By late afternoon, the lower private entrance of AXILE no longer received delivery trucks in turn, it received guests.
They arrived not in convoys but in staggered elegance, black sedans, pearl-white coupes, a vintage silver roadster that drew a second glance from even the most disciplined guard. Doors opened smoothly. Shoes touched pavement with quiet authority.
They looked like men attending fashion week in Paris.
Tailored coats. Silk scarves. Polished leather briefcases and hard-edged suitcases that clicked sharply when set down. The laughter floated between them was warm and familiar, the sound of old acquaintances meeting after long separation.
But the warmth never reached their eyes.
Two heavier gentlemen approached the entrance together, waving toward a slim figure already halfway up the steps.
The first was Alois, a round-faced, flushed-cheeked, impeccably dressed in a navy three-piece suit that strained slightly at the buttons. His smile was expansive, disarming. A man who looked like he belonged at charity galas and private auctions.
Within AXILE, he was known as their "normal" asset, A Major swindler.
Not a fighter nor an ability user.
He was just a man with an extraordinary talent for moving money where it shouldn't go—and making it disappear without noise and he even has a Master degree in Finance which adds more to him.
Beside him walked Quive Stephenson of Vince Duchy in England.
Also a broad man who was outwardly jovial.
But where Alois perspired slightly under effort, Stephenson moved with a disturbing ease. His build was heavy with balance. Each step landed softly, controlled. His handshake crushed knuckles when he forgot to restrain himself.
Great strength and speed was Contained beneath the appearance of a well-fed aristocrat with a taste for brandy.
He adjusted his cufflinks as he laughed, voice booming across the courtyard.
"My dear Alois! You look prosperous as ever!"
"Prosperity is survival, my friend," Alois replied, wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief. "And survival requires alliances."
Ahead of them, a slim man paused to greet another arrival.
Denise.
Formerly a celebrated golf player now retired after a "back injury" that no hospital record could adequately explain.
Tall, Lean accompanied with precision in every movement.
He wore a charcoal suit cut so sharply it seemed drawn onto him. His expression was polite, controlled, almost bored.
Behind that polished exterior, however, he commanded the Leadiuaya Group—a network of thugs, smugglers, and street enforcers who operated across three major ports.
Denise shook hands lightly, but his eyes catalogued everything.
From the Entrances to the active Guards to nearby Cameras.
Who greeted whom first.
The men laughed, embraced lightly, air-kissed cheeks in continental fashion. Suitcases changed hands briefly, then returned. Small gestures that signaled trust built over years of shared risk.
From the outside, it was nothing more than wealthy businessmen gathering before a private summit.
From within AXILE's security feed, it was something far larger.
By evening, the sky over the southern seaport had turned a deep indigo.
Cargo ships idled in the distance, their lights blinking like patient eyes across dark water. Cranes creaked slowly above stacked containers. The scent of salt and diesel mixed heavily in the air.
Arrivals continued.
This time not in polished sedans but from a discreet private vessel docking under restricted clearance.
Japanese men stepped off first.
Dark tailored coats despite the sea breeze. Movements disciplined. Heads bowed slightly in acknowledgment rather than greeting.
At their center walked Mr. Mahito.
Average height. Calm posture. Hands clasped loosely behind his back.
There was nothing outwardly remarkable about him.
And that was precisely what made security uneasy.
No file within AXILE clearly defined his ability.
Although there were reports on Incidents of men collapsing mid-negotiation.
Surveillance systems failing without trace.
Opponents agreeing to terms they had violently refused hours prior.
Unknown superhuman capacity with unknown limits .
Mahito paused at the dock's edge as he stepped onto concrete. His eyes lifted briefly toward the skyline where AXILE's tower glimmered faintly in the distance.
He smiled.
Behind him, his men formed a quiet arc.
Moments later, another vessel eased into a parallel berth.
Egyptian men descended in flowing local attire—galabiyas layered beneath tailored outer coats adapted for European weather. Gold rings flashed beneath dock lights. Their accents carried low and smooth over the water.
They did not laugh loudly.
They spoke with restrained authority.
Two among them carried carved wooden cases instead of modern luggage.
Decorative and heavy.
All were escorted immediately upon arrival.
Andre stood at the center of the dock, coat buttoned high against the wind, boots planted firmly on the concrete. Around him were his boys all well-armed, posture disciplined, weapons concealed but unmistakably present.
He had been moving back and forth since dusk.
Dock.
Motorcade.
Private entrance.
Dock again.
Ensuring no gap widened long enough to invite interference.
As Mahito approached, Andre inclined his head slightly.
"Welcome," he said evenly.
Mahito returned the gesture. "Your arrangements are precise."
"They must be."
The Egyptian delegation stepped forward next, offering formal greetings.
Alois and Stephenson were already en route from the tower to join the evening convoy.
Denise's vehicle idled nearby.
Within minutes, a controlled procession formed—black vehicles gliding away from the seaport under layered security.
Above them, the city lights flickered against gathering clouds.
AXILE's tower waited.
Inside it, rooms were being prepared.
Conversations that would redraw territories were about to begin.
And scattered across Paris—
At a bakery that smelled of sugar and butter…
In a Saint-Germain suite where a resurrected ghost sat alone…
And in Maison Marielle, where two "ordinary" men cleaned trays past midnight
The currents were already shifting.
With no one yet to make a move.
But everyone had arrived.