingers moving instinctively to the nape of his neck, “Ah… of course. Mister Felzein. Quite right. A lapse on my part,” he conceded at last, his tone now tinged with greater caution. “Please, do take a seat.”
Felzein regarded him for a lingering second before striding calmly to the nearest chair.
His gait was unhurried, but each step carried the weight of silent authority, resonating through the room like an unspoken command.
As Felzein and Cherlyn settled into their seats, a hush momentarily blanketed the space, heavy with anticipation.
Then, at last, Jonas spoke again.
“Agent Lyn,” he said, his voice tempered and deliberate. “Is there anything I can offer by way of assistance?”
Cherlyn inclined her head slightly. Her features remained composed, yet the seriousness beneath was unmistakable.
“Yes. We’re in need of a small vehicle.”
Jonas smiled thinly, attempting a note of levity, “A car, is it? By all means. The garage beneath holds more than enough. Help yourselves to whichever you fancy.”
But Cherlyn’s gaze remained fixed, unflinching.
“Not a car,” she said with crisp finality. “We require air transport. A plane, a private jet, or a helicopter will suffice.”
The air in the room tightened, stilling in the wake of her words.
Jonas blinked, “A... what?” he burst out, incredulous.
His voice echoed faintly, coloured with disbelief and the dawning sense that the evening was about to become far more complicated than anticipated.
The two guards stationed by the doorway turned in unison, their expressions etched with the same uneasy strain.
It was clear that what they had just heard went far beyond the realm of an ordinary request.
The air within the chamber, once merely tense, now thickened with a charged stillness, as if unseen forces had taken notice and held their breath.
"I didn’t mishear you, did I, Agent Lyn?" Jonas asked, his eyes narrowing as suspicion stirred behind them.
Cherlyn shook her head with deliberate slowness, "You heard precisely, Jonas," she replied, her voice even and undisturbed. "We do, in fact, require an aircraft."
Jonas reclined into the back of his chair, the lines on his forehead deepening, "For what purpose? Don’t tell me you’re planning a holiday, or perhaps a rendezvous in the clouds?"
Felzein, who had remained a silent pillar until then, finally broke the hush.
His voice was quiet, yet laced with an unshakeable finality, "We need to get to Japan. And we need a plane. Now."
Jonas swivelled his gaze towards him, startled, "Japan?"
He turned again to Cherlyn, eyes pressing her for clarity.
She gave a single, solemn nod, "Yes. It is urgent. We must depart without delay."
Jonas’s discomfort became palpable.
He shifted in his seat, his jaw tightening, his gaze flickering from Felzein to Cherlyn and then downward, as though the floor might offer some semblance of an answer.
"I… I don’t quite know what to make of this," he admitted at last, each syllable laden with unease.
"What exactly am I supposed to tell central command when they learn I handed over the organisation’s aircraft on a whim?"
His voice, though low, trembled with the weight of impending reckoning, a collision between duty and dread, between loyalty and the shadow of consequence.